Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter One: 

Midnight settles over the cobblestone streets of Birmingham, casting an eerie veil as a heavy mist ascends. Tommy steps out of the garrison, accompanied by John and Arthur. He inhales the cold, damp air and glances upward, noticing the street lamps softly flickering, their golden flames dancing to and fro.

The streets are quiet at this late hour, save for the rowdy laughter echoing from within the garrison. Tommy pulls out a cig and lights it, drawing a deep breath of smoke before he exhales it, watching it swirl in front of his face.

"M'not drunk, Tommy," slurs Arthur, squinting his eyes as he leans heavily against John's side. 

John rolls his eyes, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. "Course you aren't," he says, accommodating Arthur's weight by supporting him at the waist. "I'm sure we can fit a few more pints into you, eh?"

"’nother five," mumbles Arthur, resting his cheek against John's temple. They sway backwards, stumbling into the garrison doors with a dull thud and erupt into boisterous giggles.

Tommy can't help the slow, upward curl to his mouth as he watches his brothers struggle to maintain their balance. He's about to tell Arthur that he's clearly had enough to drink, when the sound of soft footsteps catches his attention. 

Immediately the smile disappears from his face as he turns, glancing behind him. 

In the distance, there's a man slowly making his way up the dimly lit street. Tommy can't discern many details about him. This normally wouldn't concern him, however, what catches his interest is the presence of two dobermans flanking the man on either side. They're majestic creatures. With their muscular frames and alert demeanour, Tommy can tell they're very well trained. 

An aura of untamed power surrounds the man and his hounds as they draw nearer. Tommy takes the last drag of his cig, his curiosity fully piqued, and flicks the end onto the ground. He carefully observes the stranger's appearance. 

He's imposingly tall, well over six feet, with striking inky black hair and eyes reminiscent of a turbulent rainstorm. Tommy's gaze follows a jagged, pale scar that slices diagonally through the middle of the man's eyebrow, continuing its path toward his hairline and stopping just behind the top of his ear. Tommy's never seen this man before. He’s certain he would have remembered encountering someone with such a distinctive presence.

Like a moth to a flame, Tommy's gaze is drawn to the strangers. They make eye contact briefly; sharp blue connecting with cool grey and Tommy quickly formulates a plan, pretending to have run out of cigarettes. He makes a show of looking through his coat pockets with great urgency and approaches the man with a sheepish, but genuine tone. 

“Excuse me,” he calls out, dimly aware of his brothers squabbling like children somewhere behind him. “You look like you smoke and I hate to be a bother, but it seems I've run out of cigarettes. Would you mind lending me one?” 

The stranger halts, his piercing gaze scanning Tommy from head to toe. At his sides, the Dobermans sit attentively, displaying unwavering loyalty and obedience. There's a subtle upward tilt to the man’s mouth as he reaches into his own coat pocket, retrieving a pack of cigarettes. With a smooth motion, he extracts one and holds it out towards Tommy.

"Here," the stranger says, his voice carrying a deep, resonant tone that matches his commanding presence. A chill runs down Tommy's spine at the sound of that single word. Odd, he thinks, attributing it to the chilly night air as takes the offered cigarette, his fingers brushing softly against the strangers. 

“It’s a loan,” the man says, his words carrying a hint of amusement, as if he sees through Tommy's ruse. “I expect it back, Mr…?” 

"Shelby," Tommy responds, placing the cigarette between his lips. "Thomas Shelby.”

“Mm,” the stranger pockets his cigarettes and withdraws a sleek, silver lighter. He flips it open with a soft click that echoes through the night. A flame flickers to life, dancing atop the lighter and Tommy blinks, watching the man light up his cigarette for him. 

A small burst of warmth engulfs the tip, igniting the tobacco. Tommy inhales deeply, feeling the familiar taste of smoke fill his lungs. He exhales a cloud of smoke a moment later and it dissipates into the darkness. 

He doesn't get an introduction in return and curiosity gets the better of him. Tommy says, “I didn't catch your name.” 

“I didn't offer it,” the stranger replies, pocketing his lighter. His gaze lock’s with Tommy's, intense and unyielding. After a moment, he relents. “It's Nine.” 

“...Like the number?” Tommy asks, tilting his head to the side. He can't help but notice the absence of a surname. How utterly odd. 

"Like the number," Nine confirms, a ghost of amusement lingering in his voice. 

"And what brings you here, Nine?" Tommy asks, unable to contain his intrigue. He takes another drag of his cig and exhales the smoke toward Nine's face, a daring move meant to test the boundaries. It's a bold act, playing with fire, but a part of Tommy longs for the thrill of someone engaging him on equal footing. “You and your loyal companions seem out of place in this part of town."

Nine's lips curve into a wry smile, seemingly unfazed by Tommy's audacity. His piercing gaze continues to hold Tommy's. "Let's just say I have a knack for finding myself where I'm needed," he replies cryptically. 

A flicker of amusement dances in Tommy's eyes, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

The moment is broken when Arthur slumps himself over Tommy's back, nuzzling their cheeks together like an overly affectionate cat. He's always touchy when he's drunk. 

“Tommy,” Arthur says, right into Tommy's ear, his voice as rough as sandpaper, “I love ya.” 

Tommy maintains his balance and lets Arthur embrace him from behind, knowing that if he refuses his brother's affection he'll be met with watery eyes and a deep frown. He takes a final drag from his cigarette before flicking the butt away, its residual smoke curling into the night air. Tommy sighs, and in the background, John emits a loud coo.

He rushes over, stumbling only slightly in his intoxicated state, and crouches low to the ground. “Tommy, look,” John says, starry eyed and flushed, looking at Nine’s dobermans with awe. “Dogs, Tommy. Dogs.” 

“Yes, John,” Tommy responds, exasperated, “I'm aware.” 

"You can pet them if you'd like," Nine extends an invitation to John, his tone only slightly teasing. He sends Tommy an amused glance when John lights up like a child on Christmas morning discovering a pile of presents beneath the tree.

Tommy's younger brother wastes no time in petting the dogs, letting them sniff all over his face and the crook of his neck with a laugh. 

“Who's this?” Arthur inquires, settling his chin onto Tommy's shoulder. He squints his eyes, observing Nine with pursed lips. 

“This is Nine,” Tommy introduces, “I believe he's new in town.” 

“Well,” Arthur slurs, a mischievous grin forming on his face, "Am definitely seein’ nine of ‘im.”

Nine’s mouth curls into a smile. There's a knowing look in his grey eyes. “Rest assured, Mr Shelby. I won't be staying in your territory for long. I'm merely passing through.” 

“I see,” Tommy says, his tone turning guarded. “I'll be sure to return that loan to you soon, then.” 

"I'll be waiting," Nine replies, ducking his head slightly. He whistles softly, summoning his loyal Dobermans to his side. With graceful obedience, the dogs follow after him up the dimly lit street. 

Tommy stands there, his gaze fixed on Nine's diminishing figure, watching until he vanishes around the corner. A smile tugs at his lips as he feels Arthur bury his face into his neck with a laugh. “S’got a bloody awful name, doesn't he?” 

“He does,” Tommy agrees. He feels a tug on his hand and when he glances down, he finds John still crouched low to the ground, peering up at him with pleading eyes. 

“I want a dog,” John says, sniffling.

Tommy closes his eyes and sighs. 

1368 words//unedited. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Two: 

The warm rays of the late morning sun spill onto the bustling streets of Birmingham, casting a golden glow over the town. The air is still chilly, despite the sunshine and Tommy, dressed in a sharp suit that exudes authority, walks briskly through the crowded sidewalk. 

He's followed closely by Ada, who interlinks her arm with his, grinning brightly. They're on their way to their usual spot. A quaint cafe nestled between buildings, known for their good tea and sweet pastries. 

It's their weekly rendezvous of sibling gossip.

As they turn the corner, Tommy's gaze falls upon the cafe. Small, circular tables dot the pavement, adorned with simple white cloths and vases full of colourful flowers. Patrons are immersed in quiet conversations, creating an atmosphere of tranquillity.

And there, sitting at a corner table, is Nine, sipping at his tea and reading the morning paper. 

Tommy falters in his steps and Ada does too, looking at him with furrowed brows. She squeezes his arm and asks, “Tommy, are you alright?” 

A brief pause lingers in the air as Tommy composes himself. “I'm fine,” he says, his voice steady as he leads Ada to an empty table. They take their seats and a waiter promptly approaches them, recognising them instantly. 

"Mr. Shelby, Miss Shelby. Your usual?" the waiter inquiries, his tone respectful.

Tommy nods, his gaze still fixed on Nine. His attention shifts momentarily to the Dobermans by the man's side. One is sitting beside him on the ground, vigilant, while the other is lying beneath the table, holding a small teddy bear in its mouth. 

The waiter, following the line of Tommy's eyesight visibly tenses. “My apologies, Mr Shelby. We were… donated a large sum of money and couldn't refuse. But I assure you, the dogs are well-behaved.”

“I’ve no issue with the dogs,” Tommy says firmly. “They can stay.” 

The waiter exhales a breath of relief, grateful for Tommy's understanding. He nods and makes a hasty retreat to attend to other customers.

Ada sighs, a tinge of exasperation in her voice. She turns in her seat, angling herself for a better view of Nine, and voices her thoughts, "It's business, isn't it? It's always business with you.”

Tommy pauses, carefully thinking over his words before he quietly responds. “He's not in our type of business, Ada. I had a copper look into him. Couldn't find his real name, just that he came to Birmingham from Saint Petersburg.” 

Ada peers intently at Nine, emitting a soft, contemplative hum, so Tommy adds for good measure, “he's a hitman.” 

His sister sends him a suggestive glance.  “He’s too handsome to be Russian.” 

“That's what you gathered from all I said?” Tommy asks, retrieving his pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “That he's too handsome to be Russian?” He pulls out a cig and lights it, inhaling the tobacco deeply. When he exhales, he sends the smoke to the side, away from his sister. 

“Well, it's not everyday we come across a dashing hitman, is it?” Ada remarks, grinning wolfishly. She rises from her chair, grabs her purse and ushers Tommy out of his seat, seizing him by the wrist and tugging him along. 

“Remember,” she says, full of mirth, “it's Thursday. My word is law.” 

Tommy does remember. It's why he yields to Ada's playful authority. It's the one day a week she gets to tell him what to do, no questions asked. It's the only way he can make her stay with him ━━ with their family. 

As they approach the corner table, Nine, engrossed in his morning paper, acknowledges their presence without looking up. His voice, deep and smooth, breaks the silence. "Mr. Shelby," he greets, casually flipping a page. "Have you come to return the loan?”

Tommy’s ‘loan’ is currently tucked between his lips and hanging from the corner of his mouth. “I'm smoking it,” he says with a touch of defiance, taking the closest seat to Nine. 

His sister sits opposite them, unable to keep the wolfish grin off her pleased face. When Tommy doesn't immediately introduce her, she kicks his shin playfully beneath the table. 

“This is Ada,” Tommy says reluctantly, biting the filter of his cigarette. He sends Ada a displeased look for the unjustified kick he received. “Feel free to ignore her.” 

“Duly noted,” Nine says, folding his morning paper in half and placing it atop the table. His Doberman, which had been previously concealed beneath the table, rests its head on Nine's thigh, emitting a soft huff as it clutches the teddy bear in its mouth. Nine smiles, gently petting the dog. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Ada. My name is Nine.” 

Ada's grin sharpens, her amusement evident. "Oh, no, please," she retorts, her voice dripping with playful charm. "The pleasure is all mine." Her curiosity piques and she inquires, "Are you married, Mr. Nine?” 

“Afraid not,” Nine replies, his tone carrying a hint of amusement. 

"Interesting," Ada says, clasping her fingers beneath her chin. She shoots another suggestive glance at Tommy. "Very interesting." 

Tommy takes a drag from his cigarette and deliberately exhales the smoke toward Ada, who doesn't even flinch. His sister persists, her curiosity unyielding. "So, what is your type, Mr. Nine?"

"My type?" Nine tilts his head, playing along with Ada’s line of questioning. He ducks his head, trying to hide the curve of his mouth. Before he can answer, the waiter from before stops at their table, placing two teas and a jam pastry onto the table. 

“My apologies,” the waiter interjects, settling sugar and milk onto the table next, “I wasn't aware you moved tables, Mr. Shelby.” 

“That's quite alright,” Tommy dismisses, extinguishing his cigarette in the ashtray. 

The waiter nods, avoiding direct eye contact and focusing just above Nine's shoulder. "Would you like anything else, Mr. Nine?" he asks, his hesitation palpable.

"No," Nine replies. Beside him, his other Doberman yawns, revealing its sharp fangs. "I'll be taking my leave now."

"Of course," the waiter says, visibly relieved. "Thank you for visiting our fine establishment." With that, he departs, leaving the table behind.

“You sure know how to make an impression,” Ada mutters, reaching for her tea and jam pastry. She takes a bite out of her sweet treat and leaves powdered sugar along her lips. “You can't stay?” She asks, feigning disappointment. “I was just about to tell Tommy all the hot, new gossip.” 

“I have places to be, Miss Shelby,” Nine says, rising from his chair. His two Dobermans stand alert, already following his lead.

“We'll be here next week,” Ada offers mischievously, “same day, same time.”

Tommy retaliates by kicking her shin beneath the table, his gaze conveying a silent 'no .' Ada pays him no mind, casually licking off the powdered sugar from her lips.  

“Enjoy your tea,” Nine muses, bidding his farewell. Tommy watches him and his hounds easily weave their way around the cafe tables and then down the bustling street. Only when he is sure Nine is out of sight does he shift his gaze back to Ada.

“Mm,” Ada hums, sipping at her tea. There's a knowing gleam in her eyes as she settles the cup back onto its saucer. “I think he fancies you,” she says quietly, and then, because deep, deep down, she's an awful little sister who knows too much about her older brother, she adds, “and I think you like him too.” 

Tommy ignores her and lights another cigarette.

1246 words//unedited. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Three: 

A feeling of deja vu washes over Tommy as a young man dressed in a sharp suit and a stylish overcoat enters the bustling garrison. His neck is adorned in a thin scarf and strands of bright, red hair are peeking out from beneath his cap. Tommy blinks, finding a striking resemblance to Nine. The stranger even has the same scar; a jagged, pale line that slices diagonally through the middle of his eyebrow and stops just behind the top of his ear.

Tommy stands at the bar alongside John and Arthur, awaiting their customary drinks from Grace, and intently watches the stranger. The garrison is filled with a rowdy crowd, patrons long immersed in their alcohol. The boy, no older than twenty, expertly manoeuvres through the tables and among the men. Unimpressed and undeterred, he exudes a confidence that belies any fear as he makes his way toward the bar.

It can't be a mere coincidence, Tommy thinks, seeing Nine stride into the garrison next. His piercing silver gaze locks onto the red-haired boy, his unmistakable disapproval evident. 

Seizing the opportunity, Tommy catches Grace's attention behind the bar and communicates his decision with a single glance. "Give the redhead whatever he wants," he instructs, his voice low. With that, he swiftly turns on his heel, striding purposefully toward Nine. He's dimly aware of Arthur and John casting puzzled glances in his wake. 

"Rest assured, Mr. Shelby," Nine addresses Tommy without pleasantries, his gaze still fixed on the red-haired boy, "I'm not here for you."

"And I'm certain you're not here for a drink either," Tommy retorts, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Nine's gaze shifts to meet Tommy's. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. Closing the distance between them, he leans in and murmurs, "Well, aren't you sharp today?” 

A rush of warmth floods through Tommy as Nine's hands, large and encompassing, rest gently on his waist. Effortlessly, Nine guides Tommy aside, their positions shifting seamlessly as he brushes past him, heading for the bar. 

Left slightly breathless and unable to resist the magnetic pull, Tommy follows briskly after him. 

As they move, his hand instinctively curls into the back of Nine's long coat, tugging gently to halt his progress. Startled by his own audacity, he quickly withdraws his hand.

"That was uncalled for," Tommy says, tilting his head back to glare up at Nine. Why on earth did he reach out for his coat as if yearning to be touched once more?

A fleeting shadow of dark satisfaction flickers in Nine's grey eyes, his mouth curving into a cocky smirk. "No," he responds, filled with amusement. "It wasn't, was it?”

Tommy resists the urge to scoff, reminding himself that he is capable of exercising control over his impulses. His sister's words ring clear in the back of his mind, teasing, with a hint of knowing, ‘I think he fancies you.’ 

Something akin to anxiety eats away at Tommy's insides, but he refuses to break eye contact with Nine. A flush rises beneath the collar of his button-up shirt, though he attributes it to the whiskey he had earlier, dismissing any other possibility.

Nine's smirk softens, but his silver gaze remains as sharp as ever. He leisurely appraises Tommy with a deliberate once-over before turning and resuming his path toward the bar. There's no, ‘I expect my loan to be returned soon,’ or even a simple ‘good night, Mr. Shelby.’ 

Tommy watches Nine like a hawk, feeling a twinge of offence at the lack of acknowledgment.

At the bar, Nine exchanges brief greetings with John and Arthur before firmly grasping the red-haired boy by the back of his nape, akin to reining in a misbehaving pet, causing the young man to startle. No words are exchanged, but their gazes lock with instant recognition, a silent understanding passing between them. Without hesitation, Nine guides the boy through the bustling garrison, their connection palpable.

As they pass by Tommy, he strains his eyes to catch a glimpse of the boy's face, but it remains obscured as he keeps his head down, the brim of his cap concealing his features.

“Good night, Mr. Shelby,” Nine calls out. 

Tommy doesn't grace him with a response. He merely watches him exit the garrison with the redhead in tow. 

“I know that look,’’ Arthur says, standing beside Tommy. He takes a long sip of his drink, sloshing it slightly in the process. It drips down the side of his mouth and onto his neck. Letting out a hearty sigh, he grins wolfishly at his now empty glass. "Want to follow 'em?" he suggests.

“Course he does,” John interjects, wedging himself between Arthur and Tommy. He stuffs his mouth with a handful of Smith's crisps, chewing obnoxiously, provoking a slight frown out of Tommy.

“I don't,” he says, just for argument's sake. 

Arthur and John both give Tommy the same, flat look. 

“He's a hitman,” Arthur says, placing his glass onto a nearby table. “That's new and interesting ‘round here. We could use ‘im.”

“Yeah,” John nods in agreement. He doesn't let Tommy interject and grabs hold of his wrist, leading him past the tables occupied by drinking men and out into the crisp night air, Arthur following closely behind. 

In the alleyway adjacent to the garrison, they discover Nine and the red-haired boy, their figures cast in a muted glow from the street lamps. Tommy and his brothers take cover behind the protective wall of their pub, peering around the corner like curious children playing at being spies.

"This feels awfully familiar," Arthur comments underneath his breath, a smile playing at his lips.

John chuckles, smothering the sound into Tommy's shoulder. He’s still holding his packet of crisps and the small bag crinkles loudly in the quiet of the night. Tommy glances behind him, intending to scold John, but instead finds Finn and Isaiah have joined their… gathering.

“Are we fighting?” Finn inquires in a hushed tone. 

Tommy’s frown deepens. "No," he responds firmly, "we're not fighting."

"That's a shame," Isaiah mutters, his words laced with a hint of disappointment.

Tommy looks skywards, heaving a sigh. He lets the boys stay and returns his attention to the alleyway. He strains his ears to hear Nine and the red haired boy speaking quietly to one another. Unbeknownst to him, John and Arthur share a discreet look behind his back. 

“You left me in Russia,” the young man says petulantly. 

"I didn't leave you in Russia," Nine responds calmly, his mouth curving into a soft, soft smile. He looks irrevocably fond. "I left you with D'mitry━"

"━a con man!" The redhead interjects.

"━And Vladimir," Nine continues in a gentle tone. 

"Two con men!" the boy emphasises, his frustration palpable. A touch of femininity seeps into his voice as he raises it slightly. "Who, by the way, are not very good at their jobs!”

Tommy blinks, caught off guard. "It's a girl," he remarks.

"No," John contradicts, craning his neck to get a better view from around the corner.

"Let me see," Arthur chimes in, mimicking John's actions. Tommy swiftly grabs them both by the collars of their shirts, yanking them back into position while making a shushing sound.

"Quiet," he commands, his voice low.

“Sorry,” the girl apologises, nervously fiddling with her fingers, “I didn't mean to yell at you.” 

“It's alright,” Nine reassures softly, stepping closer to the redhead, “come here.” He carefully takes off the girl's cap, letting her long, ginger hair fall into place around her pretty face. He tucks the cap into one coat pocket and pulls out a handkerchief from the other, carefully taking a hold of the girl's chin and wiping off the makeup on her face. 

“Where'd you get the suit from?” Nine asks, gently rubbing the handkerchief against her skin, causing her to squirm.

“Stole it,” the girl says, trying to swat Nine’s hand away, but to no avail. 

“I suppose it warrants points for creativity,” Nine muses, continuing his task. They remain quiet for a prolonged moment until Nine takes a step back, safely stowing away his handkerchief.

“You should be in Paris,” he murmurs. “Go home.” 

"Okay," the girl agrees readily. She wraps her arms around Nine in a heartfelt hug and presses her forehead into his chest, softly whispering, "I'm home.”

Nine visibly pauses, before he settles one hand onto the redhead's back and the other onto her nape, holding her close. He settles his cheek into her hair and he looks both murderous and protective. Tommy recognizes that expression. It's a familiar one he can't control whenever he's around Ada. It turns him into a protective monster, determined to keep his little sister safe.

"I don't remember teaching you emotional manipulation," Nine attempts to lighten the mood.

"D'mitry taught me," the girl reveals.

"Of course, the con man," Nine remarks wryly.

"By the way," the redhead adds, tilting her head and extending a hand to point in Tommy's vicinity. "Your friends are watching."

“I don't have friends," Nine states, casting a bemused glance in Tommy's direction.

"Shit," John curses, swiftly attempting to conceal himself behind the wall. In his haste, he collides with Arthur, causing them both to stumble and spill John's crisps onto the cobblestones.

Tommy, on the other hand, doesn't bother to hide anymore. He leans against the wall, taking out his packet of cigarettes, fully intending to enjoy a well-deserved smoke. Beside him, Finn raises his hand in a half-hearted wave but is quickly stopped by Isaiah, who wears a resigned expression. 

“Hmm,” the young woman makes a thoughtful noise. “Work colleagues?” She asks, her curiosity evident. 

Nine narrows his eyes playfully. “No,” he replies. 

"Acquaintances?" she continues to probe. 

Pausing momentarily, Nine patiently waits for Tommy to light his cigarette. "Something like that," he answers, directing a charismatic and cocky smirk directly at Tommy, causing him to avert his gaze.

Loud and clear, Nine announces for all to hear, "Bid the spies goodnight, Anya."

"Goodnight, spies," the girl replies, her voice filled with a touch of humor. And just like that, she disappears down the street hand in hand with Nine. 

1695 words//unedited.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four: 

Soft sunlight filters through the slightly parted drapes, casting a warm, golden glow across the tailor room. Melodic strains of music play softly from a corner, adding a touch of elegance to the already refined atmosphere. The spacious area is adorned with mannequins displaying exquisite garments and racks filled with luxurious clothes. Tommy stands before the grand mirror, meticulously adjusting his cufflinks, his reflection exuding a sense of quiet confidence. 

Beside him, Arthur stands, his newly tailored trousers receiving the expert attention of the meticulous tailor. Every stitch is handled with care, a testament to the craftsmanship present in the room.

Meanwhile, Ada wanders through the room, her eyes alight with curiosity, browsing the racks of new dresses. She moves with a sense of purpose, her fingers delicately skimming over the luxurious fabrics, as she seeks to find the perfect ensemble. She drags along a reluctant John, who seems more interested in escaping her clutches than in the latest fashion trends.

Aunt Polly, the matriarch of the family, sits regally in a plush chair within the seating area, her glass of champagne held delicately in her hand.

Tommy prefers handling matters at the tailor's shop alone, deeming it a quicker process. However, today is Thursday ━ the day he reserves for Ada's decisions. After their usual sibling rendezvous at the quaint café, Ada orchestrated this gathering, intending for their family to spend quality time together, away from the pressing matters of their business.

The tinkling sound of the shop's doorbell echoes through the room and Tommy turns his head in unison with Arthur, glancing in the direction of the door. 

Nine enters, his mere presence sending a shiver down Tommy's spine. He’s accompanied by the red-haired girl, now disguised once again as a man. Her cap conceals her face, but fiery strands of red hair peek out, hinting at her true identity. She's clutching anxiously onto Nine’s arm, looking rather like she'd be anywhere but here. 

Tommy’s gaze briefly meets Nine’s, the connection electric. The moment is broken by the head seamstress who hurries over to Nine from her desk, stumbling only slightly in her haste. She trades pleasantries with Nine and the girl before gesturing towards the seating area opposite Tommy's. With a nod of gratitude, they make their way to the designated spot, while the seamstress darts off towards the back area, likely to prepare a changing room.

Polite greetings are exchanged between the two groups, each acknowledging the other's presence. Tommy nods at Nine, receiving a discreet yet appreciative once-over in return.

With a sigh, the red-haired girl removes her cap, letting her thick locks of ginger hair cascade around her face and down her back. Collapsing onto the plush couch with a childish pout, she mutters, “let it be known that I do not wish to be here.” 

Aunt Polly, who had just taken a sip of her champagne, coughs in surprise, caught off guard by the unexpected display. The tailor, having finished neatly fixing Arthur's trousers, doesn't look the least bit surprised. He collects his belongings and departs for the back room. 

“Nine!” Ada gasps, delighted as she rounds the corner with John. “What a pleasant surprise!” 

“Miss Shelby,” Nine smiles politely, his demeanour as composed as ever. His gaze shifts to John, his amusement evident. Teasingly, he asks, “no crisps today, John?” 

“Ha ha,” John rolls his eyes, falling into the plush seat beside Aunt Polly. “Think you're funny, don't you?” 

Ada waves John’s ire away and redirects the conversation. “And who's this?” She asks, extending a sweet, kind smile to the girl on the couch. 

“My younger sister,” Nine introduces, gracefully removing his coat and draping it over the back of the couch. "Anya.”

“Hello,” Anya says dully, heaving another sigh. 

“She's lovely,” Ada offers Nine a sympathetic smile, moving to lean against the back of Aunt Polly’s chair. 

Beside Tommy, Arthur cannot contain a snort. 

“What are you laughing at?” Anya asks, shifting atop the couch to get a better look at Arthur. “Aren't you the one who can't keep his balance?” She clicks her tongue. “Poor John, you made him spill his crisps all over the cobblestones.” 

Caught off guard by the unexpected remark, Arthur blinks, momentarily lost for words. But Anya doesn't relent. Her gaze shifts to Aunt Polly, and she boldly declares, "Your boys are horrible spies."

Aunt Polly raises an eyebrow, her smile growing. "Oh, I'm aware.”

“Miss Anya,” the head seamstress interjects, having returned from the back room. “The changing room is prepared. If you'd just follow me.” 

Reluctantly, Anya stands to her feet, her frown deepening. Sensing her unease, Nine reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. "Hold on, I got you a gift,” he says. 

His brows furrow as he discovers the pocket to be empty, prompting him to pat himself down in search of the missing item. Tommy observes with curiosity as Anya unveils her scarf, revealing a thick, black choker adorned with white pearls and a simple, round pendant.

"I know," she says, softening that frown of hers into a smile. "It's very pretty. Thank you." She then turns, trailing after the seamstress. 

"Thief,” Nine mutters beneath his breath, a fond expression on his face.

"Assassin!" Anya yells back having heard him. Her voice fades as she disappears into the back room.

"She's joking," Nine reassures, sending a smile towards Ada and Aunt Polly, his charm undiminished.

“Is she?” Aunt Polly murmurs, taking a sip of her champagne, her scepticism lingering. 

Nine ducks his head, attempting to hide the curve of his mouth. He makes his way over to the refreshments table, retrieving a glass and pouring himself some whiskey. Tommy, finally tearing his gaze away from Nine, shifts his attention to the grand mirror, assessing his reflection and adjusting his tie. Arthur nudges him in the side with his elbow and motions towards the refreshments table with a jut of his chin, silently inviting him for a drink.

Tommy shakes his head. The last time he engaged in conversation with Nine, there had been a lot of… touching.

Rolling his eyes, Arthur seizes Tommy by the wrist and tugs him along towards Nine, determined to have a drink. John, observing their movement, decides to join them.

"Your sister is certainly... different," Arthur remarks, pouring glasses of rum for both John and himself. For Tommy, he fills a measure of whiskey. Playing with fire, he adds, "not that I mean any offence by that, Mr. Hitman.”

"None taken," Nine replies, taking a sip of his own whiskey. His silver eyes meet Tommy's blue ones, the proximity between them generating a noticeable heat.

Something must be genuinely wrong with Tommy, because he leans in a little closer and quietly says, “I'm looking for another loan.” 

Nine tilts his head, settling his glass onto the table. “Can you smoke in here?” He asks. 

“I can,” Tommy answers. He doesn't elaborate and waits expectantly. 

And just like the first night they met, Nine reaches into his pocket with a subtle upward tilt to his mouth, retrieving a pack of cigarettes. With a smooth motion, he extracts one and holds it out towards Tommy.

Tommy takes the cigarette, his fingers brushing softly against Nine's, and places it between his lips. He watches as Nine exchanges his packet of cigarettes for his lighter and flicks it on, lighting Tommy’s cigarette for him. 

“This loan is starting to look a little too much like a favour,” Nine murmurs, pocketing his lighter, a subtle shift in his tone. 

“You don't look like you mind,” John chimes in, throwing an arm around Tommy's shoulders with a boyish grin. 

Arthur snickers softly and downs his rum all in one go, looking as pleased as ever. He reaches for the bottle again, to no doubt pour himself another glass, but stops when Tommy sends him a narrowed eyed look.

“How does it look?” Anya’s unsure voice floats from the other side of the room, prompting everyone to look in her direction. 

Anya stands before them, adorned in an emerald green drop-waist dress, complemented by understated black flats and the choker that Nine had gifted to her earlier. Her gaze remains fixed on the floor, presumably due to a sense of self-consciousness, while her fingers nervously fidget. With her bangs pinned aside, the jagged scar on her temple comes into view, reminiscent of the distinct mark Nine himself bears.

“Oh, you look wonderful,” Ada compliments sincerely from where she's sitting on the couch.

“I liked the suit better,” Aunt Polly muses, adding her opinion. 

Mesmerised by Anya’s appearance, John quietly dares to ask, “Is your sister looking for a husband?”

Nine clasps John on the shoulder, his smile bright and menacing. In a quiet, threatening voice, he warns, "If you so much as make eye contact with Anya, I will gut you from navel to throat like a fish." Then, speaking louder, he turns to Anya and adds affectionately, "You're as beautiful as ever.”

Tommy can't help the way his mouth curls into a grin. To conceal it, he takes a long drag of his cigarette, but his amusement doesn't go unnoticed by Arthur, who playfully raises his eyebrows at him.

Anya turns red all the way from the tips of her ears down to her slim throat. Reluctantly, Nine gently pushes John forward, muttering, "Lead her to the mirror like a true gentleman."

John stumbles only slightly and then quickly rights himself, smoothing his hands down his suit jacket. He walks over to Anya, offers his hand and when she hesitantly takes it, leads her over to the grand mirror. 

“Well,” Arthur says, laughing, “he's definitely not lookin’ her in the eye.” 

"Good," Nine’s tone is firm when he speaks, his expression unimpressed. "My threats are always promises."

"Yet you sent John over in spite of that," Tommy points out, exhaling a cloud of smoke that swirls between them. 

Nine glances down at him, his gaze flat. "Anyone's better than D'mitry."

"The con man?" Arthur clarifies.

"The con man," Nine affirms, a hint of disdain in his voice. “The ex-kitchen boy who continues to prove his uselessness, day by fucking day.” He then looks back over into Anya’s direction, only to find her still holding John's hand and his jaw clenches, a visible tick mark appearing on his face. 

“Anyone's better than D’mitry,” Tommy reminds him, taking another drag of his cigarette. 

“Just not John,” Arthur chimes in, his amusement still evident. 

“Just not John.’’ Tommy echoes. 

1766 words//unedited.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five: 

Tommy sits in his office at the betting shop, cigarette in hand, taking a long drag and letting the smoke linger in his lungs before he exhales it. The wisps of smoke swirl around him as he observes his men working and squabbling through the open doors, a scene all too familiar.

Drawing another lungful of tobacco, Tommy lets his mind run freely. 

The rumour mill of Birmingham blazes with fervour. Every newcomer strolling through the streets of Small Heath is swiftly enlightened about the formidable gangsters who reign over the area ━ the indomitable Shelby family. In the same breath, they hear tales of Billy Kimber, the mastermind behind horse race fixings, followed by the cunning Lee family, infamous for their curses. And at the apex of intrigue, they are introduced to the enigmatic hitman known as Nine, and his adept younger sister, Anya, the skilled pickpocket.

Yet, the transients who arrive with curiosity and hope are destined for brevity. None linger for long, departing after a mere handful of days, unable to withstand the weight of the city's secrets and the shadowy figures that dwell within.

Tommy finds this information, shared by a gossiping Ada, more amusing than anything else. 

Despite Nine and Anya's recent arrival ━ Nine having been in Birmingham for only a month and Anya even less ━ they have somehow managed to integrate themselves into the underground workings of the city. Seamlessly. Effortlessly. Like they had been born and bred here. 

Tommy takes another drag of his cigarette, musing to himself about all the players on his chessboard. His attention is momentarily diverted when Aunt Polly strides into his office, removing her hat and coat with a smile. "I bumped into my favourite thief this morning," she announces.

“Hello to you as well, Poll,’’ Tommy says, exhaling the smoke toward the open window. 

Ignoring his remark, his Aunt settles herself on the couch tucked against the far wall, crossing one leg over the other. “Pretty girl, that Anya,” she says, “got caught pickpocketing by a copper on our payroll. She told him if he so much as touched her, her brother would cut his cock off and shove it right down his throat.” 

Tommy could imagine that. “Did the copper let her go?” He asks. 

"Well, he certainly looked terrified when he did," Aunt Polly replies with a hint of amusement. “Must have realised who she was, that poor copper.” 

Tommy smiles, extinguishing his cigarette in the ashtray. 

Aunt Polly then shifts the conversation. "How is business going with Billy Kimber?"

"I'm handling it," Tommy replies.

"And the Lee family?"

"I'm handling that too."

"And our Ada?"

"... Still figuring things out," Tommy admits. Despite his best efforts to maintain a good relationship with Ada, somewhere along the way, she deceived him and started seeing someone behind his back. 

But Tommy's concern isn't directed at Ada or her lie. It’s aimed at the person she’s involved with. 

“Hm,” Aunt Polly glances out the window, her smile sharpening. “Perhaps you should ask that handsome hitman or yours for some help.’’ 

Tommy’s smile turns flat. 

Nine doesn't belong to him. 

Quite frankly, Nine doesn't belong to anyone. He's a hitman for hire. Not a hitman for keeping. Tommy can't even imagine that man on a leash. 

“You want me to hire a hitman to deal with the man Ada is seeing?” Tommy questions. 

“No, god, no,” Aunt Polly clarifies, turning her gaze toward Tommy, “I'm talking about Kimber.’’ 

"I can handle Kimber on my own," Tommy mutters, rising from his chair. He reaches for his coat and cap, preparing to step outside. "I'm going for a walk," he announces, grabbing his cigarettes and matches from the desk and slipping them into his pocket.

Aunt Polly gives him a knowing look. "Take someone with you."

Tommy nods, acknowledging her advice. He leaves his office, and without needing to ask, Arthur and John promptly follow him out of the betting shop and into the chilly air outside. 

As they stroll through the streets, the approaching noon casts a grey hue over the sky, and the bustling crowds hurriedly manoeuvre from one place to another. Tommy maintains a leisurely pace, extracting another cigarette from his packet to smoke. They aren't that far from the betting shop yet, and people are politely greeting them, instinctively making way for the Shelby brothers.

"Good afternoon, boys," Mrs. Boskova greets warmly, stepping out of her bakery with a tray filled with pastry goods. Her smile holds fondness, and Tommy knows she's a good woman. Not that long ago, she had been a close friend of his mother's and, like them, hails from the Romani community, though from the Kingdom of Bohemia, somewhere in Czechoslovakia.

"I have some samples for you to try," Mrs. Boskova offers, extending the tray.

"Don't mind if I do," John grins, reaching for a jam tart. He stuffs his mouth full, a familiar sight that brings a soft smile to Tommy's lips.

Arthur selects a chocolate roll, savouring its taste. "You're a godsend, Mrs. Boskova," he compliments, taking a bite.

Mrs. Boskova turns her attention to Tommy, levelling him with one of her looks. “You're too thin,” she insists, “eat something."

Tommy relents, accepting a strawberry puff, which elicits a bright smile from the woman. “Well,” Mrs. Boskova says, “I won't be holding you any longer. Have a nice day, boys.” And with that said, she disappears back into her bakery. 

Tommy eats the strawberry puff. It melts inside his mouth. He chases the sweet taste away with a long drag from his cigarette and continues on his walk. His brothers talk amicably between each other, pulling Tommy into their conversation every now and then. They're halfway back to the betting shop when it starts drizzling, prompting Tommy to flick the end of his cig onto the roadside.

In the distance, thunder rumbles, and the once grey sky darkens. Tommy blinks in surprise as the gentle drizzle transforms into a torrential downpour. Seeking shelter, he and his brothers hastily take cover under the nearest shop. Curses escape their lips as they grapple with the sudden onslaught of rain.

"Hello," Nine's smooth, low voice cuts through the air, catching Tommy off guard. He glances downward, only to find Nine without his coat and crouched low to the ground, one of his Dobermans tucked between his legs and seeking refuge in the curve of his neck. And on closer inspection, Tommy finds Nine’s expensive looking coat wrapped around the shivering form of his hound. The rain seems to have no effect on the other Doberman, who sits steadfastly beside its owner.

"...Hello," Tommy eventually responds after a prolonged period of staring. Through the material of Nine's white button-up shirt, he catches glimpses of the hitman's well-defined, muscular physique.

“You again,” Arthur remarks, squinting down at Nine and his dogs. “Somethin' wrong with your dog?” 

"Lady doesn't like the rain," Nine explains, his palm settling on the back of his Doberman's neck as if trying to calm her.

Arthur grins mischievously. "I know a lady who doesn't like the rain," he says, catching John by the front of his coat and unceremoniously shoving him out into the pouring rain.

"Arthur!" John protests, his voice growing whiny as he scowls. He quickly retaliates, grabbing Arthur by the wrist and pulling him out into the rain as well. The two of them playfully squabble, shoving each other with laughter as they distance themselves out onto the road. 

Nine's Doberman, the one not currently seeking refuge in his neck, emits a soft sound, gently nudging its muzzle against Nine's arm as if seeking permission to join in the play. With a slight tilt of his head, Nine gives an unspoken signal, prompting the dog to dart out into the rain and join John and Arthur in their antics.

Tommy remains quiet, his gaze locked with Nine's. The rain pours heavily, the rhythmic drumming of droplets on the pavement blending with the echoes of his brothers' playful scuffling. As if under a spell, Tommy finds himself crouching beside Nine. They’re close enough that Tommy can feel the warmth radiating from Nine's body, and he can see the dampness clinging to his eyelashes, a few strands of his raven hair curling from the rain.

Before he can even contemplate a question, Nine murmurs, his voice sending a shiver down Tommy's spine, "Would you like to pet Lady?"

Unable to trust his own voice, Tommy simply nods. His breath catches somewhere in his chest as Nine delicately takes hold of his hand, presenting it to his Doberman.

A rush of heat surges through Tommy's body, causing him to feel feverish beneath his coat. He wonders if he might be coming down with a cold, but the sensation seems to emanate from something deeper within. Lady, deeming him worthy, presses her snout into Tommy's palm. Withdrawing his hand, Nine allows Tommy to take over. His palm glides over the Doberman's head and down her neck, petting her with tenderness.

"Pretty Lady," Tommy whispers, unable to contain the warmth in his voice. He continues to scratch behind Lady's ear, a genuine smile gracing his lips. He’s always found solace in the presence of animals, their unconditional companionship a comfort he rarely finds in the complexities of human interactions.

A comfortable silence settles between them, the sound of raindrops providing a gentle rhythm to their moment. Tommy continues to pet Lady’s soft fur. As a nearby thunder rumbles, the Doberman whines, seeking safety by pressing her cold nose into Nine's neck.

Breaking the tranquillity, Tommy withdraws his hand away from Lady. He locks eyes with Nine once more, mustering the courage to voice his request. His voice, barely above a whisper, carries the weight of his intentions. "I'd like to hire you for a job."

An indiscernible shift crosses Nine's expression, rendering it unreadable. His silver eyes sharpen, searching Tommy's gaze intensely. Unable to withstand the piercing scrutiny, Tommy instinctively lowers his head, averting his eyes.

“Tommy,” Nine speaks his name for the first time, rolling it off his tongue delicately, like he's tasting it. It's different from whenever he calls Tommy by his surname and it sends a fresh surge of heat through his body. For some inexplicable reason, Tommy finds himself unable to lift his head, his focus fixated on the space where his knee is touching Nine's.

“Tommy,” Nine repeats, his voice softer, lower, and infused with a gentle tenderness. His hand, radiating warmth despite the chilly air, gently envelopes Tommy's own, coaxing him to finally look up into stormy grey eyes. 

"You don't have to hire me," Nine murmurs, dipping his head slightly to get a better look at Tommy. "All you have to do is ask.”

An expression that must have appeared wounded settles onto Tommy's face, eliciting a compassionate response from Nine. His thumb soothingly brushes over Tommy's knuckles, a gesture that speaks of comfort.

Logical instincts tell Tommy to pull his hand away; to retreat. 

He doesn't understand why he doesn't.

1847 words//unedited.

Chapter Text

Chapter Six: 

Billy Kimber is dead within the week. 

The news reverberates through the darkened alleys and smoke-filled rooms of Small Heath, casting a veil of uncertainty over the criminal underworld. It acts as a catalyst, propelling Tommy into a new era where he can carve his name into the very fabric of the city he calls home.

As the weight of victory settles upon him, Tommy finds himself immersed in a moment of triumph, mentally removing Billy Kimber from his metaphorical chessboard. His passing signals a turning point, a pivotal moment where alliances shift, and ambitions clash. It’s a dangerous game, standing at the helm of the treacherous waters of Birmingham’s landscape, one where loyalties can be bought and betrayal lurks in the shadows. But Tommy has always thrived in the face of adversity, his determination forged in the fires of past battles. 

With the Shelby family now holding a legitimate working licence, their fortunes multiply, and money flows abundantly. Countless paths stretch out before them, beckoning with opportunities waiting to be seized.

However, Tommy's attention turns to a pressing matter that demands resolution; the simmering conflict between the Shelby family and the Lee clan. It is a challenge that cannot be ignored, but Tommy, ever the strategic thinker, has already devised a swift and calculated fix.

The weather, cloudy yet with a hint of sunshine, seems as good as it will get. It's a day that Tommy deems suitable for a wedding, devoid of wind and filled with a peculiar ambiance.

"Have a drink," Arthur offers, extending his flask to John, who accepts it gratefully, taking a long, satisfying sip.

"What?" John questions, a perplexed frown creasing his brow as he hands the flask back to Arthur. He scans the faces of his family and friends, noticing their watchful gazes fixed upon him. "Why is everyone staring at me?"

Tommy assesses John's appearance, deeming him presentable enough for the occasion. "Good," he declares crisply, pivoting on his heel. "Let's go."

"What?" John furrows his brow further, trailing after Tommy, but refrains from repeating his question when it goes unanswered.

Tommy takes the lead, flanked by Arthur at his side, while John walks behind them, encircled by their group of men as they ascend the cobblestone hill toward the Lee campsite. 

"Tommy, what game are you playing?" John whispers as he notices a few guards casting cautious glances in their direction. "We're within shotgun range," he warns in a hushed tone.

Tommy halts momentarily, hoping to conceal the amusement dancing in his eyes as he turns to face his younger brother. "John, before you enter into battle, there's something you’re going to need," he remarks cryptically.

He pulls out a small, white flower from within his coat pocket and pins it to John's suit jacket, ensuring it is in place. 

John's frown deepens, his frustration evident. "What in bloody hell are you doing, Tommy?"

"Smile, John," Tommy advises, patting him consolingly on the shoulder. Around them, Arthur and their comrades affix identical flowers to their own attire. "It's a wedding.”

"Whose bloody wedding?" John demands, his patience waning.

Tommy's smile widens, his amusement slipping through. "Now, if we had told you, you wouldn't have come," he explains. "There's a young lady in the Lee family who has become quite wild, and she is in need of a husband."

Immediately, John tries to break free, his anger flaring. He looks as mad as ever, but Tommy swiftly catches his face between his palms, while Arthur secures a firm grip on John's nape, preventing escape.

"You have no bloody right, Tommy!" John protests vehemently.

"Shh," Tommy soothes, his voice firm yet calming. "Listen to me." He ensures their eyes meet before he continues speaking. “A woman in need of a husband, a man in need of a wife."

Infuriated, John bites out with frustration, "I am not bloody marrying some fuckin’ mushroom picker!”

“Shh, John boy.” Arthur consoles, tightening his grip on John's nape. “Come on, listen.”

“I've already betrothed you,” Tommy confesses, cautiously releasing his hold on John's face. His younger brother looks wounded, his distress evident, but Tommy needs him to comprehend that he is doing a noble deed. “So, if you back out now, there's going to be one fucking, mighty war breaking out here that's going to make the Somme look like a fucking tea party.” 

John swallows audibly, the sound echoing in the tense air. He averts his gaze, and Tommy places a reassuring pat on his chest, redirecting his attention back. "But if you marry her,” he says softly, “our family and the Lee family will be united forever and this war will be over.” 

Arthur slowly relinquishes his hold on John's nape, his hand now offering a gentle soothing gesture down John's back, making him emit a distressed noise, resembling that of a whimpering puppy.

"Now," Tommy murmurs, noticing John's rapid blinking as he tries to hold back tears, "the choice is yours, John. War or peace?”

"... Peace," John eventually mutters, his voice tinged with resignation. He shrugs off Arthur's hand and employs the sleeve of his suit jacket to wipe at his watery eyes, trying to regain composure.

"Right," Tommy affirms, resolute in his decision. He resumes leading his group up the cobblestone hill toward the Lee clan, observing his little brother retrieving a toothpick from his pocket, nervously biting on it while striding forward with a facade of confidence.

In a hushed tone, Arthur remarks, "You should see the size of her dowry."

"Her what?" John inquires, clearly taken aback.

Arthur chuckles softly and Tommy ducks his head, attempting to conceal the curve of his mouth. "Her father is giving you a car," he reveals.

John contemplates for a moment, his expression indicating that perhaps the notion of an arranged marriage isn't as undesirable as he initially thought.

It doesn't take long before they navigate through the mingling horse carriages and wagons, finally halting by the largest one. Zilpha Lee, the matriarch of her clan, awaits them outside.

Tommy, bypassing traditional greetings, poses a question instead. "Will he do?" he asks, gesturing towards John.

Zilpha Lee scrutinises John, her gaze predatory as she assesses him like prey, internally picking him apart piece by piece. Her men, eagerly anticipating her response, stand nearby with bated breath.

"He'll do," Zilpha Lee nods, a smile gracing her lips.

Cheers reverberate through the campsite, emanating from both the Shelby and Lee families, symbolising the beginning of their union and the hopeful end to their conflict. Everyone converges toward the back, between a set of four carriages, where a spacious area with a small wooden arch stands embedded in the ground. A Lee minister stands beneath it.

"Here she comes," Tommy whispers, catching a glimpse of a figure in a white dress emerging from between the wagons, making her way toward the ceremonial site.

"She better be under fifty," John mutters beneath his breath.

"Come here," Tommy beckons, keeping his voice low. He taps John's cheek gently, urging him to show his face. With delicate precision, he removes the toothpick from between John's lips and sends him off. "Go on."

Arthur gives John a final pat on the back, and together, he and Tommy observe as their younger brother advances towards the front. John kneels before the Lee minister, joining his future wife on a set of intricately woven pillows.

The ceremony commences, and both the Shelby and Lee families observe with anticipation. Tommy finds himself soon joined by Ada and their Aunt Polly, the latter making her way towards the front to stand alongside Zilpha Lee.

"I brought some friends," Ada whispers, her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she tries to suppress a grin. Tommy raises an eyebrow, silently inquiring, prompting Ada to tilt her head to indicate he should look behind them.

Tommy follows Ada's gesture and is greeted by the sight of Nine, who offers him his usual charismatic and cocky smirk, that obnoxious, towering height of his commanding attention amidst the crowd. Beside Nine, Anya stands on her tiptoes, attempting to catch a better view of the wedding. Frustrated, she puckers her lips into a pout and nudges her face between Arthur and Curly, startling both men.

“Jesus fuckin' christ,” Arthur mutters, letting the girl stand beside him. He deliberately avoids making eye contact with Anya, well aware that her older brother is standing close, no doubt ready to gut him open like a fish, as he had so eloquently put the last time he threatened John. 

"Relax, Arthur," Nine says quietly, a hint of amusement in his voice. "You're too old for her to even notice you, anyway."

"That's rude," Arthur retorts, his expression turning into a frown.

Tommy, sensing the reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, quickly turns back around, redirecting his focus to the ongoing ceremony. He feels Ada nudge him in the side with her elbow, her soft giggle betraying her knowledge of his inner thoughts. He does his best to ignore her playful gesture, determined to remain composed.

As the bride and groom have their palms ceremoniously cut by the Lee minister, intertwining their hands in a symbolic display of unity, Tommy senses Nine leaning in closer from behind him, the warmth of his breath causing goosebumps to rise along the back of Tommy's neck.

"You're not going to thank me?" Nine murmurs, referring to his pivotal role in successfully eliminating Billy Kimber and paving the way for Tommy's unimpeded path to power.

"Not yet," Tommy replies quietly. "I have another job for you."

"I'm not a dog," Nine says, firm and low, his voice sending flutters through Tommy's stomach. "You can't put me on a leash."

Tommy is aware of that fact, yet he glances behind him and despite being aware of Nine's dangerous nature, reaches for his tie, gripping it tightly. He pulls, and Nine, indulging him, lowers his head to Tommy’s eye level. 

"Then why do you allow me to treat you like one?" Tommy asks as he locks eyes with Nine's stormy silver gaze, unafraid and unabashed.

A flicker of something dark and pleased passes through Nine's eyes, vanishing in an instant, replaced by an amused expression. He scoffs, briefly averting his gaze, but Tommy tugs on his tie again, prompting him to look back.

"Behave, Nine," Tommy whispers, as if addressing a dog. His heart pounds fiercely within his chest. He doesn't understand why. "It's a wedding."

"So it is," Nine murmurs in response.

Tommy loosens his grip on Nine's tie, preparing to turn away, when suddenly his wrist is seized by the hitman, the touch igniting a fiery surge of warmth. Nine's voice adopts a soft and dangerous tone, matching the intensity of his touch. "Perhaps we should make our way to the altar and ceremoniously have our palms cut next," he smirks, sharp, and infuriatingly handsome. "When your blood mingles with mine, Tommy," he continues quietly, "that's when you can put me on a leash."

Caught off guard, Tommy feels his breath catch in his throat. He dimly registers Ada taking a step away to stifle her laughter, but his focus remains fixed on the gentle yet electrifying grip of Nine's hand wrapped securely around his wrist.

"Behave, Tommy," Nine echoes his words from earlier, a playful edge in his voice. "It's a wedding.”

He brushes his thumb along the inside of Tommy's wrist, his touch tender. With his smirk softening, Nine nudges Tommy to turn back around, just in time to witness John hesitantly kissing his bride.

1933 words//unedited.

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven: 

The bonfire roars with life, its flames leaping and swirling, reaching high into the dark expanse of the sky. The crackling of burning wood fills the air, while the flickering flames cast a gentle, warm glow that bathes the Lee campsite in a comforting light.

The joyous celebration of John and Esme's marriage extends deep into the chilly night, with laughter and singing permeating through the air. The collective sense of relief is tangible, knowing that a feud between two warring families has been finally put to rest.

Seated at an old, weathered table, Tommy savours a measured sip of whiskey, his gaze fixed on Ada as she joyfully dances around the bonfire with one of the Lee boys, her laughter filling the air. Nearby, Anya has Arthur in stitches, the two of them stumbling around the campsite tipsily, sharing an inexpensive bottle of rum. And on the other side of the bonfire, settled in a carriage, Tommy can see John showering his wife, Esme, in tender kisses. The once-reluctant groom now captivated and deeply smitten, having cast aside his resignation of an arranged marriage.

Approaching Tommy is Aunt Polly, gracefully making her way towards him. With an amused smile, she settles herself beside him, her eyes following Ada's lively dance.

"Not going to put a stop to it?" Aunt Polly queries, shifting her gaze to Tommy.

"She asked me not to," Tommy mutters, retrieving a cigarette and placing it between his lips. He ignites it using a matchstick, the small flame enveloping the tip of his cigarette, allowing him to inhale the tobacco deeply. Moments later, he exhales, flicking the spent matchstick to the ground.

"I see," Aunt Polly remarks, reaching over to pilfer a cigarette from Tommy's pack. She lights it in the same manner, and they sit together, smoking in silence, enveloped in the laughter, revelry and the sweet melodies of violins and singing emitting from around the Lee campsite. 

Relaxing into his chair, Tommy tilts his head back, his gaze tracing the expanse of the night sky. Taking a drag from his cigarette, he releases the smoke towards the glittering stars above. Beside him, Aunt Polly matches his contemplative silence, both of them attuned to the vibrant energy surrounding them.

As Tommy finishes his smoke and leans forward to extinguish the cigarette in the ashtray, he catches sight of Nine ensnared in the clutches of Zilpha Lee, the matriarch of the Lee clan. She's a woman of sharp intellect and keen observation. Zilpha circles around Nine like a predator circling in on its prey.

Turning his head slightly, Tommy's piercing gaze fixates on Zilpha and Nine. Aunt Polly glances at him, a flicker of intrigue in her eyes, as they both tune in to the unfolding conversation.

"Hmm," Zilpha hums, pausing in front of Nine with a contemplative expression. "Apologies for approaching you so late into the night. I had other matters to attend to," she remarks.

Nine arches an eyebrow but remains silent, his hands casually tucked into his trouser pockets, his tie loosened, and the top buttons of his shirt undone. His dark hair is tousled by the wind, exuding an infuriatingly attractive charm that doesn't escape Tommy's notice.

"Obnoxious height, cocky smile..." Zilpha muses, listing off characteristics. "You must be Tommy's hitman, no?" Her tone carries a hint of knowing. 

Nine, ever composed and enigmatic, meets Zilpha's gaze with an inscrutable expression. His silver eyes glint, alluding to the danger he possesses. "I don't belong to Tommy,” he says, low and warm, with a hint of amusement. 

Zilpha subjects Nine to a deliberate once-over, her gaze discerning. "And how certain are you of that?" she questions, eliciting a low, rough laugh from Nine. When the breeze tousles his raven hair, Tommy averts his gaze, unable to quell the sudden pounding within his chest. Beside him, Aunt Polly extinguishes her cigarette, the leftover tobacco sizzling in the ashtray from the cold air. 

Tommy listens as Zilpha emits a contemplative sound from the depths of her throat. "Come," she beckons, motioning for Nine to join Tommy's table. "I shall offer you a reading, free of charge, as is customary between families."

"We aren't family," Nine interjects.

"Hush now," Zilpha insists, guiding Nine to take a seat opposite Tommy and Aunt Polly. From within her coat pocket, she produces a deck of tarot cards, and sits herself beside a reluctant Nine, deftly shuffling her deck.

Tommy steals a fleeting glance at Nine to see his reaction and is unable to look away, caught in a storm of silver eyes. Meanwhile, Zilpha presents the balanced deck to Aunt Polly, who wordlessly reaches out and takes half of the cards, murmuring a soft Romani prayer before returning them to Zilpha, allowing her to shuffle them back into the deck.

"I'm forgetting something," Zilpha remarks, tapping the end of her tarot cards against the weathered table. She narrows her eyes and surveys the campsite. Spotting her intended target, she calls out, "Arthur! Bring the girl!"

With a slight stumble in his haste, a tipsy Arthur approaches, accompanied by a flushed and radiant Anya. Clad in Nine's loosely draped coat, Anya grins warmly, her grey eyes sparkling. "Hello," she greets, her laughter soft. "I hope I'm not in trouble. I promise I haven't stolen anything.” 

"God's truth," Arthur affirms, placing both hands over his heart. "I've kept an eye on her, Mrs. Lee."

"I'm sure you have," Nine mutters, shifting his gaze from Tommy to fix a disapproving glare on Arthur, his expression unimpressed.

Arthur shrinks beneath Nine’s glare, the downturn of his mouth and the furrow between his brows making him resemble an upset puppy. Sensing the need for comfort, Tommy silently beckons him over with a slight tilt to his head, and his older brother obediently occupies the vacant chair beside him, immediately pressing his face into Tommy's shoulder. 

“Anya, sit,” Zilpha ushers, pointing to the last available chair beside Nine. With a slow, confused blink, Anya joins the table. When Nine reaches out to delicately tuck a strand of her ginger hair behind her ear, she allows him, a soft smile gracing her lips.

“Has anyone offered you a reading before?” Zilpha asks, dividing her deck into two halves and placing them facedown on the table.

"Oh," Anya responds, amusement dancing in her voice, "quite a few times. We accepted, of course.” 

"Really?" Zilpha raises an eyebrow, directing her question at Nine. "Even you? The sceptic?”

“He's not sceptical,” Anya defends, giggling, “he just doesn't like to be… perceived.”

"Alright, you've said enough," Nine mutters, encircling Anya's slender shoulders with his arm and using his palm to gently cover her mouth.

Anya's warm laughter causes delightful creases to form beside her eyes as she playfully nudges her older brother's hand away from her face. "Sorry," she offers an apology, not looking the least bit apologetic.

Zilpha and Aunt Polly exchange a knowing smile. At the same time, Tommy can feel Arthur nuzzling his cheek into his shoulder like an overly affectionate cat begging for attention. He obliges, resting his cheek against Arthur's hair.

"Pick a number between one and five," Zilpha instructs.

"Three," Nine and Anya simultaneously respond.

"Excellent," Zilpha says, satisfaction evident in her tone. She motions towards the divided deck with a sweeping gesture. "Draw one card each.”

Playing along, Nine reaches for a card from the left pile, while a curious Anya selects one from the right. Simultaneously, they unveil their chosen cards; The Moon and The Sun, two sides of the same coin, symbols of opposing forces forever intertwined. 

Tommy finds it fitting, a notion forming in his mind. They're like twin flames, connected in a profound and unbreakable bond. What strikes him is that neither Nine nor Anya appear surprised by this revelation.

"Deja vu," Anya murmurs, her elbow finding support on the worn table as she rests her cheek against her palm. A pleased grin spreads across her face. Sunflowers cover her card, all facing the bright sun in the cloudless sky. 

"You've drawn these cards before?" Zilpha inquires, her curiosity piqued.

"Countless times," Nine responds, a tinge of exasperation lacing his voice as he examines his card. The moon hangs over a vast field, while two wolves howl beneath it. "No matter how a fortune teller shuffles their deck, these cards always seem to find their way to us.”

Zilpha's eyes narrow thoughtfully. "Interesting," she remarks. "As I'm sure you're already aware, the moon represents hidden enemies, danger, and darkness━"

"━sounds about right," Arthur interjects, his voice carrying a touch of cynicism.

Ignoring the interruption, Zilpha continues addressing Nine. "Your card portrays illusions and deception. Perhaps there is a truth you are unwilling to admit to yourself?"

Nine smiles. “Perhaps,” he says, leaving it at that. 

Sensing his unwillingness to speak on the matter, Zilpha shifts her attention to Anya and explains, "The sun card signifies good fortune, happiness, joy, and harmony. It represents the universe aligning with your path and propelling you towards something greater."

Anya responds with a touch of playful intrigue, "Sounds ominous. I like it.”

Her response elicits Tommy to curl his mouth into an amused smile. He can feel Arthur shifting to hide his face further into Tommy's shoulder, muffling the sound of his laughter. 

Zilpha takes charge once again. "You may each draw two more cards," she instructs.

Following her guidance, Nine and Anya select their cards. Nine unveils The Lovers card, revealing two skeletons holding a rose between them. He then draws Death, where the grim reaper sits innocently upon the card.

Anya's turn brings forth the Two of Cups, depicting two lovers holding cups up to one another, followed by The Hanged Man, depicting a figure suspended upside down from a tree.

As both Zilpha and Aunt Polly audibly inhale, their breaths filled with surprise, Tommy comes to a profound realisation. Nine and Anya share a connection that goes beyond mere blood ties. There is something deeper that binds them together, a force that seems to have merged them into a singular entity. As Tommy ponders this revelation, a morbid mix of curiosity and dread washes over him, for he cannot ignore the fact that they bear the same jagged scar.

"You poor children," Aunt Polly murmurs softly, her voice filled with sympathy.

Zilpha takes a moment to collect herself before cautiously speaking up. "The Lovers and The Two of Cups represent cards of love. It appears that both of you have recently encountered your soulmates," she states, her tone tinged with hesitation. "As you embark on a journey of beautiful balance, compatibility, and commitment, you will also experience personal growth and renewal. But be mindful, for the cycle of life and death will come to claim you.”

With a frown, Zilpha reaches across the table, placing her hand gently over Anya's, offering solace. "Sometimes, being in the wrong place at the wrong time has consequences," she explains. "Bad things can happen to good people."

Anya tilts her head to the side, blinking with a sense of innocence. Slowly, she withdraws her hand from beneath Zilpha's and delicately touches her thick, black choker, the pearls reflecting the flickering light from the nearby bonfire.

"Everyone dies eventually, Mrs. Lee," Nine murmurs, his demeanour casual as he reclines back in his chair.

“That's right,” Anya agrees, grinning brightly. Her vibrant ginger hair dances in the gentle, cool breeze as she rises to her feet, removing her hand from her neck. Like a radiant sun capturing the attention of a field of sunflowers, she holds everyone at the table captive. "And besides,” she says, reaching out to draw another card, “I've already crawled out of my grave once. I'm sure that with a little faith, I can do it again."

Zilpha's eyes widen in response as Anya unveils her fourth card; the Fool. It symbolises infinite possibilities and limitless freedom, leaving the Lee matriarch momentarily taken aback by the implications.

Tommy observes the exchange, intrigued by Anya's gesture. She offers her card to Nine, softening her grin into a warm smile. "Here," she says, her voice gentle, "the sun already has plenty of luck. I think the moon should share in mine.”

Looking unbelievably fond, Nine takes the offered card from Anya, gently placing it atop his Death tarot, covering it from sight. “Thank you,” he says softly. 

“Mm,” Anya nods, delighted creases appearing beside her grey eyes. She tilts her head and extends her hand towards her brother. "It's getting colder. Lady and Duke must be missing us. Shall we head home?”

Without a word, Nine clasps Anya's hand and rises from his chair. Turning to Zilpha, he says, "Thank you for the reading, Mrs. Lee.”

“Free of charge,” Zilpha reminds him with a nod, “as is customary between families.”

“We're not family,” Nine reiterates firmly.

Zilpha's expression turns unimpressed. "Then perhaps you should convey that to Tommy, no?”

Tommy hides his frown behind a sip of his whiskey. It's the second time Zilpha has uttered these words tonight, and they resonate within him, stirring a mix of unwanted emotions. 

A scoff escapes Nine as he lowers his head, concealing the curve of his mouth. “Enjoy the rest of your night,” he bids to the table with a hint of amusement, before leading Anya away, her grin beaming brightly.

“There is something wrong with that girl,” Zilpha mutters with unease, once Nine and Anya are out of earshot. She collects her tarot cards, shuffling them deftly before placing them back into her coat pocket. 

Aunt Polly raises an eyebrow. “How so?’’ she asks. 

“Something vile lives beneath her skin,” Zilpha explains, frowning deeply, “like she is a wolf, clothed in sheep's fur.” 

"I think you may be reading too much into Anya," Aunt Polly interjects softly. Tommy can't help but to agree. As far as he knows, Anya is nothing but a pickpocket, following after her older brother like a lost puppy. 

"Perhaps," Zilpha concedes, her tone filled with uncertainty. "Perhaps not.”

2341 words//unedited. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight: 

The scent of buttery, salty popcorn permeates through the theatre as Tommy's footsteps resound on the hardwood floors. He breezes past the desk where the clerk is stationed, making a beeline for the screen room.

Without encountering any obstacles, he steps into a vast, dimly lit space, occupied by moviegoers nestled in plush, crimson seats, their attention captivated by the film unfolding on the expansive screen. Spotting Ada amidst the crowd proves effortless. Tommy settles into the empty seat beside her, casually reclining back. 

For a prolonged moment, neither of them utter a word. Ada munches on her popcorn, her gaze fixed on the screen, while Tommy taps his fingers along the armrest, biting into the inside of his cheek. 

Finally, breaking the silence, Tommy asks in a hushed tone, "Who is the man responsible for your pregnancy?"

"Rudolph Valentino," Ada replies, her words laced with deceit.

Taking a deep breath, Tommy's annoyance flares, prompting him to rise abruptly from his seat. He strides toward the exit of the screen room, forcefully flinging the doors open. Entering the adjacent booth, he confronts two uneasy projectionists.

"Turn that shit off immediately," Tommy orders, his voice brimming with authority.

"Right away, Mr. Shelby," one of the men responds, hastening to comply.

Leaving the booth door ajar, Tommy returns to the screen room. As the lights flicker on, bathing the space in a golden glow, the film abruptly ceases. The audience erupts in a chorus of confusion, but Tommy remains indifferent.

"Get out!" he commands, his voice resolute. "All of you. Go on. Now!”

Like startled rabbits fleeing from a salivating wolf, the patrons swiftly gather their belongings and make their hasty exit. Tommy patiently waits until the very last person has departed before returning to Ada, standing beside her seat.

“I said tell me his fucking name,” Tommy insists, his tone filled with intensity. 

Ada turns her gaze onto him, irritated. “Freddie fucking Thorne,” she replies scathingly. 

Tommy pauses, a sudden unease settling upon him. His stomach churns, making him feel off kilter.

"Yeah," Ada affirms with a nod, her anger escalating by the second. “Your best mate since fucking school,” she emphasises, curling her lips into a deep scowl, “the man who saved your life in France.” 

Unable to bear listening to her any longer, Tommy abruptly turns on his heel and heads towards the exit. Ada's voice echoes behind him, filled with raw emotion. “So go on!” She yells, her voice cracking slightly. “Go and cut him! Cut him up and chuck him in the cut!” 

Her words pierce Tommy's heart like salt poured into an open wound. He passes by the clerk and swiftly exits the theatre, stepping out into the chilly air. Ada doesn't follow him, and Tommy doesn't blame her. There will be time to apologise later. For now, he strides across the road to where Arthur and John stand, motioning for them to accompany him.

"Is everything alright with Ada?" John asks as they walk up the street. The midday sun peeks through the thick clouds, signalling a slight improvement in the weather, though it remains far from warm.

Tommy remains silent, causing a frown to crease John's brow. They continue walking in tense silence until Arthur summons the courage to inquire, "Alright, Tommy. Where the bloody hell are you leading us?"

"Nine lives around here," Tommy replies curtly. "He's going to track down that bastard Freddie Thorne for me."

"Jesus Christ," mutters John, his disbelief evident in his tone.

“You want Freddie dead?” Arthur asks. 

"No," Tommy clarifies, his voice measured. "That would upset Ada. I simply want to instil the fear of God into him."

John and Arthur exchange a knowing glance. If there's one thing Nine excels at, it's delivering on his threats.

The trio continue their journey to Nine's residence in silence. They arrive at an old library nestled in the more affluent neighbourhood of Small Heath. It's a small building tucked between townhouses, enclosed by a gleaming black gate. Tommy opens it and ascends the staircase to Nine's double doors, knocking sharply. His brothers stand behind him, ready for whatever lies ahead.

Soft melodies from a piano fill the air as the doors creak open. Nine peeks out, his dishevelled appearance catching Tommy's attention. Squinting his grey eyes against the invading light, Nine groans and closes them, leaning his forehead against the door. His black hair is tousled, and a few undone buttons on his shirt offer a glimpse of tanned skin.

The thought of Nine being drunk flutters nervously in Tommy's stomach as he listens to the hitman's familiar low voice. It's as warm and as rough as ever.

"No, this place isn't a library anymore, Miss Flounds," Nine mutters, his tone filled with exhaustion. "I can't magically make your wife fall back in love with you, Mr. Smith. Perhaps you should consider buying her some flowers? And if you're Mrs. Layton here to complain about your missing cat once again, let me affirm for the fourth time this week that my dogs have not devoured Mr. Pickles.”

Tommy can't suppress the chuckle that bubbles out of him, no matter how hard he tries.

"Tommy," Nine murmurs, his mouth curling into a gentle smile as he opens his eyes, prompting Tommy to quickly regain his composure. "Here for a social visit?"

"No," Tommy shakes his head, briefly wondering why his pulse is tripping all over itself. "Business."

"Yeah," Arthur chimes in, moving closer to Tommy from behind like a protective beast. He narrows his eyes at Nine. "We're just here for business."

"That's a shame," Nine mutters, showing no signs of fear from Arthur's glare. He opens the doors wider and gestures for the Shelby brothers to enter. "Please, come in."

Tommy brushes past Nine and steps into a spacious room divided into two sections. There's a living room and a kitchen, with a large, wooden staircase in between leading up to the second floor, where rows of weathered bookshelves can be seen.

In the living room, Anya sits at the piano, while two men occupy the couch and plush chair. One has auburn hair and dark eyes, while the other is a round man with a thick moustache and round spectacles.

Following the lead of Arthur and Tommy, John removes his cap and tucks it into his coat pocket. He stares at Nine with a furrow between his brows. “Have you been drinking?" He asks.

"Consistently, over the past decade," Nine replies, grabbing a half-empty bottle of vodka from a nearby corner table. "But that's not today's issue," he continues, his expression weary and disdainful. "Today's issue is that."

He points toward the living room, and Tommy turns his gaze just as Anya slams her hands onto the piano, creating a cacophony of noise. With sweetness in her voice, she asks, "D'mitry, do you really think I'm royalty?"

"You know I do," the auburn-haired man replies, shifting on the couch to get a better view of Anya. There’s a slight Russian accent to his tone. Tommy’s certain this must be the con man Nine vehemently dislikes.

"Then stop bossing me around!" Anya's voice echoes through the room as she yells in frustration. Irritated, she rises from her seat at the piano and strides upstairs, disappearing among the labyrinth of bookcases. D'mitry rolls his dark eyes with exasperation and quickly follows after her, muttering under his breath as he does so.

Tommy turns his attention back to Nine, his raised brow silently questioning the situation.

"Trust me," Nine says, shaking his head slightly while clutching the bottle of vodka tightly to his chest. "It's best if you don't know."

Tommy has his doubts about that statement. He plans to inquire for specifics later, but for now, he wisely chooses to remain silent.

Nine breaks the silence, asking, "Vodka or tea?"

"Tea," Tommy replies without hesitation.

"Fantastic," Nine remarks, gesturing for the Shelby brothers to follow him. He calls out, "Vladimir! Get the tea!"

"Right away, Mr. Nine," responds Vladimir, nudging his round spectacles further up the bridge of his nose. His Russian accent is thicker and more pronounced than D’mitry’s. Rising from the plush chair, the man heads to the kitchen to fetch the tea set.

Nine slumps onto the couch, his languid form sprawled across the cushions, leaving Tommy and his siblings to find seats on the remaining furniture.

"You're drunk," Tommy remarks, leaning back against the worn, weathered chair he occupies, casting a discerning gaze at the trio of empty whiskey bottles adorning the coffee table.

Nine's smile returns, slow and gentle, as he leans forward, placing his half-empty vodka bottle beside the conspicuous whiskey collection.

"I'm trying to be," Nine murmurs, pouring himself a glass of vodka. Tommy notices that his hands remain steady, devoid of any noticeable tremors. Despite consuming a substantial amount of alcohol, Nine maintains his composure, his movements fluid and his speech unimpaired. He downs the drink in one swift motion, just as Vladimir returns with the tea set, carefully setting the tray on the low table.

"They're rather quiet up there," Nine observes, placing his glass down. He reaches for the vodka again, only to have Vladimir intercept his wrist.

"D'mitry and Anya have only been upstairs for five minutes," Vladimir informs him with a sigh.

"Five minutes is a very long time," Nine argues, a scowl forming on his face. "God forbid they're holding hands," he mutters. "Or...or kissing."

"They're not kissing," Vladimir assures, earning a smile from Tommy.

“You should go upstairs,” Nine insists, pulling his hand free from Vladimir's grasp. “You should go upstairs and stop D’mitry from putting his filthy hands all over my little sister.” 

“I'm pouring the tea,” Vladimir calmly responds.

“Then I'll pour the fucking tea,” Nine retorts, prompting a snort from Arthur.

“As you wish,” Vladimir concedes, his voice heavy with resignation. He departs to ascend the stairs, emitting a loud sigh.

When Nine reaches for the vodka bottle once more, he discovers it gone, undoubtedly confiscated by Vladimir. "Did you have to take the vodka?" Nine's voice rises, echoing through the old library, filled with vexation.

From the second floor, Vladimir responds, "it's best to not drink when you're angry, Mr. Nine!” 

Resigned to his duty, Nine pours tea for Tommy and his siblings, leaving them to add sugar and milk as they please. "So," he says, sinking back into the couch with a faint tick mark above his jawline that catches Tommy's attention. "Business?”

Tommy nods, cradling a cup of warm tea between his hands. "I need you to track down a man for me," he says, "his name is Freddie Thorne.”

"And we need him unharmed," Arthur adds, taking a sip of his own tea.

“Unharmed?’’ Nine laughs, the sound low and rough. He runs his tongue along his lower lip, leaving it glistening with moisture. He shakes his head, a hint of amusement in his eyes. Tommy is loath to admit it, but he finds Nine’s current demeanour infuriatingly handsome. 

"Are you laughing at my brother?" John interjects, his voice laced with a protective edge.

Instantly, Nine's expression transforms into an inscrutable mask, his silver eyes glinting dangerously. He tilts his head slightly, and strands of dark hair cascade across his forehead. The library fills with an uneasy silence. Tommy's stomach flutters with nervous anticipation, his heart pounding loudly in his ears. Faintly, he registers a soft buzzing sound in the air, likely a fly hovering nearby.

In the blink of an eye, Nine reaches beneath a couch cushion, retrieving a small knife. He flings it into the air. The blade slices through the room with a sharp whistle before embedding itself into the wooden frame of the staircase. The buzzing sound abruptly ceases.

The fly must be dead, Tommy thinks, as a bead of sweat trickles down the back of his neck.  

"Apologies for that," Nine says, curling his hand into a tight fist, the resulting crack of his knuckles reverberating through the room. "That fly has been pestering me all day," he remarks, his smile soft yet tinged with danger, as he rests his elbow on the armrest, leaning his cheek against his fist.

"Fear not, Mr. Shelby," Nine continues, his voice laced with confidence. "Freddie Thorne, the Bolshevik Unionizer, will be captured and delivered right into your awaiting arms."

Tommy's heart skips a beat in his chest. He’s quick to find out he doesn't like it when Nine speaks to him so formally. "You know Freddie?" he inquires.

"I do," Nine replies, his tone carrying a hint of familiarity. "He has been rallying the communist faction beneath Mrs. Patel's window, causing distress not only to her but also to her newborn baby." His soft smile sharpens, transforming into his usual cocky smirk. "Freddie Thorne is an irritating pest. Much like a persistent fly, buzzing about, desperate for attention. He's an easy target to dispose of."

"You want him dead?" Tommy asks, his mind racing back to Ada. The thought of her anguish if Freddie were to meet his demise weighs heavily upon him. He cannot allow that to happen.

"Yes," Nine affirms, his voice barely above a murmur. "But if you ask me nicely, I might consider sparing his life.”

Tommy would sooner take a bullet than stoop to begging for Freddie's life. But this is for Ada, his beloved sister who deserves to be protected and cared for. As he locks eyes with Nine, his gaze fixed on those stormy grey orbs, Tommy braces himself to swallow his pride.

“Tommy doesn't have to ask you for shit,” John argues, miffed. 

Arthur nods, agreeing. “We're the fuckin' peaky blinders. You listen to us.” 

Nine remains silent, patiently awaiting Tommy's response, and eventually, it comes, hesitant and subdued, his voice growing hoarse as he pleads.

"Please.”

In that moment, Nine's eyes betray a fleeting glimpse of dark satisfaction. It's there and gone in a flash. Tommy feels a flush of embarrassment rise beneath the collar of his coat as Nine turns his head, concealing his smile against his fist. He laughs softly, the sound muffled. 

From the second floor, leaning against the wooden railing, Anya speaks up, her tone tinged with surprise. "You seem to be in a much better mood.”

"Don't you know?" Nine replies, rising from the couch to make his way over to the window. He pulls apart the deep red curtains, allowing gentle sunlight to spill into the ageing library. "The sun is shining. My anger has subsided. And a communist fly gets to live.’’ 

“Thank you,” Tommy murmurs, feeling a mix of complex emotions. 

“Don't thank me,” Nine says, turning to face Tommy. “It's not a loan. It's a favour.” 

2463 words//unedited. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine: 

Inside the bustling betting shop, a symphony of sounds fills the air. Soft sunlight streams in through the open window, casting a warm, golden hue over the space. Tommy occupies his office, seated behind his desk, his attention absorbed by the documents before him.

Aunt Polly strides into the room, purposeful steps bringing her closer. As she shuts the doors behind her, the clamour from outside the office dissipates, replaced by a hushed ambiance. A faint, upward curve graces Aunt Polly’s lips. "I've heard you pleaded with your hitman for some assistance," she remarks.

Tommy remains focused on the paper in his hand, not bothering to lift his gaze. "He's not my hitman," he asserts, his voice steady, "and I didn't plead.”

"That's not the story going around," Aunt Polly says, shaking her head in amusement. She gracefully takes a seat on the plush couch, crossing one leg over the other. "Tommy," she inquires, a mischievous glint in her eyes, "did you really go down on your knees and beg that charming—”

“—I didn't go down on my knees and beg," Tommy interrupts, placing the document in his hand flat across the desk. He contemplates whether it was Arthur or John who rushed to their aunt, eager to share the details of Tommy's affairs. Finally, he lifts his gaze, his expression now tinged with a slight frown as he regards Aunt Polly. "I simply asked Nine for some assistance regarding Freddie Thorne.” 

"Is that so?" Aunt Polly inquires, unable to contain her grin. Her words carry a playful undertone, making Tommy shift uncomfortably under her discerning gaze. It's as if he's been transported back to his childhood, feeling small and exposed.

"You're squirming," Aunt Polly observes, her tone laced with amusement.

"I don't squirm," Tommy retorts, attempting to maintain his composure.

Aunt Polly raises a single eyebrow, her expression holding a hint of scepticism. "I've heard that Nine managed to bring a smile to your face," she states, her voice filled with subtle knowing. "He even managed to elicit a laugh from you. That's quite a rarity these days.”

"He didn't," Tommy denies. His heartbeat pounds in his ears with the lie. "Whatever gossip Arthur and John are feeding you, I can assure you that they are nothing but lies.” 

Silence settles over the office with his words, and Tommy lowers his gaze, diverting his attention back to the scattered papers strewn across his desk. Strangely, a warmth begins to emanate beneath the collar of his shirt, causing him to wonder if he's coming down with yet another cold. 

"Tommy," Aunt Polly's voice softens, breaking through the silence, "I never said it was a bad thing."

Tommy does his best to dismiss her words, pretending not to hear. He randomly selects a document from the pile and scans it, attempting to regain his focus. Yet, his efforts prove futile, and he places the paper back down, stealing a glance at Aunt Polly while biting the inside of his cheek.

He refuses to entertain the idea that he's growing soft because of Nine. The mere thought of it is laughable. There must be something else afflicting him. Perhaps it's a stomach bug and surely, it will pass in due time.

A gentle knock on the door interrupts Tommy's thoughts, causing his attention to shift. Uncle Charlie peeks into the office, delivering the news. "That hired gun of yours is here," he announces. "Apparently, Zilpha sent him with—"

"—Hush now," Aunt Polly interjects, swiftly rising from her seat. She strides over to Uncle Charlie and grasps his ear, whispering something too faint for Tommy to catch. With a wince, Uncle Charlie is dragged out of the office, the doors closing behind them.

Tommy blinks in confusion, trying to make sense of the sudden commotion. Moments later, the doors open again, and Nine reluctantly enters, his presence filling the room. "Good afternoon," he greets, softly closing the doors with a click.

Tommy's mind momentarily goes blank at the sight of Nine standing before him. He clears his throat, attempting to regain his composure. "You don't have Freddie," he states in lieu of greeting. 

Nine smiles, slow and soft, like he always does when his attention is on Tommy. “Anya has the communist fly,” he reveals. “Don't worry, he's alive. My sister will merely scold him like a child and remind him of his place before she deems him fit to be returned.” 

"Right," Tommy responds, finding himself at a loss for words. Anxious flutters swirl in his stomach, prompting him to avert his gaze to the disarray on his desk, hastily gathering his papers together.

"Right," Nine echoes. “Well,” he stalls, reaching to open the doors. "I'll be taking my leave, then."

Furrowing his brows, Tommy is taken aback by the shortness of their interaction. He lifts his gaze, only to be met with the sight of Aunt Polly on the other side of the doors, forcefully pushing Nine back into Tommy's office.

"You leave once you finish what you came here to do," Aunt Polly asserts firmly.

Nine allows her to nudge his chest but remains rooted in place. It reminds Tommy of a house cat trying to elicit a wolf into a fight. "I can't ask Tommy to—"

"—Yes, you can," Aunt Polly interjects. Uncle Charlie joins her, lending a hand in pushing Nine back into Tommy's office. Together, their combined efforts cause Nine to stumble slightly backward.

Aunt Polly swiftly shuts the doors, the sound of their closure reverberating through the room. Within a heartbeat, Tommy discerns the unmistakable click of the lock being engaged.

"There's a window in here," Nine raises his voice, attempting to make himself heard through the door. "I can simply leave that way!"

"You will do no such thing, young man!" Aunt Polly's voice resounds from the other side, its clarity slightly muffled by the barrier.

Tommy blinks in confusion, his mind struggling to grasp the unfolding situation. He remains uncertain of what exactly is happening.

"I'm being scolded through a door," Nine mutters, a touch of exasperation lacing his words. He scoffs and runs a hand through his dark hair, tousling it in the process. 

Perplexed by the peculiar situation, Tommy rises from his seat and approaches the door. He grasps the handle and attempts to turn it, only to confirm that the doors are indeed locked. Turning back towards Nine, he questions, "Why are we locked together in my office?"

"That's a very good question," Nine replies, taking a step back. Tommy furrows his brow, noticing that this is the first time Nine isn't invading his personal space. Driven by a mix of curiosity and annoyance, Tommy takes a step forward, prompting Nine to retreat further.

Feeling a surge of irritation, Tommy reaches out and firmly grabs Nine's tie, curling his hand around it and giving a slight tug. "Stop it," he asserts, his voice firm and commanding.

"I'm genuinely trying to," Nine responds, his stormy grey eyes meeting Tommy's gaze. "But it seems I don't have any control over my body right now, so I apologise."

Tommy's flustered, the heat rising to the back of his neck. He finds it unbelievable. "Aside from informing me about Freddie, what else did you come here for?" he inquires, trying to regain his composure. 

Cautiously, like Nine is afraid he might hurt Tommy, he gently encircles his wrist, prompting Tommy to release his tie. “To ask for a favour,” he murmurs.

This is the Nine Tommy knows; the one who steals touches, offers soft smirks, exudes confidence, and always has a retort ready. Not this nervous man who keeps trying to distance himself. Tommy swallows thickly, feeling a sense of comfort as Nine's thumb soothingly rubs over the back of his hand. In this moment, it feels more right than anything else.

“That's it?” Tommy asks, incredulous. “That's what all this commotion has been about?’’ 

“Well,” Nine says, ducking his head slightly, “it's a pretty hefty favour.” 

Tommy doesn't doubt that, considering the way everyone around him has been acting. However, he can't fathom what favour Nine could be seeking, and he finds himself hesitant to ask. A surprising fear lingers within him.

Nine soothes his thumb over the back of Tommy's hand once more before he lets go, retrieving a slim, rectangular box from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. Hesitantly, he opens it to reveal two red woven bracelets laid upon The Moon tarot card. The card appears to have been remodelled, torn in half and sewn together with a Sun card using red thread.

Tommy finds himself rendered speechless, the weight of the silence enveloping his office. The air hangs heavy, and even if Nine were to speak, Tommy doubts he would be able to hear him over the deafening rush of blood in his ears and the pounding of his own heartbeat.

Before them lie the woven bracelets, their intertwined red threads representing a profound soul bond, meant to connect two life forces together. Tommy realises the immense trust Nine must place in him to ask for a favour of this magnitude. Nervous flutters stir in his stomach as he glances up at Nine through his lowered lashes, voice barely above a whisper as he asks, "Did you get cursed?"

"The Lee matriarch had a vision of me meeting a gruesome death," Nine explains softly. "I'm not one to put much stock in visions, but your aunt caught wind of it and is forcing me to address it." He pauses, allowing Tommy to absorb his words before adding, "It seems I require the assistance of someone outside of my family, someone I… trust, to release this curse.’’ 

Tommy doesn't know what to think, let alone feel. His stomach ties itself in proverbial knots as Nine speaks up again, “Apparently you and your family take curses very seriously.”

Tommy does. He believes in them. He knows there is often a glimmer of truth in even the most fantastical tales, and curses can carry an unsettling weight. He wants to voice his thoughts, but the words refuse to escape his lips. His gaze shifts from Nine's eyes, instead fixating on the scar that marks his temple and brow; a painful reminder of a past incident. Tommy wonders about its origin, whether it stemmed from a childhood accident, a war wound, or something else entirely. Regardless, it serves as a testament to Nine's resilience. Tommy never wants to witness him endure such harm again. Emotions swirl chaotically within Tommy, catching him off guard with every passing second.

"I wouldn't have come here at all," Nine murmurs, "but your aunt and Zilpha have obtained some sensitive information about me, and I can't allow that information to reach the public.”

Tommy's heart clenches as he observes Nine's hesitant expression. The weight of the situation is evident, and the realisation dawns upon him that to release the curse, he must exchange bracelets with Nine and share a kiss, forever intertwining their souls together. However, Nine, ever considerate, seems reluctant to impose such a request on Tommy.

"Tommy," Nine's voice resonates softly, filled with tenderness. He closes the box containing the woven bracelets with a gentle click. "I won't ask you to bear the burden of releasing my curse. I don't want to hurt you like that."

Tommy's breath catches in his throat, his chest tightening. The idea that Nine would even consider his well-being sends a tremor through him.

"I've already asked for your help, and that should be enough for your aunt," Nine continues, unaware of Tommy's inner turmoil. "If you reject me, I can leave and spare you from further complications.”

"No," Tommy's voice escapes, a mere whisper, laced with vulnerability. He shakes his head, refusing to accept Nine's resignation. How could he possibly say no to Nine, when the hitman has already done so much for him? Hadn't he eliminated Billy Kimber, and tracked down Freddie Thorne, all for Tommy's sake?

Nine blinks, caught off guard by Tommy's response, his expression softening with surprise. "Tommy—"

"—No," Tommy repeats, his voice growing firmer. He takes hold of the slim, rectangular box from Nine's hand and makes his way over to his desk, carefully placing it atop the surface. With a steady hand, he opens the box once again, revealing the red woven bracelets resting innocently upon a fusion of The Moon and Sun card. 

Tommy braces himself, determined to go through with this act. He convinces himself that this gesture is solely to honour Nine's trust and break the curse that plagues him. Nothing more, nothing less. It has nothing to do with the way Nine's presence fills him with warmth and makes his heart skip a beat. Tommy's stomach flutters nervously once again. He must be catching something more dreadful than a common cold. 

Taking a deep breath, Tommy reaches out and picks up one of the woven bracelets, its vibrant red threads calling out to him. He musters his resolve, reminding himself of the purpose behind this action. It's a simple task, yet it feels momentous.

"Your right hand, my left. That's how the bracelets are meant to be tied," Tommy's voice is hushed, almost holy. Nine pauses, his silver eyes locking with Tommy's blue ones, searching for something deeper. After a moment, he nods, understanding the significance of the gesture.

Moving closer, Nine extends his wrist, offering it to Tommy. The weight of the moment hangs heavily in the air. Tommy's pulse quickens as he takes Nine's hand into his own, his touch gentle yet deliberate. His fingers tremble slightly as he begins to carefully tie the red bracelet around Nine's wrist.

The intimacy of the act doesn't escape Tommy's awareness. A blush creeps up his cheeks, adding a touch of warmth to his already flushed face. He focuses on tying the knot, ensuring it into place. Once that's done, Tommy takes a steadying breath and extends his own wrist, presenting it to Nine. His heart stutters as Nine deftly picks up the second bracelet, his fingers grazing Tommy’s skin. 

With careful precision, Nine delicately ties the bracelet around Tommy's wrist, his touch sending tremors of electricity through Tommy's veins. It's a tender gesture, one that leaves him breathless.

As Nine finishes securing the bracelet, he slips his thumb beneath the threaded band, no doubt feeling the rapid rhythm of Tommy's pulse. “Not too tight?” Nine asks, his voice low and rough, eliciting a shiver from Tommy. 

“No,” he breathes out, his gaze locked intensely with Nine’s. “It's not.” 

A heavy silence descends upon them, both Tommy and Nine hesitant to proceed with the final step of breaking the curse. Tommy allows Nine to hold his hand, his thumb brushing soothingly against his wrist. 

“I'm not going to coerce you into a kiss,” Nine says quietly, his voice still rough. “I'm not that kind of man. I refuse to hurt you.”

Tommy swallows thickly. His voice emerges strained as he responds, "You don't have to kiss me on the mouth. Any place of significance will suffice."

A fleeting darkness passes through Nine's grey eyes, a glimpse into a hidden depth, but it vanishes as quickly as it appeared. Tommy watches with baited breath as Nine takes a step back, his left hand coming to rest over his heart. With a graceful bow, he shifts his grip on Tommy's hand, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss upon Tommy's ring finger.

An unfamiliar notion of marriage flickers in Tommy's mind, inexplicably tied to this tender gesture. He dismisses the thought almost as soon as it arises, shaking it away like a passing shadow.

“Good?” Nine murmurs, straightening up. Tommy nods, feeling a light-headedness wash over him. He attributes it to the mysterious illness he suspects he's coming down with. His gaze shifts to the haunting scar etched upon Nine's temple and brow, a visible reminder of the battles he's endured.

"You're frustratingly tall," Tommy whispers, afraid to speak any louder. He knows exactly where he intends to place his kiss. "Lower your head.”

Nine obliges, indulging Tommy with a soft smile. He lowers his head to a level that brings him closer to Tommy. With his heart racing, Tommy gazes at the scarred temple, hoping that his kiss can provide some protection, some shield against the perils Nine may face. Cautiously, his free hand finds solace on Nine's chest, feeling the steady and resolute thump of his heart, so unlike Tommy's own. 

Fluttering his eyes closed, Tommy leans in and brushes his lips over Nine’s scar, lingering for a moment longer than necessary. In that brief connection, Tommy's world tilts on its axis. He burns from the inside out like a falling star. When he reluctantly parts from Nine, Tommy opens his eyes to find Nine gazing down at him, a soft surprise etched across his features. 

A question hangs in the air. Does Nine feel the same overwhelming sensation that courses through Tommy's veins? Their souls are now intertwined, the curse lifted, and their connection unbreakable. They aren't to ever take their bracelets off, lest the curse returns. 

Nine's grip on Tommy's hand tightens, a gentle squeeze that conveys more than words ever could. 

The touch reminds Tommy that there is a special place in Brixton prison for people like him. He yearns for the unspoken to remain unspoken.

2900 words//unedited..

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten: 

True to his word, Nine delivers Freddie Thorne safely into Tommy's custody, physically unscathed but visibly on edge, constantly glancing over his shoulder with a wary unease.

Tommy doesn't pry into Freddie's demeanour, sensing that some unspoken fear lingers beneath the surface. Freddie, for his part, remains tight-lipped, offering no explanation. And so, Tommy chooses to let it be, accepting the unspoken agreement to leave the matter untouched.

With Freddie returned to the fold, Tommy orchestrates a reunion between him and Ada, a symbolic gesture of apology on his own behalf. Time slips away swiftly, and before Tommy realises it, preparations for Ada's wedding are in full swing, unfolding with remarkable speed.

Two weeks pass by in a blur. Amidst the whirlwind of Tommy's thriving business and the bustling arrangements for Ada's impending nuptials, a subtle unease begins to gnaw at him. His thoughts frequently veer towards Nine, wondering about his whereabouts and the endeavours that occupy his time. A peculiar sensation takes hold of Tommy; an emptiness left unfilled by Nine's absence.

Alone in his office, three days prior to Ada's wedding, Tommy finds himself lost in contemplation. His restless fingers unconsciously toy with the crimson bracelet encircling his wrist, a small gesture that betrays the turmoil brewing within. In the midst of his thoughts, Aunt Polly enters the room, her gaze catching Tommy slumped over his desk. 

"Still no word from Nine?" Aunt Polly's inquiry lingers in the air as she draws nearer to Tommy. Her hand extends, gently stroking his hair, tenderly comforting him, akin to a mother soothing her child.

Tommy closes his eyes and bows his head until his face finds solace in the crook of his elbow. It has been far too long since he allowed himself to be vulnerable, to let another console him, and the simple action of being petted fills him with warmth. “I think there's something wrong with me,” he confesses softly, knowing the betting shop is empty, a rare moment of respite from the chaos that engulfs his life.  

"Is there?" Aunt Polly murmurs, her presence shifting as she settles atop Tommy's desk. Her hand continues its soothing motion through his hair, a gentle balm for his troubled soul.

Seventeen days have slipped away since Tommy's last encounter with Nine, and the void left in his wake is indelible. Like a gun stripped of its bullets, Tommy feels frighteningly devoid of purpose and meaning. He cannot believe how quickly he grew accustomed to the hitman's presence. 

What adds to his distress is the keen observation of his family. They tread cautiously, casting him worried glances and sharing hushed whispers, unsure whether to extend a helping hand to Tommy, fearing his potential wrath if they intrude upon his solitude. 

Tommy can no longer feign ignorance regarding the profound impact Nine has on him. The nervous flutters that dance in his stomach whenever they cross paths hold a significance he struggles to decipher. Uncertainty clouds his mind, doubting whether his family would truly comprehend. Perhaps Ada and Aunt Polly would grasp the depths of his feelings, but as for his brothers, Tommy remains unsure.

And so, he chooses silence. It seems best to bottle up the whirlwind of emotions that Nine stirs within him. He wants to throw them into the cut, deep into the abyss of the forgotten, so that he never has to deal with them. 

"Tommy," Aunt Polly's voice carries a gentle tone as she settles her palm onto his nape, emanating warmth and protection. "If you can't confide in me about what troubles you, then perhaps you should discuss it with Ada."

Tommy nods, reluctant, for it seems that talking to Ada is the only remaining course of action. His aunt sighs, her voice laden with concern. "I'll make some tea," she says, shifting away from the desk and making her way out of the office. A few seconds later, Tommy can hear her puttering about in the kitchen.

As the hours pass by, one by one, Tommy's family members return home. John arrives first, accompanied by his wife Esme and their four children. Shortly after, a drunk Arthur stumbles his way to the couch, succumbing to slumber. Finn is guided inside by Isaiah, who swiftly slips away before Aunt Polly can make him stay. Finally, Ada enters with her soon-to-be husband, Freddie.

Tommy feigns busyness within his office, engrossed in cleaning his cluttered desk, organising scattered papers, and leafing through a few books. Only after completing these tasks and making sure no one else is downstairs, does he rise from his seat, draping a blanket over Arthur. 

Ensuring his brother won't catch a chill, Tommy takes a moment to light the fireplace, filling the room with warmth. The crackling firewood provides a soft symphony as Tommy's gaze fixates on the mesmerising dance of the flickering flames. Absent-mindedly, his fingers toy with the woven bracelet adorning his wrist. 

He yearns to see Nine. 

"Tommy," Arthur's drowsy voice interrupts his reverie, coaxing Tommy to crouch beside the couch. His hand instinctively smooths down Arthur's dishevelled hair, a tender gesture to comfort his older brother. Arthur blinks sleepily, struggling to stay awake.

Tommy responds with a soft hum, assuring Arthur of his attentiveness.

“You alright?" Arthur asks, tucking the blanket securely beneath his chin. A shiver passes through him. "I know somethin's wrong. If it's about Nine—"

"—I'm fine," Tommy reassures, gently cutting in. "Go back to sleep.”

Arthur's brow furrows momentarily, but weariness overtakes him swiftly, and his eyelids surrender, closing in mere seconds. Tommy straightens himself and proceeds to the kitchen. The lingering warmth of the kettle greets his touch as he pours himself a cup of tea, the late hour casting a serene stillness upon the betting shop. Taking a sip, he allows the comforting warmth of the tea to envelop him.

As soft footsteps descend the stairs, Tommy places his cup on the kitchen counter and opens the cupboard, anticipating Ada's arrival. He retrieves a dozen or so biscuits, arranging them on a plate and setting it upon the table, just as his sister reaches the bottom step.

"Polly mentioned you needed to talk to me," Ada speaks softly, her presence hovering on the final step of the staircase. “If it's about Freddie, I don't want to hear it.” 

"It's not about Freddie," Tommy responds, his gaze averted as he pours a cup of tea for Ada. Taking both their cups, he places them on the table and settles himself, gesturing for Ada to join him, which she does.

"Is it about Finn, then?" Ada inquires, selecting a biscuit and nibbling on it delicately.

Although Tommy does worry about Finn, tonight's conversation is focused on another matter entirely. He bites down on the inside of his cheek. Contemplating his words, a heavy silence descends upon the kitchen. The faint sound of the dripping tap registers dimly in Tommy's awareness. By the time he's done navigating the thoughts swirling within him, the cup of tea in his hands grows cold. 

He's still unable to voice his thoughts. 

However, he finds that he doesn't even need to speak, for Ada takes notice. She wipes away the crumbs from around her mouth, her gaze scrutinising him with an intensity reminiscent of Aunt Polly. Emitting a soft, contemplative sound, she reaches for another biscuit and resumes her munching. "This is about Nine," she states quietly. "I can understand the conflict you're feeling. He's an exceptionally handsome man.”

Tommy burns from the inside out. He can feel heat rushing to his cheeks and hopes the dim lighting downstairs is hiding the worst of it. His throat tightens, refusing to cooperate, rendering him speechless in the face of Ada's observations. 

Undeterred, his sister continues, her voice carrying a dreamy sigh. "His voice is that of a fallen god," Ada muses softly. "If it weren't for Freddie, well, I'd be all over Nine.”

"Ada," Tommy manages to say, his voice strained.

Ignoring his protest, Ada presses on. "He's charming, he's tall," she enumerates, "and isn't he sweet? Always casting gentle smiles in your direction. It's no wonder you've developed feelings for him, Tommy.”

"I'm not in love with Nine," Tommy denies, his words laced with both desperation and self-preservation. His heart pounds relentlessly in his chest, threatening to burst. He feels as though he might spontaneously combust at any given moment. "It's merely a... passing attraction.”

“Passing attraction,” Ada echoes, disappointment etched across her face. She regards Tommy with a disapproving gaze. “Is that what men are calling love these days? A passing attraction?” She scoffs. “Remind me to ask Freddie about it.” 

Tommy averts his gaze. The exposure feels unbearable. How is it possible that his own sister understands him better than he can apprehend himself? He continues to resist the notion that he could be in love with Nine. It seems implausible, inconceivable .

"Well?" Ada inquires, raising an eyebrow expectantly. "What do you intend to do about this passing attraction of yours?"

Truth be told, Tommy hadn't contemplated that far ahead. All he truly desires is to forget, but with each passing day, that becomes increasingly challenging.

"Hmm, just as I suspected," Ada remarks, rising from her seat. She gathers a handful of biscuits from the plate, clutching them to her chest. "Apart from business and horses, you truly seem to know little else."

Tommy glances up, meeting his sister's gaze. He's unable to refute her. 

"Whatever course of action you choose," Ada says, making her way toward the stairs, "your passing attraction will be present at my wedding. So, do try to handle it gracefully.”

And just like that, Ada vanishes up the stairs, retreating back to her bed, leaving Tommy alone and flustered in the kitchen. He pushes his cold cup of tea aside, the desire to drink it now extinguished, and allows himself to be consumed by his thoughts. His gaze fixates on an empty space, lost in contemplation.

After what feels like hours, Tommy blinks, snapping back to the present moment. He glances at the clock adorning the far wall. It reads a little past one in the morning. Exiting the kitchen, he ascends the stairs, reaching his shoebox-sized room just as John emerges from his own, wearing a weary expression and dressed for the outdoors.

"Can't sleep," John states, rubbing his knuckles against his eye. "I'm going for a walk."

Tommy lets out a sigh. "I'll join you," he says. 

Together, they depart downstairs, bundling up in their coats and caps. Tommy secures the keys and steps out into the crispness of the night air. John follows suit, stifling a yawn. Side by side, they walk the deserted, dimly lit street, a delicate mist hovering on the horizon. When John's hand finds its place on the back of Tommy's coat, seeking comfort, Tommy allows it without protest.

They continue their stroll in silence for a good twenty minutes, navigating familiar streets, skirting past the closed garrison, and eventually arriving at the docks, where the wind whispers softly. Tommy's craving for a cigarette becomes overwhelming, prompting him to halt, causing John to momentarily falter. Wordlessly, they lean against an ageing building, and Tommy proceeds to light his cigarette. He extends one to John, but his younger brother politely declines with a shake of his head.

As Tommy takes a drag from his cigarette, his gaze sweeps over the docks, scanning the area absentmindedly. His attention is pulled to a shadowy figure disembarking from one of the moored boats.

Tommy blinks, his pulse tripping, as two Dobermans come into view. It dawns on him that the shadowy figure must be Nine. Seventeen days of separation suddenly fall into place. Nine hadn't been in Small Heath all this time. Tommy surmises that he must have embarked on a business venture in Russia or perhaps even France.

Accompanying Nine is a young boy, noticeably limping with the aid of a cane. With a gentle and helpful gesture, Nine extends his hand, while the Dobermans gracefully navigate around the young boy, as if intuitively anticipating his every move.

"Dad," the young boy huffs, a soft Russian accent colouring his words as he cautiously steps off the plank and onto the docks, "I can manage on my own."

Tommy's world grinds to a halt. Blood rushes through his ears. His mind races, trying to process the astonishing revelation. Nine has a son? His heart clenches. It feels almost inconceivable. Next to him, John exhales sharply, mirroring Tommy's astonishment.

"Can't you let me worry about you even a little?" Nine teases, his affectionate ruffling of the boy's dark hair revealing the depth of their bond.

"You don't need to worry," the boy mutters, embarrassed. "I'm fifteen.”

"Mm, I know," Nine responds fondly, extending his hand once more. "Am I permitted to walk beside you? Or does his highness wish for me to walk behind him like a common man?"

The young boy takes hold of Nine's hand, his head ducking shyly. Tommy catches the soft words escaping the boy's lips, "I didn't say I wasn't going to hold your hand.”

Tommy flicks the end of his forgotten cigarette onto the sidewalk, his mind spinning with a whirlwind of thoughts. The concept of Nine having a child is perplexing, almost unimaginable, and yet here is the undeniable proof before his eyes.

He doesn't understand why it bothers him so much. 

Tommy's attention is diverted as an old woman, her hair grey and wispy, emerges from inside the boat, most likely from the berthing area. A scowl etches her face as she gazes down at Nine, his son, and the two Dobermans. Her voice carries the weight of years and a heavy Russian accent as she speaks, "For fifteen years, I have fed you, clothed you, kept a roof over your head. Do not come crawling back to Russia with your orphan kin, Number Nine."

"Yes, comrade Phlegmenkoff," Nine responds, a hint of amusement in his voice.

The old woman wags her finger at him, her scow deepening. "Tell the same thing to orphan Anya! Her place at the fish factory is gone!”

Nine nods, acknowledging her words. With an angry huff, the old woman retreats back to where she came from. Tommy watches as Nine guides his son away from the docks, undoubtedly taking him home, to the sanctuary of his library. 

2407 words//unedited. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven: 

The day of Ada's wedding has arrived, and the sacred walls of the church reverberate with a sense of solemnity and anticipation. The pews are filled with family, friends, and well-wishers, their presence lending an air of reverence to the momentous occasion. Sunlight streams through stained glass windows, casting colourful patterns on the polished wooden floors.

Inside the church, the altar is adorned with fragrant bouquets of flowers, their sweet aroma mingling with the faint scent of incense. Candles flicker softly, casting a warm glow that illuminates the church. The sound of soft organ music fills the air, its melodic notes weaving a tapestry of serenity and celebration.

Ada's last-minute bridesmaids, Esme, Anya, and Grace (the garrison barmaid) stand in a line near the altar, their soft green elegant gowns flowing gracefully around them. Their eyes are fixed on the grand entrance, brimming with excitement and anticipation. Each of them holds a bouquet of delicate blossoms, their colours perfectly complementing the bridal theme. 

Across from them, Freddie fixes his cufflinks, his nerves evident. The weight of the occasion rests upon his shoulders, and he casts occasional glances toward the entrance, eagerly awaiting Ada's arrival.

Tommy stands with his hands clasped behind his back in the first pew, his gaze sweeping across the church. His blue eyes search for Nine, his restlessness plain and evident. 

John and Arthur, dressed impeccably in their tailored suits, stand beside Tommy. They exchange a knowing glance, observing Tommy's subtle fidgeting, his fingers absently toying with the red bracelet hidden behind his back.

It doesn't take long before Arthur leans in closer to Tommy, his voice hushed. "He's here," he murmurs, his words intended only for Tommy's ears.

Tommy feigns ignorance, raising an eyebrow. "Who is?" he asks. His pulse trips all over itself, betraying him. 

"Nine," John replies, a mischievous glint in his eyes, having overheard Arthur. "And his son."

Tommy bites down on the inside of his cheek, trying to contain his emotions. His heart, much to his dismay, pounds fiercely within his chest. He subtly glances behind him, and there, as if on cue, stands Nine, with his imposing stature and stormy eyes. He leads his son forward, their steps steady and purposeful, to the saved spots behind Tommy and his brothers.

As they draw closer, Tommy studies Nine's son intently, noting the striking resemblance between father and child. They share the same dark hair, slightly tanned skin, and piercing grey eyes that the young boy fearlessly directs towards Tommy, openly glaring at him. 

Tommy is unable to suppress a smile. 

Like father, like son, as the saying goes.

"Better late than never," Arthur comments, straightening his posture.

Nine offers a somewhat apologetic look. "Had to make sure D'mitry wouldn't be devoured by my dogs just before I left," he mutters, his low voice causing Tommy's stomach to flutter nervously.

John chuckles. "Your conman's still causing trouble, then?"

"Not for much longer," Nine replies with disdain, catching Anya's gaze from the front of the church. He smiles at her and adds under his breath, "I dream of the day she becomes disgusted with D'mitry."

"Don't we all," Arthur sighs wistfully, earning glares from both Nine and his son.

John snorts, stifling the sound with his fist. "You're going to get yourself killed," he warns playfully. 

"I'm just trying to get a rise out of you, aren't I, Mr. Hitman?" Arthur asks, grinning at Nine.

"Don't flatter yourself," Nine retorts.

Arthur's grin fades, once again disappointed by his failed attempt to provoke a response from the ever-composed Nine.

Before anyone else can get a word in – in a sudden, breathtaking moment, the heavy wooden doors of the church swing open, and a reverent hush descends upon the congregation. All heads turn as John's little girls, Katie and Mary, adorned in delicate flower girl dresses, step onto the aisle. With every stride, they scatter vibrant petals, creating a colourful path in their wake. 

Following closely behind them, Ada emerges, an ethereal vision in her pristine white gown. Her veil cascades gracefully over her shoulders, framing her radiant smile and sparkling eyes. She's a captivating blend of joy and nervous anticipation. Walking beside her are Uncle Charlie and Aunt Polly, their arms interlinked with Ada’s, as they guide her toward the altar.

Tommy and the guests watch in awe, their eyes fixed upon the luminous bride as the sweet melody of the piano fills the sacred space of the church, harmoniously guiding Ada's journey down the aisle. For a fleeting moment Tommy's gaze meets Ada's, conveying silent support and acceptance. Freddie might not be the best man for her, but if this is what she wants, then who is Tommy to stand in her way? His sister’s gaze shifts when she reaches the altar, bidding Uncle Charlie and Aunt Polly farewell, so that they can join the line of loved ones in Tommy's pew. 

Tommy watches the scene unfold before him as the piano's melody softly fades, allowing the profound silence to embrace the couple standing together at the altar. The priest guides Freddie and Ada through their vows, their voices intermingling in a harmonious promise of love and devotion. They tenderly exchange rings, the symbolic embodiment of an eternal bond. And then, their lips meet in a heartfelt kiss, sealing their union as husband and wife. 

Beside Tommy, Arthur cries softly, wiping his tears away with John's handkerchief as the church erupts in resounding cheers and applause. 

With the ceremony concluded, Tommy clasps Arthur around the shoulders, bringing him into a side embrace. He shares an amused glance with Nine, and together, their group follows the crowd outside, stepping onto the church steps, where warm rays of sunlight filter through the clouds, casting a gentle glow upon the gathering.

Amidst the lively chatter, Tommy retrieves a cigarette, his fingers instinctively reaching for the familiar solace. He takes a long drag, the smoke swirling in his lungs before he exhales, the tendrils dissipating into the air. His attention turns to Nine's son, noticing the weight he carries on his cane. A silent gesture of concern, Nine pockets his hands into his slacks, offering his arm to his son. With a roll of his grey eyes, the young boy begrudgingly accepts, his free hand curling around Nine’s arm. 

At the top of the stairs, Ada and Freddie appear, radiant with joy. Ada playfully waves her bouquet, prompting the young women and girls to gather eagerly to one side. Esme stands faithfully by John, her own wedding already a memory, while Grace gently tugs a reluctant Anya forward to join the eager crowd.

With a mischievous glimmer in her eyes, Ada raises the bouquet high above her head, her laughter cascading through the air. In one swift motion, she releases it, and the bouquet soars gracefully, twirling in the sky.

It lands in Anya's hands, her expression transforming into one of exasperation. She smiles, though the corners don't reach her eyes. In response, a chorus of excited cheers erupts from the surrounding women, infusing the atmosphere with an electric energy. Nine, however, lets out a defeated groan, his face reflecting a sense of resignation.

"I owe Vladimir so much money," he laments.

John chuckles and offers a playful warning, "Better watch out, Aunt Polly and Zilpha are circling around Anya like vultures."

Nine glances in Anya's direction, only to find her looking flustered as she valiantly fends off the persistent advances of Aunt Polly and the formidable Lee matriarch. A sigh escapes Nine's lips, a clear indication of his contemplation regarding an attempt to get away from the impending matchmaking schemes.

"No time like the present to make my escape," Nine declares, redirecting his attention to Tommy. "Convey my best wishes to Ada, will you?"

Tommy allows his cigarette to hang from the corner of his mouth as he responds, "You're not going to the venue?"

Arthur, still dabbing at his wet eyes, huffs and questions, "Does he really need to?"

A smile tugs at Nine's lips as he retorts, "Well, just to personally annoy you, Arthur, I'll make sure to show up for a few hours."

Arthur playfully sticks out his tongue in response, provoking a chuckle from John.

Esme interjects with an inviting tone. "Oh, do come,” she says. “It'll be wonderful. Ada will be delighted to have you there."

Nine lowers his head, acknowledging her words. He withdraws his hand from his pocket and places it on the small of his son's back, ready to guide him away. "I'll be seeing you later, then," he bids his farewell.

Tommy, biting into the filter of his cigarette, observes Nine and his son crossing the street. After a minute of internal debating, he follows after them, gently catching Nine by the elbow.

"Bring your son along," Tommy suggests, glancing down at the young boy who leans his cheek against Nine's chest, casting a soft scowl in Tommy's direction. Amusement dances in Tommy's eyes as he looks up at Nine, who returns his gaze with something subtly warm in his expression.

A sudden rush of heat courses through Tommy's body. After twenty days without any contact, the closeness to Nine feels intoxicating. Unfairly, his pulse trips rapidly. Tommy pulls his hand away from Nine's elbow, taking a step back, only for Nine to reach out and adjust his cap.

"Is that an order?" Nine asks, a soft smile playing on his lips as he gazes down at Tommy. Lowering his hand, Nine takes the cigarette from between Tommy's lips and places it between his own.

Tommy's stomach flutters, and he can feel the heat rising to the back of his neck. He can't suppress the thought of an indirect kiss, no matter how hard he tries.

"Dear God," Nine's son mutters, "do you two need me to give you some space?”

Nine shifts his palm from the young boy's lower back to his head, playfully tousling his dark hair, causing the boy to bow his head as if in apology. "Pay no mind to him," Nine says, taking a drag from Tommy's cigarette. He blows the smoke forward, directly into Tommy's face, and then casually flicks the end of the cigarette onto the sidewalk.

Tommy can hardly fathom that this is the man who captivates him, haunting his every waking moment and even infiltrating his dreams. It's infuriating. 

"We'll meet you at the venue," Nine assures, his silver gaze lingering appreciatively on Tommy's figure. "I'll see you later, Tommy."

"Right," Tommy manages to say, his voice strained ever so slightly. As always, he's overwhelmed by Nine's intensity. 

He's attracted to what he's attracted to — and apparently this tall, middle-aged, so-called assassin with evident anger issues and the voice of a fallen god (Ada's words, not his) does it for him.

Tommy wants to die. 

He watches Nine depart with his son in tow, itching for another cigarette, but finding himself rather afraid to reach for one. When he returns back to the church steps, he notices both John and Arthur purposefully avoiding his gaze, as if they have been engaged in yet another round of gossip about him behind his back.

The only thing Tommy can do is sigh.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twelve:

The venue buzzes with vibrant energy and lively music. Splashes of soft green adorn the white circular tables, lending a welcoming ambiance to the large, open space. With the sun set and the night taking over, the guests are now thoroughly immersed in the revelry, their spirits lifted by sweet and savoury foods, along with copious amounts of alcohol.

Tommy, positioned at one of the many refreshments tables, pours himself a glass of whiskey. On his left, he catches sight of Arthur twirling Ada in a spirited dance, their laughter resonating joyously. They are encircled by the women of the Lee family and the men of the Shelby clan, all swaying and moving to the melodies coming from a corner of the venue.

With a measured sip of his whiskey, Tommy scans the surroundings. His gaze falls upon John, seated at a table with Esme and her companions, undoubtedly immersed in a lively exchange of gossip. A short distance away, Uncle Charlie has Finn and Isaiah under his firm grip, clearly reprimanding them. Tommy wisely averts his eyes, choosing not to delve into the details.

As he finishes his whiskey, the music transitions to a softer melody, and a flushed and radiant Ada joins him, gracing him with an affectionate smile.

"Not planning to dance with anyone?" Ada inquires.

Tommy shakes his head, placing his glass down to pour a flute of champagne for his sister. She accepts it, her mischievous gaze scrutinising Tommy's appearance.

"Waiting for Nine?" Ada playfully probes.

Tommy frowns. "I'm not waiting for Nine," he denies.

"Do you think he'll ask you to dance?" Ada persists, disregarding his denial. She can't help but let out a laugh as Tommy's frown deepens.

"And what's got you looking so sour?" Aunt Polly interjects, joining them. She's cradling John's youngest, Mary, on her hip, who appears drowsy, trying to blink away the sleep from her soft, brown eyes. 

"He's waiting for Nine," Ada explains, taking a sip of her champagne.

"I'm not waiting for Nine," Tommy repeats, emphasising his words. What is it about the women in his life? Do they all conspire in secret gatherings, exchanging hushed whispers on how to rattle Tommy's composure? 

It's utterly inconceivable.

He has acknowledged finding Nine attractive, but that doesn't mean Tommy desires him or, heaven forbid, needs him. So why does Aunt Polly have a knowing glimmer in her eyes, while Ada smiles at him, fond yet utterly exasperated? 

Tommy despises this feeling. It's as if his aunt and sister know something he doesn't. 

"Speak of the devil," Aunt Polly murmurs, her gaze shifting over Tommy's shoulder, undoubtedly catching sight of Nine.

"He's just as handsome as ever," Ada sighs dreamily, clutching onto the pearls around her neck.

"You're married," Tommy reminds her. He glances over his shoulder, easily spotting Nine's imposing stature towering above the other guests. Nine leads his son forward, a guiding hand resting on the young boy's back.

"No need to be jealous," Ada teases, "he's your hitman, not mine."

Tommy flushes, feeling a wave of heat crawl up the back of his neck. He turns back around to glare at Ada, but she dismisses him, raising her hand high in the air to wave at Nine.

"Over here!" Ada calls out above the soft music.

Nine turns his head, a gentle smile shaping his face as his silver gaze transitions from Ada to Tommy, causing Tommy's heart to quicken its pace.

"I'm glad you could make it," Ada says as Nine and his son approach their small gathering near one of the refreshments tables. Tommy immediately feels the piercing glare from Nine's child, the intensity of those grey eyes fixated on him.

"I wouldn't want to cause you any upset on your wedding day, Mrs. Thorne,” Nine remarks with a touch of affection. He shifts his grip on his son, clasping the back of the boy's neck as if disciplining a misbehaving pet. In response, the young boy averts his gaze, focusing on the marbled floors.

"Mm," Tommy mutters under his breath, "a thorn in my side." 

"Oh, stop it," Ada playfully chides, giving Tommy a light smack on the shoulder. She meets his gaze, her expression unimpressed, yet the corners of her mouth betray a hint of mirth. 

"Enough of that," Aunt Polly gently scolds, adjusting little Mary on her hip. The girl's brown eyes are fixated on Nine, as if in awe. "I've heard rumours about you having a son, Nine. Is it true?"

"Have you been eavesdropping on gossip again, Ms. Gray?" Nine asks, amusement heavy in his voice.

"Always," Aunt Polly replies matter-of-factly. "It's how I pass the time."

Nine briefly ducks his head, a subtle smile tugging at his lips. "This is Alex," he introduces his son. If Tommy recalls correctly, the young boy is fifteen years old.

"Be polite," Nine murmurs to Alex, releasing his hold on him.

"Hello," Alex says with a touch of apathy, lifting his gaze from the marbled floors. He appears as though he would rather be anywhere but at Ada's wedding venue. "As I'm sure you've all noticed, I was dragged here against my will.”

Ada raises her hand, attempting to conceal her smile as Nine lets out a long, exasperated sigh.

"Having said that," Alex interjects, glancing up at his father, "can we please leave now?"

"No," Nine responds firmly, "you're going to suffer the consequences of your actions."

Alex opens his mouth, likely preparing to argue his case, but his words are halted by the soft voice of Mary. "Pretty," she whispers, extending her tiny hands towards Nine, who blinks, tilting his head in a mixture of confusion and surprise. 

Aunt Polly, seizing the opportunity, readily hands Mary over to puzzled Nine, who instinctively cradles the little girl with care, settling her on his hip.

Tommy's stomach flutters at the sight. It's utterly ridiculous how attractive Nine appears at this moment. 

“Remember to return her to John,” Aunt Polly says, making a swift escape. Tommy observes her making a beeline towards Zilpha, undoubtedly eager to discuss Nine's son with her.

"But..." Nine's voice trails off, seeking assistance from Ada, who deliberately occupies herself with her champagne flute, feigning obliviousness. Resigned, Nine allows Mary to cradle his face in her tiny hands, his expression visibly melting with tenderness.

“Pretty,” Mary repeats, her gaze focused on Nine's stormy grey eyes.

"What's pretty, sweetheart?" Nine murmurs, his voice soft and sweet, his hand spanning the length of Mary's back. Tommy burns from the inside out. He knows Nine is gentle, but the sight before him is soul crushing, like the universe is trying to remind him that Nine is much more than a feared hitman. 

Mary laughs softly. “Your eyes,” she says. 

“Yeah?” Nine smiles, already appearing achingly fond. “Want to see someone with even prettier eyes?” 

Mary nods, a bit shyly, and in an instant, Nine adjusts his grip on her, transferring her into Alex's care.

"Dad, I can't," Alex protests, but it's too late. Mary clings to him, wrapping her arms around his neck, and Alex supports her with one arm, his expression pained. "I have a bad leg," he reminds Nine, tapping his cane against the marble floors.

"She hardly weighs anything," Nine assures him.

Alex scowls. "I don't like children," he states, disregarding Mary as she nestles her cheek against his shoulder, finding comfort in his embrace.

“That's funny,” Nine remarks, his tone laced with irony. “I said the same exact thing when I was your age, and look where that got me.” 

Ada leans in, stifling her laughter against Tommy's shoulder while Alex's scowl deepens. 

“John's that chatterbox right over there,” Nine says, gesturing towards a table on the far left. “Behave,” he instructs firmly, “and socialise.” 

Alex nods, reluctant. A faint tick mark appears above his jawline as he departs with Mary, limping slightly towards John's table.

“Well,” Ada says, her voice laced with amusement, "he's definitely your son. There's no denying that.”

“And what gave it away?” Nine asks, pocketing his hands into his slacks. “The attitude or his remarkable talent for backtalk?” 

“He's gentle,” Ada says, her smile unwavering. “I can tell.” 

Gentle isn't the word Tommy would use to describe Alex. Cocky, maybe, but definitely not gentle. But to each their own, he supposes. 

A fleeting, indescribable expression crosses Nine's face, but it's there and gone in an instant, replaced by a mixture of exasperation and fondness when Anya bumps into him from behind. She’s flushed and grinning, radiant like the sun. 

"Hi, hello," Anya greets, a little breathless. "Lovely wedding, Ada. Thank you for choosing me as your maid of honour. I might have outdrank Curly and Jimmy, my apologies."

"Anya," Nine scolds, though he smiles.

"Well, I did apologise," Anya retorts. She grabs Nine's arm and tugs him forward, away from the refreshments table and toward the dance floor.

"Anya—"

"—Please? Pretty please," she pleads, looking up at her older brother with puppy eyes.  

Nine relents, giving in immediately. He allows himself to be pulled away, appearing somewhat reluctant. He and Anya exchange bows before clasping their hands together, seamlessly transitioning into a slow dance that harmonises with the gentle music playing in the background.

"You're staring," Ada remarks.

"I'm not," Tommy denies.

"Fine," Ada concedes, settling her empty flute onto the table behind them. "Then you're yearning."

Tommy tears his gaze away from Nine, giving his younger sister a glare. He's not yearning. He's simply... appreciating Nine from a distance. Is that such a crime?

Ada responds with an amused expression. "I'm going to find Freddie," she announces. "And you, Tommy, are going to put on a smile. It's my wedding day, after all."

Tommy resists the urge to roll his eyes. He pours himself another glass of whiskey as Ada sets off in search of her husband. Downing his drink in one gulp, he navigates through the venue, politely declining dance invitations. He checks on Arthur, ensuring he isn't indulging too much in alcohol, and then moves on to Finn, making sure the young lad isn't getting into any unnecessary fights.

Once Tommy finishes attending to those matters, he approaches John, finding him engrossed in conversation with some of the Lee women. Alex is seated among them, with Mary peacefully asleep against his chest, sharing a chat with Esme. 

Tommy places his hands on John's shoulders, and his brother tilts his head back, offering a warm smile.

"Apparently, Grace fancies you," John reveals.

"Is that right?" Tommy responds. Grace is an attractive but reserved individual, with a lovely singing voice. If Tommy's mind wasn't already consumed by thoughts of Nine, he might have  asked her out. 

Perhaps he should give it a try.

Maybe Grace could help him divert his attention from his infatuation with Nine. However, just the mere thought of forgetting about the hitman causes his heart to clench. Maybe not, then. 

“Don't spend your whole night gossiping,” Tommy says, ruffling John's hair. He receives a pout in return and departs from the table. As he walks, he notices Nine leaving the venue and disappearing into one of the corridors. Moments later, Grace follows after him. Sensing a sinking feeling in his stomach, Tommy decides to tail them.

The corridor stretches out, featuring a grey marbled floor and white painted walls adorned with red drapes. Tommy is aware that on the far right side lies a kitchen and storage room, bustling with caterers. Further down on his right, there are three private rooms. Spotting Grace's blonde hair, he observes as she enters one of them.

Nervously biting the inside of his cheek, Tommy stealthily makes his way down the corridor. He pauses by the partially open door, carefully peering inside the private room. 

Nine is casually sitting on a plush couch, smoking a cigarette. The smoke curls around his face as he exhales it. Although Tommy can't see Grace, he can hear her soft voice.

“You're a lunatic,” the barmaid murmurs. “You kill people for money.”

Nine leans back, lifting his hips slightly to adjust the way he's sitting. In that moment, every ounce of self-respect that Tommy possesses seems to evaporate, leaving him flustered beneath his shirt collar. The absurd desire to sit on Nine's lap overwhelms him. How foolish.

"Actually, I do it for the thrill," Nine responds, a smug smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "The immense wealth that comes with it is just an added bonus.”

Grace scoffs softly. "Does Tommy even know who you really are?”

“Does Tommy know who I am?” Nine echoes, letting his cigarette hang from the corner of his mouth. “Does Tommy know who you are?” 

Grace falls into silence, leaving Tommy's stomach turning with unease. Why are they discussing him of all people?

"Miss Grace," Nine says, lowering his voice dangerously. "When it comes to espionage, I must admit, you've proven yourself quite adept, successfully infiltrating Tommy's world as a barmaid in his pub." He pauses, taking a long drag from his cigarette before extinguishing it in the ashtray on the coffee table. As he exhales the smoke, he sends it forward, most likely in Grace’s direction. "But if you dare to harm Tommy in any way, shape, or form, I will crush you like the insignificant bug that you are."

Grace audibly gulps, her apprehension palpable. Tommy's blood rushes through his ears as he struggles to comprehend what he's just heard. 

“I'm certain there are plenty of men, besides Tommy at this wedding, who are dying to waltz you into a stupor,” Nine adds. “Now run along.” 

Detecting movement, Tommy hastily slips into the adjacent private room, quietly shutting the door behind him. He can feel his heart pounding loudly in his chest, threatening to escape its home behind his ribcage. As he hears the click-clack of Grace's heels on the marble floor, Tommy leans his hands and forehead against the door. He closes his eyes and exhales, feeling his shoulders slump in the process.

For some inexplicable reason, Tommy finds Nine's protective nature towards him undeniably alluring. It sends a rush of heat to his cheeks, surely tinting them red with embarrassment.

He should be afraid, maybe even repulsed. Yet, contrary to logic, he's… in the process of falling in love. 

How utterly irresponsible of him. Tommy yearns for the days when he was blissfully unaware of Nine's existence. Back then, everything was simple, uncomplicated. Now, his world has been upended, leaving him with an inner ache that refuses to subside.

2430 words//unedited. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirteen: 

Tommy slips out of the private room, re-entering the corridor. His heart continues to beat loudly behind his ribcage, sending a rush of blood through his ears. He retraces his steps, his gaze falling upon Aunt Polly and Freddie conversing near the kitchen and storage rooms.

"You think I can't handle Thomas Shelby?" Freddie asks, annoyance seeping into his voice.

“You can't,” Aunt Polly asserts firmly, refusing to back down. “I'm having trouble these days and I'm twice the man you are.” 

Not wanting to get caught up in their argument, Tommy quickly departs before they can notice his presence. He reenters the bustling venue, greeted by the soft melody of music, the laughter of Finn in response to one of Isaiah's remarks, and the lively atmosphere of guests swaying on the dance floor. Navigating his way between the tables, Tommy escapes the confines of the venue, stepping into the chilly night air. He shivers, having left his coat and suit jacket inside. 

Compared to the slums of Small Heath, the countryside surrounding him is a welcome sight. Even under the dim glow of a lone street lamp, Tommy can make out vast stretches of lush greenery in the distance, punctuated by a scattering of modest houses.

Seeking solace, Tommy strolls around the perimeter of the venue, making his way towards a secluded area at the back. Another street lamp illuminates the space, its flickering flame casting a gentle glow. Leaning against the cool brick wall, he takes a deep, steadying breath, exhaling a moment later. However, his nerves continue to burn, refusing to be calmed.

The realisation of his burgeoning love for Nine continues to bewilder Tommy, leaving his mind in disarray. How could he have permitted such feelings to take root? In frustration, he runs his hands down his face, hoping to find some clarity amidst the chaos.

It dawns on him that this predicament is a direct result of his own actions, his willingness to allow Nine to breach his personal boundaries. If only he had refused those occasional moments of hand-holding or resisted the allure of Nine's soft, gentle words. Perhaps then, he wouldn't find himself in this precarious position, grappling with the knowledge that people like him have a specially reserved place in Brixton prison. The weight of that reality hangs heavily upon him, serving as a stark reminder of the potential consequences of his forbidden feelings.

As his world spins off-kilter, Tommy sinks low to the ground, wrapping his arms tightly around his knees. His gaze fixates on the expansive field of yellow and white dandelions stretching out before him, and an ache settles deep within his heart.

What path lies ahead for him now? Confronting his feelings directly seems an overwhelming task. It would be wiser, he convinces himself, to bury these emotions deep within, to forget about them entirely. By doing so, he hopes to shield himself from harm. 

Having already experienced the agony of a broken heart, Tommy is steadfast in his determination to protect himself from enduring such pain again. Lost in his thoughts, he stares into the void. He's unaware of someone approaching him until he hears Nine voice, softly murmuring, “Trying to catch a cold?’’ 

Tommy blinks, his gaze shifting upward to meet Nine's. Immediately, his palms start to sweat and his pulse trips, filling him with nervousness. Tommy stands to his feet, straightening out. What was it that Nine had asked him? The question eludes his memory, slipping away like an elusive dream.

Nine smiles, slow and soft, and shrugs off his suit jacket to gently drape over Tommy's shivering form, enveloping him in a rush of warmth. Tommy’s heart swoons. It's a chilly night, and yet Nine has willingly relinquished his own suit jacket to place around Tommy's shoulders. It’s such a foolishly, frustratingly kind gesture. 

Why must the hitman be so… affectionate with him?

A nagging doubt creeps into Tommy's mind. Could this display of kindness be a calculated strategy to lower his guard, making it easier for Nine to eliminate him? He desperately hopes not, but the reality remains that Nine is a hitman, and killing is his profession. Didn't Tommy just overhear him moments ago with Grace, mentioning finding a thrill in taking lives? 

Tommy knows he can never put a leash on Nine, nor does he desire to do so. He likes the fact that they are on even ground. However, there are individuals out there who harbour a desire to see Tommy dead, and it wouldn't be far-fetched to imagine them paying off Nine for such a task. 

Silence envelops them. Tommy's senses become attuned to the nearby chorus of buzzing cicadas as he intently focuses on Nine and his piercing stormy gaze. A chill breeze dances through the air, causing Tommy to shiver involuntarily. Nine's concern manifests in a frown, prompting him to reach out and secure his suit jacket more snugly around Tommy's shoulders. The brush of his fingertips against Tommy's neck ignites a trail of warmth in its wake, leaving an indelible impression.

"What are you doing?" Tommy asks, his pulse quickening with a mix of curiosity and uncertainty.

"Nothing," Nine says quietly, shaking his head ever so slightly as he withdraws his hands. A passing breeze tousles his dark hair, causing strands to brush across his forehead. The dandelions around them sway softly from one side to the other, catching Nine’s attention. 

Tommy's heart pounds within his chest as he tries to make sense of the situation. He slips his arms through Nine’s jacket, donning the garment properly. It's much too big on him, the sleeves engulfing his hands, but it's warm and smells faintly of Nine's aftershave. Tommy is puzzled by the hitman's choice to join him in the cold rather than being inside with his son and sister, revelling in the celebration of Ada's wedding. He observes as Nine crouches low to the ground, deftly plucking one of the dandelions from the field.  

"Did you come to Small Heath to kill me?" The words spill out of Tommy, uncoiling like a thread of yarn, unstoppable and tinged with foolishness. He flushes, realising he's made a mistake when Nine pauses, blinking slowly down at the dandelion in his grasp. 

It takes a moment for Nine to gather his bearings. When he does, he straightens up and his eyes meet Tommy's, searching for something to say. "Why would I..." his words trail off, leaving the question unanswered.

"No," he finally responds, his voice carrying a subtle strain as he steps closer. With deliberate slowness, Nine lifts his hand, carefully placing the tiny dandelion behind Tommy's ear. "There," he murmurs, softly brushing his knuckles against Tommy's rapidly pinkening cheek, "you're beautiful."

Tommy swallows audibly, striving to drown out the pounding of his heart. Nine must be intoxicated by alcohol, because if he isn't, then Tommy struggles to comprehend the reasons behind the hitman’s affectionate gestures. He musters a hushed response, "I think you've had too much to drink.”

"Yeah, sweetheart," Nine agrees, his expression softening with an understanding that only deepens Tommy's confusion. Nine’s rough palm cradles his flushed cheek, the tenderness of the touch contrasting with the torment in Tommy's heart. "I'm drunk."

An embarrassing noise escapes Tommy's lips. He refuses to name it, his pride taking a blow that leaves him feeling wounded. Nine, unperturbed, simply brushes his thumb tenderly beneath Tommy's eye, offering a small gesture of comfort amidst the tangled web of emotions. 

Tommy's mind reels. How is it possible that in just three months, he has transitioned from being addressed as Mr. Shelby to Tommy, and now, unexpectedly, to sweetheart of all things?

It can't be love, he realises with a sinking feeling. Nor can it be lust. The truth becomes suddenly and painfully clear; he's being toyed with, a mere plaything in Nine's hands.

Yet, despite this somewhat painful realisation, Tommy finds himself allowing it to happen. In the twenty days that Nine had been absent from his life, an ache had settled deep within Tommy's heart, a longing for his presence that he couldn't deny. And now, faced with Nine’s return, Tommy finds himself unable to resist the magnetic pull.

"I've been meaning to apologise to you," Nine murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. A shuddered breath escapes Tommy as he struggles to maintain his composure. Nine's hand, warm and calloused, continues to rest gently on Tommy's cheek, the pad of his thumb softly stroking along the skin.

"What... what for?" Tommy manages to ask, averting his gaze to the side. He attempts to take a step back, but Nine swiftly wraps his free arm around Tommy's waist, effectively trapping him. Tommy squirms in response, his hands instinctively landing on Nine's chest, intending to push him away. Instead, he feels undeniable heat and the line of Nine’s strong muscles beneath his palms, causing another flush to rise to his cheeks, rendering him useless. 

"Sweetheart," Nine smiles, the curve of his mouth softening as he delicately adjusts his hold on Tommy's cheek. Using his forefinger and thumb, he gently tilts Tommy's chin upward, their eyes meeting once again. "Are you listening?"

"Yes," Tommy struggles to speak, his voice a mixture of uncertainty and captivation as he peers up at Nine through his dark lashes. There's something about Nine calling him sweetheart that makes Tommy's brain lose all its rationality. He should be demanding Nine to release him, to let him go. Yet, here he is, allowing himself to be held by the hitman.

"I'm," Tommy stutters, embarrassed by how he's acting, "I'm listening.”

“Mm,” Nine nods, “that's good.” He adjusts his grip on Tommy, placing both hands gently on his waist and giving a reassuring squeeze, the touch exuding warmth even through three layers of fabric. "Like I said, I've been meaning to apologise," Nine explains, his voice low and rough. "During my time away, it seems I somehow managed to upset you.”

"I wasn't fucking upset," Tommy quickly denies, a hint of horror creeping into his tone. He's taken aback by the realisation that someone must have reported his moping behaviour to Nine. And now that he thinks about it, the most likely culprit could be anyone in his traitorous family. 

Tommy curls his hands into Nine’s button up shirt, feeling another wave of embarrassment hit him. Why must everyone constantly pry into his personal affairs?

“That's not what I heard,” Nine says, the soft curve of his mouth slowly turning into his usual self assured smirk. “Regardless of whether or not you missed me, and I truly believe that you did—” 

“—There was nothing to be missed!” Tommy cuts in, shoving roughly at Nine’s chest. 

Nine remains unfazed, not budging an inch. He continues speaking, as if Tommy's interruption meant nothing. "I’m sorry for leaving without telling you," he apologises. “The next time I disappear without your knowledge, I'll send you flowers. Do you have a preference?’’

Tommy's throat tightens, his disbelief growing. He can't fathom how this infuriating, cocky, and delusional man caught his heart.

“I'm not a girl,” Tommy says, growing frustrated. “I don't like flowers.” 

But Nine pays no heed to Tommy's words. "Red roses are a bit of a cliché," he muses, a playful glint in his eyes. "I'll send you tulips instead."

Enough is enough for Tommy. He reaches for Nine's tie, tugging it firmly, bringing his infuriatingly amused face down to his own level. "I know you fucking heard me,” Tommy bites out. 

"I did," Nine admits, flashing a charming grin. His thumb begins to rub soothing circles into Tommy's hip, a gesture that both confuses and comforts him. "You said you weren't upset and that you didn't miss me." 

Tommy feels warmth seep into every inch of his skin as Nine tilts his head, his silver eyes glinting in the darkness of the night. "I wonder what's causing your frustration then, hmm?" He muses.

Tommy's grip on Nine’s tie tightens. “You're insufferable,” he says. “That's what's frustrating me.”

Crinkles form beside Nine's eyes as he chuckles, the sound deep and rough. He leans in, pressing his forehead against Tommy's. "That's good," Nine whispers, his voice laden with a mix of playfulness and desire. "It means you'll be thinking about me for the next few days.”

Tommy squeezes his eyes shut, refusing to look at Nine's stupid face. His heart races within his chest, creating a feverish sensation that consumes him. Words escape him, leaving him in a state of silence. Gradually, the ambient sounds of buzzing cicadas and fluttering bird wings mingle with Nine's gentle breaths.

Relinquishing his grip on Nine's tie, Tommy rests his hand back onto the hitman's chest, unknowingly positioning it directly above his heart. Beneath his palm, he senses the steady rhythm of Nine's heartbeat and involuntary shivers. 

“It's alright,” Nine murmurs. He places his own hand over Tommy's, securing it in place over his heart. “The curse is lifted, remember?" He reassures. "I'm still here. I'm alive.” 

Tommy nods, the movement subtle. He inhales sharply when he feels a cold breeze and Nine shushes him softly, pulling him even closer into his chest. "I truly apologise for making you upset," Nine whispers, his voice filled with sincerity. "I promise I will never leave again without informing you first. You have my word, sweetheart."

Tommy's heart constricts at the endearment. It must be a slip of the tongue, he tries to convince himself, searching for any reason other than genuine affection for Nine to have called him sweetheart for the third time tonight.

He can't dismiss it as mere drunkenness, as Nine is clearly sober. Nor does he want to entertain the thought that this might be a ploy to lower his guard, with the intention of eliminating him from existence.

Reluctantly, Tommy admits with a strained voice, "I… I like roses.”

"Thank god," Nine mutters, a hint of relief in his voice. "Because I don't think tulips are even in season yet."

Tommy pulls away, opening his eyes to glare up at Nine, only to find the hitman struggling to suppress an amused grin.

"Sorry," Nine apologises, not looking the least bit apologetic. "I can't take your glare seriously when you've got a dandelion behind your ear."

"I take it back," Tommy says, removing his hand from beneath Nine's. He plucks the dandelion from behind his ear and throws it into the field. "I hate roses," he states, turning to walk away.

"No, no," Nine interjects, swiftly catching hold of Tommy's waist and pulling him back into his embrace. "I'll behave. Stay."

"It's cold," Tommy protests, flustered. "I'm going back inside." He meets Nine's hopeful gaze as the hitman tilts his head to the side, evoking a puppy-like longing. Tommy's stomach flutters with nervous anticipation. He's undeniably in love with this idiot, but he can't under any circumstances reveal his true feelings. 

"Fuck off,” Tommy mutters, avoiding direct eye contact. He tries to push Nine away, but his attempts prove futile. "I've already given in to your whims enough tonight."

"Then indulge me for five more minutes," Nine pleads. He runs a comforting hand up and down Tommy's back, attempting to soothe him. The touch is so warm, so gentle, that Tommy's resolve crumbles. He can't comprehend the motives behind Nine's actions, but there's a part of him that yearns to stay, to continue being wrapped up in assassin's arms. 

Tommy returns his gaze to Nine, his heart skipping a beat in response. An unsettling realisation dawns upon him; if Nine were to ask him for anything, absolutely anything, Tommy would find it nearly impossible to refuse.

With a mix of trepidation and surrender, he chooses to indulge, granting Nine his precious five minutes.

2556 words//unedited. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Fourteen: 

In the ensuing days after Ada’s wedding, Tommy takes the initiative to purchase a beautiful house for Aunt Polly, nestled amidst the serene suburbs of Sutton Coldfield, a stark contrast to the poverty-stricken neighbourhoods of Small Heath.

Sutton Coldfield proves to be pleasant. The town exudes an air of tranquillity, adorned with lush greenery. Tommy finds himself envisioning a possible future where he could settle down in such a refined environment. However, he doubts he ever will. Maybe in another time, and in another life. 

Undeterred, Tommy presents the house as a gift to Aunt Polly, a token of appreciation for her unwavering support and the sacrifices she has made for him and his siblings throughout their lives. Deeply aware of Aunt Polly's ardent desire to reunite with her stolen children, Michael and Anna, Tommy resolves to devise a plan to bring them back home. The memory of their abduction by the parish authorities lingers in his mind, their faces mere fragments from his past.

He puts forth his efforts to locate the family that adopted Michael and Anna, delving into the process. His week-long pursuit leads him to the Johnson family residing on a serene Kentish farm just outside of Birmingham.

On a warm, sun-kissed day, with a blue sky adorned by scattered clouds, Tommy parks his car on a long, dusty road and steps out, closing the door with a soft click. As he walks along the road towards the Johnson farm, he notices a scene that catches his attention. There are two boys playing out on the vast field to his left, their figures obscured from afar. 

On his right, Rosemary Johnson diligently tends to her front garden, her careful attention focused on the vibrant blooms. Tommy watches intently as she calls out to her two sons, their playful spirits evident as they race to jump over a wooden fence, joining their mother in the garden.

"Mrs. Johnson?” Tommy calls out. He moves closer, coming to a stop by the wooden gate, his gaze fixed on the two boys. The older one possesses the same unimpressed curve to his mouth as Aunt Polly. There's a striking resemblance there, his brown eyes and wavy dark hair giving it away. Tommy observes as the older boy guides the younger one by the shoulder, their steps leading them along the cobblestone path towards the house.

Startled, Mrs. Johnson glances up from her rosebush, curiosity and apprehension mingling in her expression. "Yes?" she responds, her voice tinged with caution. "Who are you?"

Maintaining his composure, Tommy smoothly weaves a lie. "I'm from the Birmingham council," he asserts, assuming the guise of a representative from the parish authority.

Mrs. Johnson's brow furrows as she processes this unexpected visit. "No one wrote to me," she states, rising to her feet and dusting her hands off. "What do you want?"

Tommy maintains his deceptive facade, his words carefully chosen. "I'd like to talk about your son, Henry," he says, concealing his knowledge that Henry is actually Michael. He can't help but notice the absence of Anna, wondering if she might be inside attending to the household chores. 

A hint of protectiveness creeps into Mrs. Johnson's voice. "I'd rather you didn't come in. He doesn't like to talk about these things."

Feigning understanding, Tommy nods, expecting her concern. "I see," he replies, his head dipping slightly. With no mention of Anna from Mrs. Johnson, Tommy continues to play his role. "So, what does Henry know about his true identity?"

Mrs. Johnson's mistrust deepens, evident in her response. "I only deal with Mr. Ross from the agency, and they only ever write. Why are you here in person?”

"Well, the boy is approaching his eighteenth birthday," Tommy states, a soft breeze ruffling the ends of his coat and the greenery around him. 

Mrs. Johnson's intuition sharpens, and she shakes her head in disbelief. "This isn't right," she declares, her voice filled with doubt. "You're not from the council," she accuses, her suspicion growing. "Something... something isn't right.”

Tommy bites the inside of his cheek. “What does he know, Mrs Johnson?” he presses. 

A mix of anguish and hesitation colours Mrs. Johnson's response. "He knows his mother couldn't cope," she admits, her voice strained. “She drank too much,” she lies. “She used opium and she used to beat him.” 

Tommy's heart sinks as he realises the depths of the falsehoods that have been woven around Michael’s life. "That isn't the truth, is it?" he questions. 

Recognizing the need to protect her family, Mrs. Johnson suggests a delay. "Look, I think you should come back when my husband's here," she proposes, seeking additional support and guidance.

Persisting, Tommy digs his claws in. "Does Henry know what his real name is?" 

Mrs. Johnson's response is resolute. "His real name is Johnson," she asserts firmly. "Henry Johnson. Now, I would like you to go away and come back when my husband’s here.”

Undeterred by Mrs. Johnson's request, Tommy stands his ground, his gaze fixed on Michael, who is now walking back down the cobblestone path from his house. "The truth is," he declares, his voice gaining a slight edge, "he was taken from his mother without her permission.”

Mrs. Johnson whirls around to face Michael, her expression no doubt a mix of concern and protectiveness. "Henry, go back inside," she urges, her voice tinged with a pleading tone, as her adoptive son joins her with a deep frown. "Please."

Michael's eyes meet Tommy's, and spark of defiance and curiosity glimmers within them. His brown eyes transform, catching the sunlight and turning golden, undeterred by fear or intimidation. “Who are you?” He questions. 

“Your real name is Michael Gray," Tommy reveals, ripping off the proverbial band aid. Michael blinks, soft, slow, his head tilting slightly to the side as he takes in the information. 

"No!" Mrs. Johnson interjects, turning back to face Tommy with an upset expression, her denial palpable.

Ignoring her outburst, Tommy reaches into his inner coat pocket and retrieves a small, white card. With a gentle motion, he extends the card towards Michael. "Your real mother wants to see you," he explains, his voice filled with sincerity. "Her address is on the back of this card. She just wants to talk."

Before Michael can even take the card, Mrs. Johnson's hand swiftly slaps it out of Tommy's grasp. The card flutters to the ground, getting entangled in the rose bush as Mrs. Johnson's frustration boils over. She strikes Tommy on the arm and shoulder, her actions fueled by anger and protectiveness.

"Go away!" she exclaims, her voice laced with a mix of desperation and defiance.

Undiscouraged by the hostility, Tommy maintains his calm composure. "She just wants to talk," he repeats, his words gentle and soothing, his gaze fixed on Michael. The young man's expression begins to soften, caught between conflicting emotions as the truth unfolds before him.

Michael nods, a slight and barely perceptible movement, and in response, Tommy takes it as a sign to depart. As he turns to leave, Mrs. Johnson delivers one last forceful strike to his back, an act of frustration and resistance. Unfazed, Tommy strides down the dusty road, adjusting his coat with a sharp sigh. 

Mrs. Johnson's distressed voice trails after him, telling him to never come back. Her wailing gets drowned out by the sound of the car's engine as Tommy climbs inside, starting the ignition. Just before he drives off, he glances back in the direction of the Kentish farm. Mrs. Johnson is wiping away furious tears, her anguish evident. Behind her, Michael discreetly retrieves the fallen card from within the rose bush, swiftly pocketing it before his adoptive mother can notice.

A small smile tugs at the corners of Tommy's mouth as he skillfully manoeuvres the car, reversing it and setting course back to Small Heath. Confidence fills his mind, leaving no room for doubt that Michael will inevitably seek out his true family.

The road stretches ahead, adorned with lush greenery and fresh air that wafts through the slightly open car window, causing the wind to gently flutter inside the vehicle. Tommy's mind wanders, contemplating the upcoming reunion with Aunt Polly and the joy she'll undoubtedly feel upon having Michael back home. However, a nagging uncertainty lingers regarding what to disclose about Anna, given his lack of sight or knowledge of her presence on the Johnson's farm.

Lost in his thoughts, Tommy's gaze drifts momentarily to his wrist, where a striking red bracelet peeks out from beneath his black coat sleeve. Its presence triggers his heart to skip a beat, a testament to the attachment he feels towards Nine. With a determined shake of his head, Tommy refocuses his attention on the road ahead, gripping the steering wheel tightly.

Despite his best efforts, both Nine and the Anna dilemma continue to occupy Tommy's thoughts throughout the entire journey back to Small Heath. The notion of seeking Nine's assistance in locating Anna flickers in his mind, but the prospect of asking the notorious hitman for yet another favour fills Tommy with nervousness, causing his stomach to flutter.

As he arrives in Small Heath, Tommy slows the car to a stop, strategically parking it around the corner of the betting shop. Stepping out of the vehicle, he takes in the familiar surroundings of the slums where he grew up and locks the car door, securely stowing away his keys into his coat pocket.

Ducking his head slightly, Tommy makes his way towards his home. Upon entering, he is greeted by a scene that fills the living room and kitchen with vibrant energy. Amidst the bustle, the betting shop is alive with joyful chaos. John and Arthur are chasing each other, their playful game of cops and robbers weaving through the surroundings. In the kitchen, Esme and Aunt Polly are engaged in lively conversation, their laughter filling the air as Vladimir pours champagne for them, adding a touch of celebration to the gathering. Meanwhile, in the living room, Finn, Isaiah, and Alex are participating in a spirited card game, with a stack of money and an expensive bottle of rum adorning the coffee table between them.

Tommy takes off his cap and coat, settling them onto the hanger by the door, feeling off kilter. He blinks, spotting D'mitry descending the stairs alongside Anya, their arms laden with boxes, presumably filled with Aunt Polly's belongings. As usual, the two of them are bickering. They place the boxes onto the kitchen counter beside numerous bottles of unopened whiskey and continue to argue. 

Unexpectedly, three out of four of John's children, full of energy and laughter, burst out from all corners of the betting shop, their gleeful voices echoing through the air. Nine, dishevelled yet exuding an air of playfulness, chases after them, effortlessly capturing Matthew and hoisting him over his shoulder, the sound of their laughter blending harmoniously.

"Uncle Tommy! Uncle Tommy!" Katie exclaims, her cheeks flushed with excitement as she clings onto Tommy's leg, her radiant grin captivating his heart.

"You have to help us!" William stumbles forward, his tiny arms reaching out for Tommy's embrace.

Tommy feels a surge of heat seep into every inch of skin, unable to hold back a smile, brimming with affection as he picks up William, cradling him against his chest and hip. "Do I?" he asks, powerless in resisting the infectious joy radiating from the children.

Katie, ever the clever one, reasons, "We'll get eaten by the wolf if you don't."

Tommy's gaze shifts, capturing the sight of Nine in his dishevelled state. Dark strands of hair fall across the hitman's forehead, his loosened tie and unbuttoned shirt adding to his rugged charm. Nine adjusts his hold on Matthew, holding the boy against his chest. He allows the little one to hide his freckled face into his neck. 

With his heart beating loudly within his chest, Tommy steps closer to Nine, reminiscent of a lost lamb approaching a hungry predator. He poses a question, "You're the big, bad wolf, is that right?"

Nine smiles, soft and gentle, those grey eyes of his gazing into Tommy's blue one's with unmistakable fondness. His voice is low and rough as he responds, "Not when I'm with you.”

Tommy cannot stop his cheeks from flushing pink. It doesn't help that William giggles, the soft and sweet sound adding to his flustered state. Unable to find the right words amidst his embarrassment, Tommy blurts out, "You're an idiot.” 

Nine tilts his head to the side, the curve of his mouth turning wicked. He grins, cocky and charming, looking positively pleased and the simple action takes Tommy's breath away. 

The intensity of his embarrassment deepens, his flushed cheeks transitioning from a light pink to a deep crimson. Is he being toyed with? He feels like a delicate butterfly pinned to a board, subjected to meticulous scrutiny under a microscope. His heart stutters within his chest, an undeniable desire stirring within him, longing for a kiss from Nine.

But the reality looms over him, the weight of societal expectations and the consequences of two men daring to be together. The risks are substantial, ranging from ruined reputations and imprisonment to the ultimate price of death. Tommy's mind races, recalling Nine's words on the day they exchanged woven red bracelets to lift the hitman's curse. He said, ‘I refuse to hurt you,’ and those words might as well have been a promise. 

“What are we celebrating?” Tommy asks, his voice coming out strained as he changes the direction of the conversation. He avoids meeting Nine's silver eyes, instead focusing on settling little William onto the ground and watching him scamper off with Katie into the living room.

“Esme’s pregnant,” Nine reveals. He releases Matthew from his hold, allowing the boy to join his siblings in their playful pursuits. “Ms. Gray invited us over with the good news.” 

Tommy nods, not particularly surprised by the announcement. However, what puzzles him is why Aunt Polly invited Nine's family and associates. He parts his mouth to speak, but Nine reaches out, his hand finding its place on the small of Tommy's back. The touch is both comforting and… possessive, causing Tommy's mouth to snap shut in shock.

"That," Nine murmurs, his voice low and intimate, guiding Tommy further into the betting shop, "and Anya's getting a visitor from France."

"A visitor?" Tommy inquires, trying his best not to squirm within the close proximity of Nine. He doubts that it's a potential suitor, as Nine doesn't strike him as someone who would arrange a loveless marriage for Anya.

"Well, my sister is still refusing to go to Paris," Nine explains. "So I have to bring Paris to her.”

“There you are,” Aunt Polly chimes in, reaching for Tommy's hand. She tugs him gently into the empty seat beside her at the kitchen table. Tommy fidgets, instinctively reaching for his packet of cigarettes and matchsticks, pulling them out of his pocket.

"Esme's pregnant," Aunt Polly shares, repeating the news Tommy has already heard. He places a cigarette between his lips and lights it with a matchstick, taking a deep inhale. Aware of Nine's gaze fixed upon him, Tommy does his best to ignore it, casually flicking the used matchstick into the ashtray on the table.

"And D'mitry and Anya are planning to con their way into the Russian imperial family," Aunt Polly continues. 

Tommy blinks, raising an eyebrow in confusion. "What?"

"Fifteen years ago, there was a siege on the palace," Nine elaborates, leaning against the kitchen counter. "The king and queen were massacred, along with their six children, but the remains of the Grand Duchess were never found. Rumours suggest she may still be alive."

"The Empress Dowager is offering a reward of ten million rubles for the return of her granddaughter," Aunt Polly adds, adding weight to the gravity of the situation.

"And D'mitry wants that money," Vladimir interjects, popping open another bottle of champagne.

Tommy's incredulousness grows, and he musters the courage to meet Nine's gaze directly. "Are you insane?" he questions, his voice laced with disbelief.

Nine shrugs. "Anya is around the right age, and she even has the same hair colour," he says. "Besides, this isn't D'mitry's first attempt. Like all bugs, I'm certain he'll find a way to infiltrate the royal family eventually.”

Tommy takes a moment to process the information, letting his cigarette dangle from the corner of his mouth. He bites the filter, his thoughts swirling with confusion. "Is that all?" he asks, seeking clarification on the matter at hand.

"No," Nine replies, his tone lightening. "I'm actually contemplating getting a haircut. Any suggestions?"

Annoyed by Nine's nonchalant demeanour, Tommy seizes the nearest object within reach, his box of matchsticks, and hurls it towards Nine's infuriatingly handsome face. Unfazed, Nine effortlessly catches the small box in front of his profile, lowering his hand to regard Tommy with an amused expression.

Not wanting to endure Nine's amused gaze any longer, Tommy rises from his seat, determined to seek refuge in his office. However, as he stands by the open doors, his intention is halted by the sight of John's youngest. 

Mary is sitting on the floor, completely engrossed in a tea party with one of Nine's Dobermans. The dog wears a makeshift crown and a cardigan, patiently listening to Mary's soft voice as she explains the blend of her imaginary tea.

Tommy leans against the doorframe, folding his arms across his chest. The cigarette still dangles from the corner of his mouth, and he presses his lips together, taking a deep inhale of the tobacco. As he exhales, the smoke rises towards the ceiling. He's soon joined by Nine, who leans against the opposite door frame. They're close enough that Tommy can feel the heat radiating off him. He doesn't look at Nine, fearing his heart will leap out of his chest if he does. 

Having spotted its owner, the Doberman lets out a bark, causing the crown atop its head to slip, now sitting crookedly around the dog's ear.

"Duke," Nine scolds gently, a smile tugging at his lips, "inside voice."

Snuffling, Duke complies, lowering his voice to produce a bark that is hushed, almost as quiet as a whisper.

"Good boy," Nine praises. "Now go on," he motions with a slight tilt of his head, "play nicely.”

Tommy watches as the hound inches closer to Mary, settling his head onto the little girl's lap, receiving well-deserved pets in return for his good behaviour. 

"And where were you today?" Nine inquires, ducking his head slightly to catch Tommy's gaze. 

"Working," Tommy responds matter-of-factly, avoiding eye contact. 

Nine scoffs playfully. "How cryptic," he teases. "While I'm here, divulging secrets about Anya planning to overthrow the Russian government, you can't even spare me a few details about your day.”

"She's not planning to overthrow the Russian government," Tommy says. "She's just conning her way into the royal family."

Before Nine can respond, Tommy moves over to the living room. He takes a final drag of his cigarette, relishing the sweet taste, and stubs it into the ashtray on the corner of the coffee table. Turning around, he unintentionally collides with Nine's chest, unaware that he had been followed.

Nine steadies Tommy by placing his hands on his waist, giving a gentle squeeze. Their eyes finally meet, and an unspoken tension lingers between them. Instinctively, Tommy raises his hands as if to push Nine away, but hesitates, finding himself unable to do so. Instead, he rests his palms on Nine's chest, acutely aware of the watchful eyes of Finn and Isaiah, who are seated on the couch, observing them in a mixture of surprise and confusion.

Tommy bites the inside of his cheek and glares up at Nine, once again feeling disadvantaged due to the difference in their height. "No one needs to be this infuriatingly tall," Tommy mutters underneath his breath.

"That's rude," Nine murmurs, his thumb tracing comforting circles into Tommy's hip. "Next, you'll be telling me that my eyes aren't pretty."

"They aren't," Tommy says, feeling a rush of warmth spreading across his cheeks. He should be pushing Nine away, not allowing him to hold him in front of his family. He clears his throat and Nine, likely sensing his nervousness, steps back, his hands retreating from Tommy's waist to hide into the pockets of his trousers. 

“Alex is cheating,” Nine states, a hint of amusement in the curve of his mouth as he glances at the boys on the couch.

Finn whips his head around to look at Alex, his voice laced with incredulity. "You're cheating?" he asks, his tone slightly raised.

Alex, seated on the plush chair, meets Finn's gaze with a deadpan look. "My father's a hitman for hire, and my aunt's a pickpocket," he points out, tossing his playing cards face up onto the table. "Of course I'm cheating.”

“I knew it,” Isaiah says. “No one's this good at poker.”

Tommy feels a wave of gratitude wash over him for Nine's diversionary tactic. He's never going to let him know that, though.

3564 words//unedited. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Fifteen: 

A thick mist blankets Small Heath, accompanied by a gentle drizzle of rain. The streets remain deserted this early on a Saturday morning, with residents still immersed in slumber.

Tommy, accompanied by his brothers after a long night of drinking at the garrison, makes his way towards the betting shop. The trio engages in playful banter, their voices carrying through the mist-laden air. Like mischievous children, they brandish their guns, pretending to be cops and robbers in their spirited game.

"Run for the hills!" Arthur exclaims, his voice filled with excitement, as he chases after John into their home. "It's the Digbeth Kid!"

Tommy swiftly follows suit, a playful grin adorning his face. However, as he steps inside, his expression shifts, noticing Aunt Polly and Michael seated at the kitchen table. He schools his features, nonchalantly tucking his gun into his coat pocket. He's glad Michael took upon his offer and came back to his true home. 

"Get out of town, kid, or I will shoot your fuckin’ head off!" John warns, his gun aimed at Arthur. But as he catches sight of Aunt Polly and Michael, he hesitates.

"Time's up!" Arthur declares, his back turned towards the kitchen. He playfully pretends to shoot John with his gun. "You're dead, go down," he declares, waiting for John's reaction. When John remains motionless, Arthur calls out, "John!”

John suppresses a smile as he discreetly stows away his gun, biting his bottom lip. He signals with his eyes for Arthur to turn around, and Arthur obliges, his expression one of surprise upon seeing Aunt Polly and Michael.

“All right then, Polly?’’ Arthur asks. He carefully tucks his gun into his coat pocket, ducking his head slightly in an attempt to conceal his grin.

“Who's this?” John asks, peering at Michael with a mix of curiosity and amusement. 

"Gentlemen," Tommy says, stepping closer, drawing their attention. "This is your cousin."

Arthur and John exchange puzzled glances, clearly taken aback by the revelation. Sensing their confusion, Tommy continues, "Polly's son, Michael."

Michael rises from his seat, the gentle scrape of wooden legs against the floor accompanying his movement. He extends his hand first to Arthur, then to John, greeting them with polite formality. "Pleased to meet you," he says with a courteous tone.

Arthur nods, surprised by the unexpected display of manners. He leans against the wall, raising a questioning brow at Tommy, who offers no explanation. 

Offering a brief smile, John introduces himself, “I'm John.”

Arthur chimes in. “I'm Arthur.” He grins. “You've already met me. I used to throw you out of the window so John could catch you."

"And I used to put you in a shoebox and kick you down Watery Lane," John adds, a hint of lightheartedness in his voice.

A smile plays on Michael's lips, thoroughly amused by the situation unfolding before him.

"I bet you're glad to be back," Tommy muses, a touch of humour in his voice as he clasps Michael on the shoulder.

Just as the conversation begins to settle, the doors of the betting shop swing open, and Lady, the Doberman, bounds inside with an excited bark. Her little tail wags in delight as she prances into the room.

"Lady!" John exclaims, crouching down to greet the canine. He chuckles softly, running his hand through Lady's dark fur as she affectionately nuzzles her snout into his neck.

Nine enters the betting shop shortly after. "Good morning," he greets, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down Tommy's spine. He observes as Nine allows Alex and Duke to enter before closing the doors with a distinct click.

"Sorry about Lady," Nine apologises, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "I told her to knock.”

"She's forgiven," John says, tenderly holding Lady's face between his hands. Tommy can't help but notice how much his younger brother desires a dog of his own. He bites the inside of his cheek, contemplating the matter. He decides to revisit it later, giving it further consideration.

Now, his attention shifts to Nine, and he inquires, "What are you doing here?"

"Ms. Gray called the library," Nine explains, his hand gently patting Duke's head as the dog leans into the touch.

Tommy furrows his brow. "Did she?" 

"I did," Aunt Polly affirms with a nod, leaving the reason unexplained. Tommy knows better than to press for an answer; he understands that his aunt is unlikely to divulge the details.

Nine's lips curl into his trademark cocky smirk, his silver gaze shifting to Michael. With a teasing tone, he tilts his head and asks, "Have you been hiding your son from me, Tommy?"

"I'm not you," Tommy retorts, unimpressed. "This is Michael. He's Polly's son."

"Could have fooled me," Nine playfully jabs, his smirk widening. "He's got your short height."

Choosing to ignore the comment, Tommy continues, gently squeezing his cousin's shoulder. "Michael, this is Nine. He's—"

"—Tommy's hired gun," Arthur interjects.

"A family friend," John amends. 

"A nuisance," Tommy concludes, tilting his head back to glare up at Nine.

Feigning a touch of mock dismay, Nine places a hand over his heart, though the amusement still lingers on his face, his smirk refusing to fade away.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Nine," Michael courteously offers his hand for a handshake, his politeness shining through.

"Aw, he's adorable, Ms. Gray," Nine says, clasping Michael's hand firmly in a handshake.

"I'm fully aware," Aunt Polly responds, smiling softly. 

"And who are you?" Michael inquires, his gaze shifting towards Alex, who stands behind his father, exuding an air of disinterest. Michael's eyes trail over the young boy, giving him a slow once over, his brown eyes curiously stopping at Alex’s cane. 

"I believe the answer to that question," Alex retorts, his voice dripping with indifference, "like the answer to most questions, is, uh,” he pauses, casually shrugging, "fuck you.”

Without hesitation, Nine swiftly extends his arm, encircling Alex's neck in a playful headlock, catching the young boy off guard. "Michael," Nine declares, his smirk transforming into a warm smile, "this here is the apple of my eye, my pride and joy."

Arthur snickers, watching Alex's futile attempts to free himself from his father's grasp.

"Alex is my son," Nine continues, undeterred by the resistance. "Do your best to disregard his antics. He's like a Chihuahua, all bark and no bite.”

"Thank you for the advice," Michael acknowledges.

"Yeah, underestimate me," Alex mutters, his nose scrunching up in disdain. "That'll be fun—"

Nine covers his son's mouth with the palm of his hand, effectively silencing him. "So," he asks, redirecting the conversation, "business?"

Tommy glances at Aunt Polly, but she shakes her head. "He's not here for me," she clarifies. "He's here for you. My business is with Alex.”

"Right," Tommy affirms, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. He releases his grip on Michael's shoulder and extends his hand, firmly curling it around Nine's tie. With a tug, as he often does, Nine indulges him, letting go of his son to follow Tommy into his office. Arthur and John join them, sharing a knowing glance between themselves.

A playful smile tugs at Nine's lips as he remarks, "I'm hit with the sudden realisation that I'm going to have to stop wearing ties around you."

"Took you long enough to notice," Tommy says. He relinquishes his hold on Nine's tie and settles into the seat behind his desk. As John closes the door to the office, Tommy catches the faint sound of Michael's voice, whispering, "They seem nice.”

Arthur settles comfortably into the plush chair positioned across from Tommy, while John casually sprawls himself across the small couch, occupying its entire expanse. 

Facing Nine, Arthur asks, "What did Polly call you here for?"

"Apparently," Nine responds, making his way toward the window, "the Peaky Blinders require my assistance in locating someone of utmost significance." With a twist of the latch, he opens the window, allowing a cool breeze to fill the office.

Tommy's brows furrow as he removes his cap and places it atop the clutter on his desk. So, Polly called upon Nine because, despite his best efforts, Tommy hasn't been successful in finding her missing daughter. He wonders how she managed to discern this, considering he hadn't disclosed it to anyone.

"Her name is Anna," Tommy reveals. "She's fifteen years old."

"Mm," Nine shifts his gaze from the drizzle outside to Tommy. "Is she yours?" he inquires.

"No," Tommy responds. "She’s Polly.”

He does his best not to squirm beneath Nine’s piercing silver gaze, those tempestuous eyes mirroring the heavy mist outside the window. Tommy looks away and reaches into his pocket to retrieve his pack of cigarettes and matchbox. He places a cig between his lips and ignites it, inhaling the sweet tobacco deeply. With a flick of his wrist, he discards the spent matchstick into the ashtray. His heart pounds like a relentless drum behind his ribcage, threatening to escape as he blows the smoke out, the wisps ascending toward the ceiling. 

When Tommy steals a quick glance at Nine, he discovers the assassin's unwavering stare still fixed upon him, his expression inscrutable. A tangible tension hangs in the air, and Arthur interrupts the silence by clearing his throat.

“Think you can do it?” Arthur asks. “Think you can find our Anna?”

Nine turns his gaze towards the gentle drizzle outside the window. He remains silent for a prolonged moment, his eyes fixed on some distant point. Gradually, a familiar cocky smirk emerges on his lips. Shifting his position, Nine perches atop the window sill and tilts his head back, allowing the breeze to tousle his dark hair. "There's nothing quite like a hitman and his handler, who knows everything about everyone," he murmurs. "Fear not," he continues, his voice filled with assurance. "Whether dead or alive, I will bring the girl back home.” 

“Careful,” Arthur says, “we wouldn't want you to fall an’ break that big ol’ head of yours.”

“Cats have nine lives, why can't I?” Nine muses, tilting his head forward to deliver an amused glance at Arthur. “Besides,” he adds, casually shrugging, “it would just be another scar for Tommy to kiss.” 

Instantly, Arthur and John snap their heads towards Tommy, who shoots Nine a piercing glare, silently warning him to cease his words.

“You kissed Nine?” Arthur asks, scandalised.

"No," Tommy lies through gritted teeth, trying his hardest not to flush in embarrassment. "I didn't."

His brothers remain unconvinced, especially as Nine's smirk sharpens and his silver eyes glimmer mischievously. Tommy searches for something to throw at the audacious hitman and finds a pen beneath the scattered papers on his desk. Annoyed, he hurls it at Nine. However, to Tommy's dismay, Nine effortlessly catches the pen before it can reach his face and gently places it beside himself on the windowsill. 

Tommy takes a long, calming drag of his cig and keeps the smoke in his lungs for a second too long before he blows it out. He has reached his limit with this man. He can't believe he's fallen for Nine, who is always so arrogantly confident and so frustratingly handsome that it aggravates Tommy to no end. He knows he can never confess his feelings to Nine. The thought of baring his emotions fills him with a dreadful anticipation, fearing that he will either be ridiculed or met with immediate danger.

"How did you get that scar, anyway?" John inquires, lightly tapping the side of his forehead with his index finger.

"I got shot in the head," Nine replies, catching Tommy off guard with his unexpected revelation. He had assumed Nine wouldn't provide an answer at all.

"A few weeks before I turned sixteen, the Bolshevik army swept through Saint Petersburg," Nine begins, recounting his past. "Amidst the chaos, people were screaming and seeking shelter, terrified of becoming collateral damage in the unionizers' assault on the imperial family.”

He ducks his head and brings his hand up to brush his thumb over the horrible scar on the side of his temple. "They didn't care if you were inside the royal palace or not; everyone in sight was killed.”

Tommy finds himself unable to look away from Nine. The sound of his own blood rushing through his ears intensifies as he envisions the pandemonium of that fateful day. Perhaps it wasn't so different from the chaos he witnessed during his time in France.

He absentmindedly stubs his cigarette into the ashtray and catches Nine’s silver gaze. The hitman offers him a gentle smile, causing Tommy to bite down on the inside of his cheek. Doesn't Nine feel any sorrow or distress at all? If it were Tommy in his situation, he'd still be angry to this day.

"Then what?" Arthur inquires, his curiosity piqued. "Some soldier walked up to you and shot you, just like that?"

"It was from behind," Nine replies, his voice carrying a tinge of detachment. "I was taking a walk with Anya that morning. Everything was blanketed in snow. All she wanted was to play." He shrugs nonchalantly, as if surviving a gunshot to the head holds little weight.

"Anya dropped this... music box,” he continues. "I watched her bend down to pick it up, and then I heard a piercing whistle heading straight towards me.” He pauses, staring off into space. “The bullet struck me first,” he murmurs softly, “and the fragments reached Anya shortly after. She was only eight, and she blacked out instantly.”

“I don't think I'd survive a bullet to the head.” John says quietly. “You got lucky,”

"No," Nine shakes his head. "I got angry. I walked it off.”

Tommy's heartbeat quickens. He tries to envision a sixteen-year-old Nine, standing in the snowy Russian landscape, blood streaming from his head, fueled by anger and stubbornness as he ensures his little sister's safety before succumbing to the darkness of unconsciousness due to the loss of blood.

"You're a menace to society," Arthur mutters, his tone begrudgingly impressed. Tommy senses a slight thawing in Arthur's attitude towards the assassin.

"And a hazard," Tommy adds, unable to resist chiming in.

Nine laughs, emitting a low and gruff sound. "Thank you," he replies, his lips curling into his usual cocky smirk. Tommy can't help but entertain the thought of kissing that smirk right off his infuriatingly handsome face.

"Want to hear a story about my wretched past?" John interjects, shifting to lie flat on his stomach atop the couch. He grins up at Nine, resembling a child placing their parents on a pedestal. "I served as an infantryman up in France during the war," he begins. "One of my fellow troop members stabbed me in the shoulder. Never learned why."

"You should know that betrayal never comes from the enemy," Nine states. Creases appear beside his grey eyes, finding John's oh so wretched past entertaining. 

"Are we enemies?" Tommy inquires. 

Nine blinks, momentarily taken aback. Before he can respond, John turns to Tommy with a frown. "Don't ask that," he whines, resembling a hurt puppy. He redirects his gaze back to Nine, "We're mates, right?"

"Mm," Nine tilts his head, contemplating the question. "I'm not so sure. You referred to me as a family friend earlier, and I find that title more appealing."

"Keep dreaming," Arthur scoffs, his scepticism evident. "You and your nine lives should stay away from Peaky business."

"Well, it's a good thing you're not leading Peaky business then, eh?" Nine retorts.

John giggles, burying his face into the couch to muffle the sound. Tommy can feel a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It's absurd how well his brothers are getting along with a feared hired gun.

"No, Arthur's right," Tommy agrees in a lighthearted manner. "You're bad for business."

Something dark and pleased flickers in Nine's grey eyes, but it vanishes in an instant. "Speaking of business," he says. "There's a termite named Inspector Campbell coming to Birmingham next month. He works for Scotland Yard, and word on the street is that he's looking for you.”

Tommy furrows his brows, his mind racing to make sense of the situation. The stolen Lewis guns he had discovered earlier this year had already been safely disposed of. He wracks his brain, unable to think of anyone who would betray him by divulging such vulnerable information to the coppers. "Any idea why?" 

"You might want to ask that annoying barmaid of yours," Nine suggests.

"You don't like Grace," Tommy states, a recollection from Ada's wedding resurfacing. The memory of overhearing Nine issuing a threat to Grace lingers in his mind. Hadn't Nine mentioned something about extinguishing the barmaid's life if she dared to harm Tommy? At the time, Tommy had dismissed it, feeling somewhat embarrassed by Nine's excessive protectiveness to delve deeper into the matter.

"Grace is fine," Nine replies, his tone nonchalant. "She's a bug. Insignificant. I just don't like the man she works for."

"But she works for me," Tommy asserts, a sinking feeling settling in the pit of his stomach.

"Does she?" Nine questions, his words loaded with tension. The air in the small office space becomes palpably charged. "She's not who you think she is.”

Tommy's throat constricts, rendering him unable to speak. The familiar urge to reach for a cigarette lingers, but he finds himself immobilised. It's as if he's trapped in a corner, held at gunpoint with no escape in sight. Just when the tension becomes unbearable, Arthur senses his unease and comes to his rescue. Breaking the silence, he poses the inquiry that gnaws at Tommy's mind, "Then who is she really?”

"Didn't I just tell you?" Nine's gaze pierces into Tommy's blue eyes, intense and unyielding, akin to a blade pressed against a susceptible throat, poised to draw blood. "Betrayal never comes from the enemy.”

2972 words//unedited. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Sixteen:

Tommy steps into the garrison, the early morning silence enveloping the pub. The absence of patrons leaves only Grace at the front, diligently tending to her cleaning duties behind the counter.

"Good morning, Mr. Shelby," Grace greets softly, her voice carrying a hint of warmth.

Tommy doesn't reciprocate the greeting. Instead, he takes a seat at the nearest table, his gaze fixed on Grace with an unwavering intensity. He bites the inside of his cheek, a surge of annoyance coursing through him as Grace continues to clean the counter, seemingly unaffected by his icy stare.

"You lied to me," Tommy states, his voice cutting through the air with a sharp edge.

Grace's movements falter, resembling a startled rabbit cornered by a hungry predator. She lowers her head, momentarily avoiding Tommy's penetrating gaze, before resuming her task of vigorously scrubbing the countertop with renewed determination.

"You lied to me," Tommy repeats, his frustration mounting as he feels like his words are falling on deaf ears. Unable to bear the silence any longer, he slams his palm forcefully onto the table, the resulting loud noise finally capturing Grace's attention. Her gaze locks with his, and the gravity of the situation becomes palpable.

"You're not a whore," Tommy asserts, his voice laced with anger. "You're not even a barmaid." He clenches his teeth, realising he had fallen into a meticulously set trap. "You work for Scotland Yard, don't you? Under Inspector Campbell's orders."

Rather than offering a direct response, Grace counters with her own question, her voice filled with a hint of defiance. "Did Mr. Nine tell you that?”

Tommy finds himself unable to suppress the absurd laughter that rises from within him. It's incredulous how, no matter how hard he tries, Nine's version of events continues to haunt his own narrative.

Grace's expression contorts into a frown, clearly dissatisfied with Tommy's reaction. "Perhaps I haven't been as forthcoming with you as you would have preferred," she admits, a hint of remorse in her eyes. "But I am not the sole keeper of secrets here. Mr. Nine has his fair share as well."

"He's a hired gun," Tommy interjects with resignation. If Nine was not being cautious about concealing his true identity, entangling one intricate lie with another, then Tommy would genuinely be concerned for the hitman's life. 

"Is that all you believe him to be?" Grace hesitates for a moment, her words carrying a weight of uncertainty. "Perhaps you should pay a visit to the library," she suggests. "Find a book about the Romanov revolution. You might discover some surprising revelations within those pages.”

Tommy's disappointment reaches new heights as he finds himself thoroughly unimpressed. He refuses to let Grace's attempt to divert the conversation towards Nine sway his determination. He knows he deserves answers, and he intends to get them.

"We're not discussing Nine," Tommy asserts firmly, with an air of authority. "We're discussing you."

Grace nods, seemingly accepting his stance. She turns her back to Tommy, resuming her cleaning duties while placing new bottles of alcohol onto the shelves behind the counter. With deliberate movements, she continues. "I understand," she says. "However, you should know, unlike Nine, I am not here to harm you."

Tommy's stomach lurches as the weight of her words sinks in. Nine isn't here to kill him. He had asked and sought reassurance from the hitman himself. A nagging voice at the back of his head reminds him that certainty is a luxury he cannot afford, and Grace might be right after all.  

"I've noticed how Mr. Nine has developed a certain fondness for you," Grace remarks, her tone laced with a hint of intrigue. She sets aside her cleaning tools and confidently leans against the bar counter, her gaze fixed on Tommy without a trace of fear. "It makes me wonder if his seductive tactics are taking effect on you."

Tommy blinks, his eyes narrowing in confusion. He feels himself being swept away by the absurdity of the conversation. All he had wanted was a straightforward answer about Grace's allegiance to Scotland Yard. How had they veered so far off course?

"Seduction?" Tommy repeats, filled with incredulity and disbelief. The notion seems preposterous to him. If that were true, he muses, then he would have succumbed to Nine's charms long ago. He would have willingly opened himself up, allowing Nine to take control. And if Tommy were a woman, he would go as far as to bear the assassin's child, binding them together inextricably.

"Spies and hitmen share certain similarities," Grace interjects, her voice carrying a hint of understanding. "While our methods of training may differ, seduction is a tactic we both employ to achieve our objectives."

Curiosity getting the best of him, Tommy decides to play along. "And what do you believe Nine desires from me?" he inquires, his tone laced with a touch of caution.

"Your life," Grace responds without hesitation. "He wants your head on a silver platter, to present it to his handler and move on to the next assignment."

Tommy's frown deepens, the sting of Grace's words hitting closer to home than he'd care to admit. Having heard enough, he rises from his seat with resolve. "Close the garrison," he instructs, his voice firm. "Go home, Grace, and don't leave until I've figured out what to do with you."

Tommy turns away and strides out, leaving the pub behind. He walks briskly through the cold, deserted streets, his mind in disarray. In the depths of his soul, Tommy is aware of his love for Nine, and the mere thought of the hitman toying with his emotions sends a shiver down his spine. He struggles with an internal conflict, torn between the belief in Nine's genuine kindness and gentleness towards him and the nagging doubts that persist within him. It is in Tommy's nature to question, to harbour suspicions even amidst the deepest connections.

He contemplates the possibility of Nine's betrayal, envisioning a knife pressed against the vulnerable line of his throat. While the idea disheartens him, Tommy admits that he wouldn't be entirely surprised by such a turn of events. Disappointment would undoubtedly wash over him, but the element of surprise would be absent, for he understands the intricate dance of trust and treachery that permeates his world.

As he approaches the familiar entrance of the betting shop, Tommy's footsteps slow, his hand hesitating before reaching for the doorknob. He takes a deep breath, attempting to regain his composure, but the turmoil within him refuses to subside. His instincts, honed by years of navigating treacherous waters, tell him to be cautious. Yet, his heart, stubbornly entangled in a web of emotions, yearns for understanding and resolution.

Tommy lets out a weary sigh, the weight of the world momentarily easing off his shoulders. He pushes open the door to his home and steps inside, seeking solace within familiar walls. However, as soon as he crosses the threshold, his ears are greeted by a cacophony of voices and commotion. The Lee boys and the Shelby clan have converged within the betting shop, engrossed in preparations for the upcoming horse race, both legitimate and illicit.

Offering greetings to a few of the men, Tommy navigates through the bustling room, his hand lightly patting Curly on the shoulder in passing. His gaze scans the scene, taking in the organised chaos unfolding around him. Yet, as he reaches the doorway of his office, surprise washes over him like a cool wave. Nine, unexpected and inconspicuous, is present within the confines of his private sanctum.

Tommy lingers at the threshold, his curiosity piqued. Finn, perched atop his desk, captures his attention. The young boy's cheek, marred by an injury, is being meticulously sewn up by Nine's hands. Closing the door behind him, Tommy is drawn further into the room, a mix of surprise and intrigue dancing within his eyes. His stomach flutters nervously as he takes in the unexpected scene before him. 

"Do I even want to know?" Tommy's voice carries a blend of concern and curiosity, his words laced with a hint of anxiety. Just moments ago, Grace had warned him about Nine, and now the enigmatic hitman stands in Tommy's office, tending to Finn's injury.

Finn, sensing his older brother's presence, turns his gaze towards Tommy. His eyes reflect a mix of pain and vulnerability, the plea for comfort unspoken but palpable. Tommy's steps bring him closer, his hand instinctively reaching out to clasp Finn's smaller, trembling one. His touch is gentle yet firm, a silent reassurance amidst the uncertainty.

Frowning at the sight of a needle piercing through Finn's freckled cheek, Tommy's concern deepens. He observes the delicate procedure, his protective instincts urging him to shield his younger brother from harm.

"He's alright," Nine murmurs, his low voice resonating through the room, sending an involuntary shiver down Tommy's spine. The intensity of the moment hangs heavy in the air as Nine carefully removes the needle from Finn's cheek, only to insert it back with meticulous precision, stitching the thread over a long, thin wound. 

As Nine works, his words penetrate the silence. "I sent D'mitry to start digging the grave. Arthur and John went with him," he states matter-of-factly, the gravity of his words settling like a stone in the pit of Tommy's stomach.

Tommy's heart constricts, a surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins. The sound of his own heartbeat mingles with the rush of blood in his ears. He struggles to find his voice amidst the growing unease. "What grave?" he manages to ask, his voice barely above a whisper.

Nine's gaze remains fixed on Finn's freckled cheek, his silver eyes unyielding. "The one for the drunk man who attacked Finn outside the shop," he explains, his words tinged with a chilling calmness. "I snapped his neck."

"Oh," Tommy breathes out, shocked. Gratitude begins to wash over him, gradually replacing the initial surprise. A tangible warmth takes root within him, starting low in his belly and spreading through his body, reaching even the tips of his ears. The sensation prickles at the back of his neck, a physical manifestation of his emotions. 

As Tommy processes the depth of Nine's actions, an unfathomable reason emerges, causing his love for the hitman to grow. Is it because Nine protected Finn, treating him as if he were one of his own? The realisation sets Tommy's heart ablaze, intensifying his feelings in ways he struggles to comprehend. Grace's words echo in his mind, reminding him that he may be just another assignment to Nine, another pawn in a dangerous game. Yet, standing here, in this moment, Tommy finds himself uncertain of what to believe.

Foolishly, Tommy yearns for a connection that transcends the boundaries of their circumstances. He yearns to kiss Nine, to expose his vulnerability and offer himself willingly. The desire burns passionately within him, an undeniable need that courses through his veins. Despite his longing, Tommy does his best to suppress it, to hide the depth of his emotions beneath a veil of gratitude. "Thank you," he whispers quietly, his words carrying the weight of his sincerity.

In response, Nine's smile unfolds, gentle and slow, the curve of his mouth leaving Tommy breathless. "There's no need to thank me," Nine replies softly. He carefully extracts the needle from Finn's cheek, leaving a thread of red hanging from its end. "Alright, sweetheart," Nine addresses Finn, his tone tender and caring. "Tommy is going to hold your face. I'll just trim the thread and secure the stitching so that it stays in place."

Finn releases a shaky breath and blinks away tears, his eyes reflecting a mixture of vulnerability and understanding. He nods hesitantly, acknowledging Nine's instructions, while Tommy feels his insides ignite. There it is again. Sweetheart. And although the term of endearment isn't aimed at Tommy this time, it still sends him reeling. Its genuine nature strikes Tommy profoundly, causing his heart to stumble within his chest. Reluctantly releasing Finn's hand, he delicately cradles the back of his neck, tilting his head slightly to offer support. 

"Is that good?" Tommy asks, his voice filled with tenderness.

Finn nods once again, his gaze meeting Tommy's blue eyes with apprehension and trust.

Silence descends upon the office, enveloping the room in a stillness broken only by Nine's meticulous work. With precision, he trims the red thread using a pair of small scissors, placing them alongside the needle on Tommy's desk. From the depths of his trouser pocket, Nine retrieves a lighter, igniting it with a flick, casting a dancing flame into the air. Sensing the tension in the room, Finn tightly shuts his eyes, his lower lip quivering with unease. Tommy can feel the subtle tremors coursing through his younger brother's frame, a manifestation of his apprehension. Offering a comforting gesture, Tommy gently squeezes the nape of Finn's neck, seeking to imbue him with a sense of reassurance.

In the tender moment, Nine's words break through the silence. "Easy," he instructs, his voice calm and steady. From the other side, his hand cups the back of Finn's neck, his warm and rough fingers finding their place alongside Tommy's. Nine's thumb positions itself just beneath the hanging thread, and with expertise, he deftly brings the flame closer, skillfully burning the end of the thread, safeguarding Finn's freckled cheek from further harm. 

Tommy's throat constricts, a thick lump forming as he observes the flame not only consuming the red thread but also searing a portion of Nine's thumb and nail. The sight tugs at his heart, making him ache. 

"There," Nine says, the distinct sound of his lighter closing echoing through the room. With a gentle release of his grip on Finn's nape, he returns the lighter to his pocket, taking a step back. "All done. I did my best, but it appears it will leave a scar."

Finn's fluttering eyes slowly open, his shoulders relaxing visibly as a wave of relief washes over him. He glances at Nine, his mouth parting slightly, wincing as the motion tugs at his freshly stitched wound. "Thank you," he rasps out, his voice hoarse. 

"This isn't something you need to thank me for," Nine asserts. "Try to refrain from talking too much and avoid touching your stitches to prevent any potential infection," he advises protectively.

Tommy assists Finn in stepping down from the desk. As he ruffles his younger brother's tousled brown hair, Finn leans into the touch, producing a contented humming sound. Tommy can't help but allow a small smile to grace his lips; he's genuinely relieved that Finn is safe and sound.

Abruptly, the office doors swing wide open, revealing Isaiah's dishevelled figure. He leans against the doorframe, catching his breath, a thin sheen of sweat adorning his brow. In his hand, he tightly clutches a bag from the chemist.

Nine glances at the distant wall clock, his gaze momentarily diverted. "The chemist is twenty minutes away," he remarks, his attention returning to Isaiah. "You managed to make it back in ten."

"I ran," Isaiah responds, his dark eyes fixed on Finn, his chest heaving with each laboured breath. "Five minutes there. Five minutes back."

A smile graces Nine's lips as he tilts his head, a hint of admiration colouring his expression. Placing his hand on the small of Finn's back, he nudges him forward gently. "Look at that," he mutters, teasing him. "Your boyfriends impressed me."

Finn's cheeks flush with a deep shade of red, accentuating his freckles. Feeling embarrassed, he lightly slaps away Nine's hand and hurriedly heads towards the door. Tommy notices the back of Finn's neck and the tips of his ears turning crimson as well. Without uttering a single word, Finn snatches the chemist bag out of Isaiah's hand and brushes past him, likely retreating upstairs to his room.

Confusion settles over Isaiah's features as he watches Finn's swift departure. He takes a step to follow, but Tommy swiftly intervenes, calling out to him.

"Isaiah," Tommy says, halting the boy in his tracks.

"Yeah?" Isaiah responds, his brow furrowing with curiosity as Tommy approaches him, playfully scuffing his head.

"Be more careful," Tommy advises, his words carrying a hint of concern. With a subtle tilt of his head, he gestures for Isaiah to go after Finn, and without hesitation, Isaiah rushes up the stairs to catch up with him.

Now alone in the office with Nine, Tommy closes the doors and twists the key inside the lock, sealing them together in privacy. His heart quickens its pace, the anticipation palpable in the air. Feeling the weight of Nine's gaze on him, Tommy takes a moment to remove his coat and cap, hanging them neatly on the nearby hanger. He then points towards the couch, his voice low yet commanding. "Sit."

Nine doesn't utter a word, but he complies, moving over to the couch and casually sprawling across it, emanating an air of relaxed confidence. Tommy's stomach flutters nervously at the sight, his mind torn between conflicting desires. On one hand, he longs to confront Nine about being his latest target, his assigned mission as Grace had so eloquently revealed. Yet, at the same time, he yearns to reward Nine for his assistance, for his gentle demeanour, for eliminating Billy Kimber, for finding Freddie, and for keeping Finn safe.

With a mix of apprehension and determination, Tommy approaches Nine, feeling like a lamb unknowingly walking towards a hidden wolf. He places his palm on Nine's shoulder, a tentative touch, before hesitantly raising his knee and settling it onto the couch beside the hitman's thigh. Under the piercing gaze of stormy eyes, Tommy raises his other knee, positioning it on the other side of Nine's waist, and slowly lowers himself onto the man's lap.

Nine's gaze drifts down to where they connect, and a nervous tension fills the air. Tommy uses his hand to cup Nine's cheek, gently lifting his head to align their gazes. His voice is soft as he asks, "Did you find Anna yet?" 

Nine remains silent, his eyes visibly darkening as his pupils dilate. His tongue peeks out, gliding along his bottom lip, leaving it glistening with moisture. "Sorry," he breathes out, low and rough, his eyes hooded with undeniable desire. "Could you... could you repeat that for me, please?"

Tommy maintains his gaze, feigning confidence despite the rapid beating of his heart. Surprisingly, his voice remains steady as he repeats his question, "Did you find Anna?"

"Yes," Nine manages to say, his voice strained, as Tommy lowers his hand, gently resting it around the side of his neck. He tenderly brushes his thumb along the line of Nine's jaw, allowing the hitman to lean into the touch, a wounded expression crossing his features. Tommy begins to question if he's taken things too far.

"And where is she?" he inquires, his voice laced with curiosity.

"Australia," Nine responds, his eyelashes fluttering as Tommy uses his free hand to gently comb his fingers through Nine's dark hair, providing a soothing gesture akin to petting a dog. "I, um, I came here to tell you," he pauses, swallowing heavily as Tommy subtly shifts closer. "To tell you that, um—"

"—is something wrong?" Tommy gently interrupts, already aware of the answer. A mixture of embarrassment and satisfaction fills him to the brim. Nine consistently makes him feel nervous, like a schoolgirl harbouring a crush on an older boy, and it's satisfying to realise that he can evoke a fraction of that sensation in Nine.

"Yes, actually," Nine admits, his silver gaze momentarily dropping to Tommy's mouth. "You're sitting in my lap."

"Mm," Tommy feigns understanding, his hand running through Nine's hair one last time before trailing down his chest, encountering firm muscles beneath his touch. He wraps his hand around the end of Nine's tie and pulls, drawing the hitman's face closer to his own. "Why aren't you holding me?" Tommy murmurs, his voice filled with a mixture of longing and playfulness. The rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins is lending him an unexpected boldness. It fuels his words and actions, granting him a temporary surge of courage. Tommy briefly ponders how long this facade will hold, aware that the effects of adrenaline can be fleeting.

Nine blinks, soft and unhurried. "I'm allowed to?" he asks.

"You've never asked before," Tommy says, feeling his heart pitter-patter. 

"Yes, well," Nine stumbles slightly over his words. "That's different."

"Different?" Tommy tilts his head, genuinely intrigued. Is it truly different? Every time they encounter each other, Nine's hands are constantly touching him; around his waist, on the small of his back, caressing his cheeks. So why does it matter that Tommy is currently seated in his lap, acting coy in return? Is it not the same thing? 

"It's different because..." Nine's voice trails off as he searches for the right words, but they elude him. Tommy releases his hold on Nine's tie and places his hand on the hitman's nape, lightly brushing his thumb over the tender skin there, silently encouraging him. A faint blush starts to colour Nine’s cheeks, and he finally gives in, sliding his palms up along Tommy's thighs, leaving tangible warmth in his wake. He grips Tommy’s waist and pulls him closer, allowing himself to bury his face in the curve of Tommy's neck.

"You're doing this to me on purpose," Nine murmurs, his words muffled. "Why?"

"I spoke to Grace this morning,” Tommy reveals, his breath catching in his throat, momentarily distracted by the way Nine's grip instinctively tightens upon hearing the barmaid's name. Tommy suppresses the terrible, whiny noise that tries to escape his throat. He's treading in dangerous territory. "She told me I'm one of your… targets.”

Nine slowly withdraws, his gaze locked intensely with Tommy's. "If I wanted to kill you," he says, his voice low, rough, and filled with a heated edge, "then I would have already done so.”

Tommy shivers, his body reacting to the intensity in Nine's voice. "So you're not here to kill me?" he asks.

"No," Nine replies firmly, shaking his head ever so slightly. "I wouldn't..." He pauses, his brow furrowing. "I wouldn't ever hurt you.”

"... Alright," Tommy nods, deliberately averting his eyes. He withdraws his hands from Nine's neck and instead reaches for his hand, firmly grasping it. Though he tries to push his doubts about the hitman to the back of his mind, an unsettling feeling lingers within him, refusing to be locked away.

"You burned your finger while securing Finn's stitches earlier," Tommy points out, shifting the conversation. His gaze fixates on the pink burn mark adorning the side of Nine's thumb.

"I didn't want to burn his cheek," Nine says quietly. He presses his palm against Tommy's, aligning their hands together, the touch warm and gentle. Tommy's heart flutters in response. Nine's hand dwarfs his own, his fingers longer and thicker, the span of his palm wider. Tommy stretches his hand, attempting to bridge the gap in size difference, but it remains insurmountable.

"Grace also mentioned that you're trying to seduce me," the words tumble out of Tommy's mouth, unprompted and unstoppable, leaving him frozen in shock. He's an idiot. What on earth is he saying? 

"I'm seducing you?" Nine questions, his tone chillingly calm. The corners of his mouth downturn into a frown. "You're the one who's been seducing me," he states. 

Tommy blinks, caught off guard by the abrupt change in Nine's demeanour. His gaze flickers up, matching with narrowed silver eyes. "I'm not seducing you," he insists. He wants to make it clear that his actions are merely reciprocation, a way to level the playing field. It's not about seduction for Tommy; it's about fairness. He brushes aside the fact that he's hopelessly, irrevocably in love with Nine, and that this fleeting moment might be his only chance to be this intimately close to him. "You've been flirting with me for weeks now," he adds.

"Well, I'm glad you finally noticed," Nine scoffs, his tone laced with a mixture of sarcasm and relief. "It seemed like my efforts were being wasted, going completely over your pretty little head.”

"What?" Tommy asks, startled. He only said that because it was something Ada pointed out to him, and he didn't believe it. Heat seeps into every inch of his skin, igniting him from the inside out. He can feel his cheeks burning.

"It's nothing," Nine rushes to say, a tinge of regret in his voice. He closes his eyes momentarily, as if trying to collect himself. "You misheard me," he mutters. Opening his eyes, he fixes Tommy with a stern look. "I'm not here to harm you," he asserts firmly. "Haven't I made that clear already?"

"I'm just... making sure," Tommy responds, his voice strained, a trace of confusion lingering within him. He struggles to grasp Nine's true intentions, because if the hitman isn't here to kill him, then what exactly is he doing?

“I can't…” Nine lets out a breath, glancing at the clock on the far wall. “I physically cannot do this with you right now. I have work to attend to.” He adjusts his grip, his palms spanning the width of Tommy's thighs, and effortlessly lifts him as if he weighs nothing, gently settling him down on the plush couch.

As Nine rises to his feet, his hair tousled from Tommy's fingers running through it, he takes a moment to smooth out the wrinkles in his suit jacket. Tommy's heart clenches at the sight, causing longing to flood his chest. What work could be so important that Nine has to leave him? Can't he see the depth of Tommy's feelings, despite how foolish they may be? 

“What work?” Tommy inquires, reaching for Nine’s hand once again. He peers up at the hitman, his eyelashes framing his gaze, and curls his fingers around Nine's, giving a gentle tug. It's a subconscious act, driven by the fear of being left behind, reminiscent of a housewife bidding farewell to her working husband.

“Don't look at me with those eyes,” Nine murmurs, squeezing Tommy's hand. That awful, wounded expression returns to Nine’s face as he softly explains, “I have an important meeting to attend. And tomorrow, I'm leaving for Australia to bring Anna back to you.”

"Right," Tommy responds, his voice subdued, because what else is there to say? He swallows down the neediness that bubbles within him, realising the imprudence of his actions. Sitting in Nine’s lap was a reckless move. He shouldn't have done that. 

"I'll be gone for a week," Nine tells him. "D'mitry and Anya won't be here either. I'm sending them to Russia for business. The same goes for Vladimir; he's in Germany."

Tommy's stomach sinks, the weight of their impending separation hitting him like a tidal wave. He can't believe how reliant he's become on Nine, craving his gentle touches and his soothing words. The void that will be left in his absence feels overwhelming, and Tommy can't help but silently curse his heart for entangling itself in this dangerous web of affection.

"You're going to take care of Alex for me," Nine says. It's not a question to consider or an order to obey; it's a plain and simple fact. "If his leg starts hurting, don't call a doctor. Let him endure the pain."

Tommy's lips part, poised to reply, but only a soft, hushed sound escapes as Nine leans closer, his free hand gently cupping the nape of Tommy's neck.

"Try to avoid trouble while I'm gone," Nine murmurs with tender affection, his voice a soothing melody, as he places a gentle kiss on Tommy's flushed cheek. And then, just like that, he retreats from Tommy's presence, effortlessly traversing the office without casting a backward glance. Tommy remains seated on the couch, watching as Nine unlocks the doors and departs, the lingering fragrance of his aftershave anchoring Tommy to the spot.

4677 words//unedited. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Seventeen:

Sunlight streams through the modest window, filling Tommy's bedroom with a warm glow. Despite his best attempts, sleep has eluded him since he crawled into bed the previous night. Uncharacteristically, it's not the haunting sounds of shovels scraping against his walls that have kept him awake, but rather the vivid recollection of Nine leaning in to tenderly brush a kiss against his flushed cheek. The memory lingers, etching itself into Tommy's mind. Every time he closes his eyes, he remembers it, his heartbeat picking up instantly.

Annoyed by his restless state, Tommy rolls over and slips out of bed, determined to start his day. The betting shop remains tranquil at this early hour, most of its occupants still lost in slumber. Tommy quietly goes about his usual morning routine, carefully preparing himself for the day ahead. Once dressed and presentable, he descends the stairs, deftly adjusting his cufflinks along the way.

Entering the kitchen, Tommy sets about brewing a soothing cup of tea, seeking solace in its familiar ritual. Leaning against the counter, Tommy props his hip against the edge, patiently waiting for the water to heat up on the stove. Time seems to trickle by at a sluggish pace. A yawn escapes him, which he stifles behind his hand. Glancing at the clock on the far wall, he notes that it's just past six in the morning. 

As Tommy's thoughts return to Nine, a warmth begins to prick at the nape of his neck. The hitman will soon arrive to deliver Alex before departing for Australia. Restlessly, Tommy fidgets, tapping his fingers across the countertop. His stomach flutters at the memory of warm grey eyes and a sharp, cocky smirk. Despite the foolishness of his actions yesterday, he can't entirely bring himself to regret them. After all, his audacity earned him a tender kiss on the cheek.

However, Tommy doubts he will find himself warning his way back into Nine's lap anytime soon. Once was embarrassing enough, and he's uncertain if he could survive a second attempt.

With the water now heated, Tommy turns off the stove and carefully grabs the kettle. He pours the warm water into his awaiting cup. The scent of earl grey tea infused with honey wafts through the air, enveloping the kitchen. Tommy takes a deep breath, inhaling the familiar and calming aroma. He settles the kettle back onto the stove, cradles the warm cup in his hands, and takes a sip, revelling in the comforting heat that spreads through his body.

The sound of the front door being unlocked causes Tommy to pause. He's certain that his siblings are all accounted for, still fast asleep upstairs. Freddie had returned to Ada last night, so it couldn't be him unlocking the door now. A nervous flutter dances in Tommy's stomach, leading him to the conclusion that it must be Nine. He settles his tea onto the countertop and turns around, leaning his lower back against the kitchen counter. 

Tommy listens attentively to the sound of muffled footsteps, accompanied by the delightful pitter-patter of paws, heralding Nine's arrival with Alex and their two Dobermans.

"Good morning," Nine greets warmly, his gray eyes immediately softening as they lock onto Tommy. Stepping into the kitchen, Nine's presence sends a pleasant shiver down Tommy's spine. He opens his mouth to inquire about where the hitman acquired a key to his shop, but his breath catches in surprise when Nine's left hand curls possessively around his hip, while his right hand delicately cradles the front of Tommy's neck, his fingers gently holding his jaw.

"I'm running a little late," Nine murmurs, amusement dancing in his eyes as he takes in Tommy's astonished expression. "So, here's a little reminder of yesterday." With tenderness, he turns Tommy's head and leans in, planting a soft kiss on his rapidly blushing cheek.

As Nine pulls away, withdrawing his hands, Tommy feels a pang of longing. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, making him unable to speak. He's struck with such a visceral need to offer himself upon a silver platter to the hitman, that it makes him breathless. 

“Try to avoid any trouble while I'm gone,” Nine reminds him, his voice low and soft. 

Tommy blinks. His heart races within his ribcage, threatening to break free as he gazes up at Nine in shock. In his periphery, he notices Alex shooting a disgusted look at his father.

"I'll be back within a week," Nine continues, unaware of the whirlwind of emotions swirling within Tommy. "Alex will be under your care until then. I've given him a list of things he's not allowed to do."

Tommy swallows hard, inexplicably yearning for Nine's hand to return to his throat. He wants to confront Nine about his blatant… possessive behaviour, but all that escapes his mouth is a strained question. "... A list?”

"Yeah, you know," Nine replies casually, shrugging his shoulders. "No stabbing. No arson. No petty theft. And definitely no arguing with Michael. It's quite an extensive list. Alex can recite it back to you in alphabetical order.”

"....What's wrong with your son?" Tommy can't help but ask. He wonders how arguing with Michael ended up on the list alongside stabbing and arson. A low, laughter rumbles from Nine, sending a pleasant shiver down Tommy's spine, heat prickling at the nape of his neck. Nine exudes an unbearable level of cockiness and effortless charm that makes Tommy want to punch him in the face. Yet, paradoxically, he also yearns to press his mouth against Nine's, to surrender himself to the hitman with a soft moan and a parting of his thighs. Against all reason, Tommy even fantasises about having a baby with him. 

Is it so wrong for him to crave such things?

"Nothing. He's perfect," Nine responds, his usual cocky smirk reclaiming his handsome face. He steps away from Tommy's personal space to ruffle Alex's dark hair, the gesture filled with fatherly affection. "Once you look past the snarky attitude and hurtful comments, he's actually quite sweet."

"Hey!" Alex interjects, frowning.

Without missing a beat, Nine cups his son's flustered face between his palms, leaning down to press a parting kiss to his forehead. "I love you," Nine says, his voice brimming with warmth. "Eat your vegetables and try not to piss anyone off while I'm gone."

Alex grumbles something incoherent beneath his breath, his cheeks reflecting Tommy's own blush. He looks away, unable to watch Nine leave. Tommy, on the other hand, can't tear his eyes away as Nine walks out of the betting shop. The hitman doesn't utter any further words. There's no "take care " or even a simple " goodbye ." Tommy's heart tightens at the sight, unsure if he can endure a week without Nine's presence. Moments later, the sound of the front door closing confirms Nine's departure for Australia.

"So," Alex hesitates, visibly tightening his grip on his cane. He awkwardly meets Tommy's gaze, their eyes locking, grey meeting blue. "You and my father seem close."

Unable to maintain eye contact with Alex, Tommy turns away, his back now facing him. He reaches for his lukewarm cup of tea, taking a sip to alleviate the growing discomfort in the back of his throat. "I wouldn't say that," Tommy replies, his voice wavering slightly.

The question lingers in Tommy's mind, forcing him to confront the intricacies of his relationship with Nine. Like a tiny fly ensnared in Nine's intricate web, Tommy feels insignificant, merely waiting and yearning to be consumed.

"Uh-huh," Alex remains unconvinced. "You're delusional," he retorts, making his way into the living room. Lady and Duke follow suit, their paws gently padding against the hardwood floors.

Tommy finishes the rest of his tea, but the usual calmness that follows eludes him. Anxiousness grips his stomach, tying it into knots. It has only been a minute since Nine left, yet Tommy already feels the absence of the hitman's warmth, leaving him cold and bereft.

Aware of the impending long and arduous week ahead, Tommy lets out a sigh and carefully places his teacup in the sink before retreating to his office. Gradually, the other occupants of the betting shop start to wake from their slumber. From the open doors of his sanctuary, Tommy observes Ada descending the stairs first, followed by a dishevelled Finn. Breakfast unfolds quietly, with Ada coaxing Alex to join her at the kitchen table, their voices engaged in a gentle conversation.

Soon, John appears, holding little Mary close to his chest, her mouth downturned in a pout. As soon as Mary catches sight of Alex, she extends her tiny arms, silently requesting to be held. Reluctantly, Alex takes her in his arms, placing her on his lap. When John playfully tousles his dark hair, Alex ducks away, wearing a scowl.

Tommy feels the corners of his mouth tug into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. He averts his gaze and focuses on the paperwork scattered across his desk. Immersing himself in his work, Tommy seeks solace in the distraction. It is only when the betting shop is filled with the bustling Shelby clan and the Lee family, their lively banter and synchronised tasks creating a familiar commotion, that Tommy takes a momentary break, leaning back in his chair.

Glancing at the window, Tommy takes note of the cloudy sky and the heavy mist enveloping Small Heath. Instantly, he is reminded of Nine's eyes; tempestuous and piercing, always softening in the presence of Tommy.

Having Nine constantly within reach has made Tommy excessively attached. He has grown accustomed to seeing the hitman roaming the streets of Small Heath, his imposing figure and dark hair a reassuring and familiar sight. Now that Nine has departed for Australia, Tommy feels like a housewife patiently awaiting her husband's return from a long day of work.

The realisation sickens him.

Tommy wishes he weren't so pathetically infatuated with Nine.

Lost in his thoughts, Tommy's attention is drawn to a knock on his office door. He shifts his gaze from the window to find Alex standing in the doorway. 

"I'm taking the dogs out for a walk," Alex says.

Tommy raises an eyebrow. Alex doesn't strike him as the kind to announce where he's going. Furthermore, the indirect way he's seeking permission to leave piques Tommy's curiosity. "Are you asking for permission?" Tommy muses. "That seems quite unlike you."

Alex presses his lips together, contemplating his response. "Dad told me to always inform someone of my whereabouts."

Ah, that explains it. "Take someone with you," Tommy advises.

"Fine," Alex reluctantly agrees. He retreats from the doorway with a scowl, leaning on his cane heavily for support as he goes. Tommy is reminded that he mustn't call for a doctor under any circumstances. Nine had instructed him to let Alex endure the pain.

However, Tommy is beginning to question whether he should disregard that particular request. A moment later, he catches a glimpse of Alex passing by his office, accompanied by Finn. Lady and Duke eagerly follow them, their excitement palpable as they head towards the front door. In tow, Isaiah places his hand gently on the small of Finn's back, guiding him forward.

Tommy idly wonders if he appears as desperate for Nine as Isaiah does for Finn, but quickly dismisses the foolish thought. He's not desperate, per se. He's simply... attached.

There's a distinction to be made.

Resuming his paperwork, Tommy finds solace in the symphony of noise emanating from the betting shop. He signs a few documents, checks the financial records to assess their weekly income, and just as he finishes, Aunt Polly strides into his office, unwinding her scarf from around her neck.

"I heard Alex is under your care until Nine returns from Australia," she remarks.

Tommy nods and lifts his gaze, observing his aunt as she settles onto the small couch against the wall. "He left this morning," he explains.

Aunt Polly's smile widens, a glint of mischief in her eyes. She's like a shark sensing blood in the water. "And how are you holding up?" she probes, her words tinged with amusement.

Tommy feels a burgeoning headache. How does Aunt Polly know that he feels utterly wretched being separated from Nine? It's as if he has lost a limb and is struggling to function without it. Is he truly that transparent? Or has he simply grown softer since the night he first encountered Nine?

Choosing not to respond to Aunt Polly's question, Tommy lowers his head, deliberately avoiding her penetrating gaze. He reaches for his pack of cigarettes and matchbox, seeking solace in the familiar routine. Placing the cigarette between his lips, he ignites it with a match and takes a deep drag, allowing the smoke to swirl in his lungs before deftly flicking the used matchstick into the ashtray.

"Nine will return soon," Aunt Polly reassures. "And he'll bring Anna back to me."

Tommy exhales the smoke, observing as it dances and dissipates into the air. The nicotine buzz begins to haze his mind, and he takes another deep drag, exhaling moments later. Nine has only been gone for a few hours. Tommy convinces himself that he can endure a week of separation. He's certain of it.

Aunt Polly's eyes crinkle with amusement as she poses another question, her tone laced with curiosity, "Did you bid your hitman farewell with a kiss?”

A flush of heat creeps up Tommy's neck, accompanied by a sense of embarrassment. "No," he replies, his voice slightly strained. "Why would I?" He keeps Aunt Polly in the dark about the possessive grip of Nine's hand around his throat, accompanied by a tender morning kiss on his cheek. Nor does he disclose yesterday's foolish display, when he nestled into Nine's lap like a lovestruck fool.

It's better if Aunt Polly remains unaware.

"No particular reason," Aunt Polly nonchalantly responds.

Tommy despises this game she's playing with him. Stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray, he stands up from his chair. "I'm going for a walk," he declares, grabbing his coat and cap. As he gets dressed, he shoots Aunt Polly a unimpressed glance and exits his office, sensing her gaze trailing after him.

Entering the living room, Tommy gives a few of his men a reassuring pat on the back as he passes by. Arthur raises an eyebrow, silently questioning Tommy if he wants to be joined, but Tommy shakes his head, signalling his desire for solitude.

Emerging from the house into the crisp outdoor air, Tommy's breath materializes before him, mingling with the mist that envelops the street in a gray shroud. He finds himself yearning for soft sunlight and a cloudless sky, anticipating the arrival of March with the hope that his wish may be granted.

Just as he prepares to embark on his walk, the off-key voices of Isaiah and Finn singing reach his ears. "Alex and Michael sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G."

Curiosity piqued, Tommy turns on his heels to locate the source of the singing, discovering the duo around the corner of the betting shop, wearing self-satisfied expressions.

"Grow up!" Alex hisses, clearly flustered. Lady and Duke, having returned from their walk, remain steadfastly by his side, their senses alert. Even from a distance, Tommy can discern the rosy hue colouring Alex's cheeks. "And learn how to fucking harmonize!"

Irritated, Alex brushes past Michael, who watches him with a furrowed brow. "What did I do?" Michael queries.

Finn and Isaiah dissolve into snickers, their amusement contagious. Tommy can't help but wear a bemused smile as Alex walks past him, reentering the betting shop accompanied by the Dobermans. Tommy notices that even the tips of Alex's ears have gained a telltale redness.

Perhaps Nine's observation from earlier in the day holds true. Beneath Alex's snarky demeanour and cutting remarks lies a hidden sweetness.

Tommy shakes his head to clear his thoughts and resumes his path of walking down the street. 

2720 words//unedited. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Eighteen: 

Grace departs.

Tommy deems it as preferable. A brief exchange of parting words takes place between them. Grace extends her wishes for good fortune, reiterates her caution regarding Nine, and then she leaves.

Tommy remains oblivious to her destination, his indifference genuine if he were to admit it.

With Grace and Nine absent from Small Heath, Tommy immerses himself in work, endeavors to maintain order within his family, and keeps a vigilant watch over Alex. However, this task proves to be more challenging than he initially expected.

Alex poses a significant challenge. Throughout the day, he vanishes on multiple walks with the Dobermans, only to return before nightfall, his steps heavy, and his limp more noticeable. He shies away from physical touch and seeks solace in solitude. Conversations with him are sparse, reserved for crucial matters. When provoked, which is a common occurrence, his replies are terse and cutting.

It's as though he's a captive bird within the confines of the betting shop.

Tommy shares a measure of understanding with the boy. Although just three days have elapsed since Nine set off to retrieve Anna, Tommy experiences a sensation akin to being submerged underwater, the world around him appearing blurred and indistinct. Alex yearns for his father, while Tommy, though hesitant to admit it to himself, also wants Nine to come back home. 

The anticipation of the hitman's safe return from his journey has left them both feeling exposed, in a sense.

It's not that Tommy requires Nine to be constantly within reach or at his beck and call. There is simply a distinct void, an emptiness, when Nine is not present to captivate others with his confident grin or command attention with his towering stature.

With a sigh, Tommy crosses the threshold into his office. Settling into his chair behind the desk, he loosens the tension in his neck with a slow roll.  As he reclines, the silence within the office wraps around him like a cloak. The usual bustle and chatter that fills the betting shop is muted, its occupants dispersed on various errands. The amplified ticking of the clock on the far wall resonates through the empty space, each beat a stark reminder of Nine's uncertain return. 

Scattered papers litter his desk, a visual representation of the disarray of his thoughts. Tommy's gaze drifts over them, using the task of organising them to try and center himself. Rays of soft sunlight filter through the window, casting a warm glow over the room. His eyes then wander to the red thread snugly wound around his wrist, a tangible link to his bond with Nine.

Softly, Tommy fiddles with the bracelet, running his thumb over the soft, thick thread. Tommy contemplates Nine's well-being. The mere thought of the hitman returning injured, but with a cocky grin tightens a knot of concern in his chest.

He tears his gaze from the woven thread, turning instead to the window. Outside, children dash up and down the street, their laughter a soft melody blending with the hints of warmth heralding March's arrival.

Tommy knows he should divert his thoughts from Nine, but it proves challenging. It's as if his universe has shrunk to revolve solely around the arrogant hitman, eclipsing all other concerns. As his thumb caresses the red bracelet once more, the sound of the front door opening and closing punctuates the stillness, followed by the familiar patter of paws and the gentle tap of a cane accompanied by soft footfalls. 

Blinking, Tommy turns just as Alex appears in the doorway of the office. The boy leans casually against the frame, fixing Tommy with a keen gaze from his sharp, grey eyes. Duke and Lady, their tails wagging eagerly, trot in behind him, nudging Tommy's thigh with their cold, wet noses.

"Where have you been?" Tommy inquires, shifting his attention to the dogs. He bestows equal affection on each, his hand moving in gentle strokes, eliciting grateful huffs from the canine pair.

"Went out for a walk," Alex responds.

"By yourself?"

"Ada was with me initially, but she had to leave to inspect another house.” Alex explains, his demeanour calm and matter-of-fact. “So, I decided to return here.” 

It's the most he's said to Tommy since the morning Nine had left him here. What's even more unexpected is the absence of Alex's usual sarcasm lacing his words.

As Tommy tilts his head, he gently scratches behind Lady's ear, a soft chuckle escaping him as Duke clamours for his share of affection.

“And which house is Ada inspecting this time?” 

“She told me not to tell you,” Alex says. 

Tommy suppresses a scoff. It's an open secret that Ada and Freddie are preparing to move out of the betting shop. Despite Tommy's willingness to assist, his offers were swiftly rebuffed by his cherished younger sister, her insistence on handling things independently ringing in his ears.

Ada's stubbornness is undeniable, Tommy silently acknowledges. He soothes Duke's flank before turning his focus to Alex, who appears deep in thought, his expression suggesting a hint of contemplation.

As Duke and Lady settle beneath the desk at Tommy's feet, Alex begrudgingly navigates his way into the office, taking a seat across from Tommy. 

"My leg hurts," he confesses softly, his steely gaze fixed intently on the desk.

"Should I call a doctor?" Tommy offers, though fully aware of the anticipated response.

"No," Alex mutters, a touch of disdain colouring his tone. He leans his cane against the desk's edge and adjusts in his seat, seeking a more comfortable position. He tips his head back, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat, and glares at the chipped ceiling. Tommy can see a tick mark forming just above his jawline. 

Sensing the boy's struggle to voice his thoughts, Tommy observes as Alex attempts to speak up, only to retract his words. "Nevermind," Alex mutters, resignation evident in his tone. "It's not worth the embarrassment."

Gathering his cane, Alex rises from his seat. Without further explanation, he exits Tommy's office, likely making his way upstairs, his limp more pronounced now. Promptly, Lady wriggles out from under the desk, dutifully trailing after Alex.

Meanwhile, Duke remains with Tommy, stretching lazily beneath the desk. The Doberman's yawn reveals his formidable teeth. Tommy rolls his neck once more, pondering what Alex might have found too humiliating to ask for. Opting not to press the issue, he trusts that the truth will reveal itself in due time.

As Tommy immerses himself in the sea of documents scattered across his desk, time slips away unnoticed. The sun dips below the horizon, casting a veil of darkness outside. The flickering lamps lining the street outside the betting shop signal the onset of evening, prompting Tommy to stack his papers neatly. It's not long before the familiar sound of Arthur's heavy footsteps heralds his return, likely after another drinking session at the garrison.

With a resigned sigh, Tommy stands up, leaving the papers behind, and makes his way to the living room where Arthur is settling onto the couch. Tommy retrieves a thick blanket and fusses over the grumbling Arthur, tucking him in gently. Swiftly, he tends to lighting the fireplace, bathing the room in a warm, golden light that dances and flickers, casting a comforting glow over the space.

"Tommy," Arthur calls out, his voice tinged with a low, slurred quality.

Tommy approaches his older brother and kneels beside the couch, observing as Arthur struggles to clear the haze of intoxication from his eyes.

"Tommy," Arthur repeats, each word drawn out and raspy, his cheek nuzzling into the softness of the couch cushion. "Is Nine back yet?"

"No," Tommy replies softly, his hand gentle as it glides through Arthur's flushed and sweaty hair, a lingering scent of whisky in the air. Despite knowing he should scold Arthur for overindulging, Tommy lets it slide.

"That scoundrel," Arthur grumbles, adjusting beneath the blanket to find a more comfortable position. A crease forms between his brows as he focuses on Tommy. "I'll give 'im a piece of my mind for upsettin’ you."

Tommy raises an eyebrow, a hint of amusement colouring his expression. "I'm not upset," he reassures. "And I'm fairly certain Nine could handle you before you even blinked an eye.”

"Touché," Arthur sniffs, blinking repeatedly in an effort to stave off drowsiness. Tommy can't help but smile, an indulgent curve tugging at his lips despite his efforts to suppress it.

“Go to sleep, Arthur,” he says, rising to his feet. Tommy runs his hand through Arthur's hair once more and observes as he swiftly succumbs to sleep, snoring softly. 

Returning to his office, Tommy keeps the doors open in order to keep an eye on his brother. He sits back into his cushioned chair and lights a candle, before delving into one of his accounting books. Amidst the meticulous task of cross-referencing the financial ins and outs of his business, Ada and Freddie arrive home, their whispered voices signalling their ascent to the upper floor.

Shortly thereafter, John follows, accompanied by Esme and their four tired children, all making their way upstairs, preparing for a night's rest.

As Tommy continues with his work, his concentration broken intermittently by Duke's movements beneath the desk, the Doberman nudges him for attention every so often. Tommy obliges, aware that the dog likely longs for its absent owner. With a sigh, he shuts the account book. Despite his efforts, his mind persistently returns to thoughts of Nine.

Warm, grey eyes, a gentle smile, and a low voice that never fails to send a shiver of desire up Tommy's spine — all these images of Nine linger in his mind, refusing to fade.

Tommy comprehends the reasons behind his feelings all too well.

If only he could escape that understanding.

Life was simpler when he could brush off any inkling of affection towards Nine. Now, thoughts of the enigmatic hitman consume him, a relentless tide of longing that refuses to ebb. Retrieving his cigarette case, Tommy extracts a cigarette, placing it between his lips before igniting it with a matchstick, the flame dancing along the tip.

Inhaling deeply, he flicks the spent matchstick into the nearby ashtray and reclines in his chair, granting himself a brief respite. Exhaling a stream of smoke through his lips, Tommy observes through half-closed lids as the wisps ascend lazily towards the ceiling.

The faint sound of footsteps descending the stairs draws Tommy's attention. The clock reads a little past midnight. Intrigued, he exits his office, passing by the still-sleeping Arthur on the couch, and ventures into the kitchen. Inside, he discovers a dishevelled Alex propped against the counter, pouring himself a glass of cold water from the tap.

In the dimly illuminated kitchen, the glow from the living room's fireplace bathes the surroundings in a cosy light. Tommy observes silently as Alex swiftly drains the glass of water, his breaths laboured as he swallows. Opting to remain unobtrusive, Tommy watches as Alex struggles to make his way over to the dining table without his cane, wincing as he eases into a seat.

The boy shifts, gradually turning to face Tommy, his demeanour cautious, his steely grey eyes flashing with a hint of danger.  "What?" Alex retorts, shooting Tommy a sharp glare that lacks any hint of surprise at his presence.

"Should I call a doctor?" Tommy inquires once more, mindful of his earlier inquiry that had been met with a firm refusal.

With a gruff laugh and a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead, causing his dark locks to curl around his ears, Alex dismisses the suggestion irritably. "No," he answers, his tone brusque and dismissive.

Tommy isn't taken aback by the response.

Nevertheless, he shifts closer, settling beside Alex, noting the defensive clench of the boy's fists on the weathered tabletop. "I won't ask a third time," Tommy says, taking another drag from his cigarette. Allowing the smoke to linger in his lungs briefly, he exhales it away from Alex.

He's secretive. Quick-witted. Steely-eyed. In the softly illuminated kitchen, Tommy recognizes the striking resemblance between the boy and Nine. Like father, like son, as the familiar saying goes. Though Nine may have departed, a lingering essence remains, defiant yet vulnerable within Alex, stirring an ache in Tommy's chest.

The cigarette between his fingers smulders, and with a deliberate motion, Tommy extinguishes it in a nearby ashtray, the remnants of tobacco emitting a faint, soft sizzle.

He bites the inside of his cheek. The perplexity lingers as to why Alex refrains from seeking medical help despite being in evident discomfort. A physician could offer relief, but Nine's instructions echo in Tommy's mind, advising against involving a doctor and insisting that Alex endure the pain. 

As Alex shudders, trembling with discomfort, Tommy hesitates once more, questioning the wisdom of this decision. 

With deliberate caution, he extends his hand slowly towards Alex. However, just before the back of his hand nears Alex's forehead, the boy recoils like a startled alley cat. "Don't touch me," he snaps through gritted teeth.

"Calm down," Tommy murmurs reassuringly. "I'm simply checking for a fever."

Alex's expression darkens in offence. He scrutinises Tommy's gaze intensely for a prolonged beat before tentatively leaning in, resting his forehead against the back of Tommy's hand as a gesture of reluctant trust.

How endearing, Tommy thinks to himself. He and Alex just might be warming up to each other, after all. 

A small smile plays along his lips as he notes the cool dampness of the boy's forehead, devoid of any signs of fever. "You're fine," he reassures, withdrawing his hand gently.

Alex straightens, a fleeting emotion crossing his features before his guarded facade reasserts itself. A subtle shift in the atmosphere hints at a momentary truce, an unspoken understanding weaving between them.

"I'm not about to thank you," Alex mutters, his voice tinged with vulnerability beneath the usual bravado. "Just because we both share a loss without my father here doesn't mean we're suddenly going to be buddies.”

"I don't miss your father," Tommy counters, a falsehood slipping from his lips. His heart rate picks up with the bitter lie. 

"Sure," Alex retorts, his tone laced with scepticism. "Keep telling yourself whatever you need to hear."

Struggling to rise, Alex grips the table's edge for support. He gestures towards the staircase with a jut of his chin, his request curt. "Help me upstairs.”

Tommy complies, allowing Alex to drape an arm over his shoulders as he supports him around the waist, aiding their ascent up the stairs. Observing Alex's slender frame, Tommy takes note of his delicate build; his narrow waist and the sharpness of his hip bone that presses against Tommy's palm like a blade. 

Tommy acknowledges the necessity of keeping a close eye on Alex's eating habits to ensure he gets enough at breakfast in the morning. A sudden realisation hits him: he's forming an attachment.

It feels akin to taking in a stray animal from the streets.

After assisting Alex into bed and ensuring his comfort, Tommy gently tucks him in.

"You don't have to tuck me in," Alex protests, a frown creasing his lips. "I'm not a child."

"Arthur isn't a child either," Tommy points out. "Yet, I still find myself tucking him in nearly every night.”

Alex rolls his eyes in exasperation but permits Tommy to dote on him. His forehead remains clammy, strands of his dark hair sticking to his skin. Tommy takes one final look at the boy's temperature, confirming his coolness before stepping back, content with the result.

"Goodnight," Tommy bids as he exits the compact bedroom.

"Fuck off," Alex grumbles under his breath, his tone laced with annoyance.

Tommy's smiles as he moves down the hallway and retreats to his own room for the night.

2632 words//unedited. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Nineteen: 

Tommy jolts awake, his heart racing wildly within his chest. His skin feels damp, causing his clothes to cling uncomfortably to his body. The sound of blood rushing through his ears creates a cacophony, leading to hurried, uneven breaths.

The echoes of shovels scraping against a wall linger with Tommy even as he awakens from his nightmare. He senses a suffocating feeling of entrapment, akin to a rabbit cornered by a ravenous wolf.

Throwing the covers aside, Tommy rises from his bed, perching on its edge. The chill of the floor seeps through his feet. Within the room's darkness, he reaches out, tugging open the top drawer of his bedside table where a concealed stash of opium is kept.

Halting momentarily, Tommy's eyes drift to the woven bracelet adorning his wrist, prompting immediate thoughts of Nine's disapproving visage.

Opium serves as a solace during Tommy's most challenging nights. Since the initial encounter with Nine, he has refrained from indulging in it. In the absence of the hitman's presence in Small Heath, Tommy finds himself yearning for the drug to alleviate his troubles.

In an attempt to compose himself, he inhales deeply, trying to regain control. Despite the temptation, he acknowledges the detrimental effects of opium on his well-being. With a sense of reluctance, understanding it's the wiser choice, Tommy shuts the drawer and reclines back onto the bed.

Yet, sleep eludes him.

Remaining awake, Tommy finds himself in the relentless company of the downstairs clock, its ticking echoing through the quiet night. The sound grates on his nerves, serving as a constant reminder of the haunting nightmare he had just endured, the horrid scrape of shovels still echoing within his mind. Exhausted, he stares at the peeling ceiling, knowing he faces three more restless nights until Nine's return.

Time crawls by at an agonising pace, turning his eyelids heavy with fatigue. With the sunrise, streaks of golden light filter through the blinds, drying his itchy eyes. The soft sounds of movement and whispers indicate John being roused by one of his children, likely Katie, just down the corridor.

Tommy listens, the events of the night fading into the background as the new day begins. However, he remains in bed, the weight of fatigue pressing him down, making it difficult to muster the energy to move. He lingers in that half-awake state until a gentle knock on the door signals Esme's presence.

"Tommy,” she calls through the door hesitantly, her voice soft and small, “breakfast is ready.” 

Tommy doesn't deem her with an answer. He waits until she leaves, her footfalls echoing down the corridor and creaking along the stairs. With a sigh, he finally pushes himself up, shaking off the remnants of sleep. He goes through his usual morning routine mechanically, the familiar tasks helping to ground him.

Once prepared, Tommy descends the stairs, deftly adjusting his cufflinks as he approaches the kitchen. Inside, his family is gathered. Finn is arranging the table, Esme tends to a skillet of scrambled eggs on the stove, and Ada is salvaging overbaked toast by the counter. Matthew and William are seated, with Katie beside them—her hair tangled and her dress slightly wrinkled.

The aroma of freshly brewed tea and a platter of crispy bacon on the table ignites a pang in Tommy's empty stomach, a reminder that he can't recall his last meal.

“You look like shit," Arthur remarks without preamble, taking a sip of his tea. His dishevelled state surpasses Tommy's, marked by dark circles and unkempt hair. A hint of whiskey still hangs in the air as Tommy navigates around the kitchen table, halting by the entrance to his office, a sense of unease creeping in.

Beside Arthur, John snorts, curling his mouth into an amused smile. Mary fusses in his lap, tapping his hand, silently demanding to be fed and John obliges, bringing a forkful of scrambled eggs to the little girl's mouth. 

“A simple ‘good morning,’ would have sufficed,” Ada says from the counter, shooting Arthur a pointed glance before focusing on buttering toast.

Not spotting Freddie, Tommy assumes he must have already left the betting shop. Suppressing his ideals about Freddie's compatibility with Ada, Tommy goes to retrieve his cigarettes and matches from his pocket, trying to distract himself from the unwelcome thoughts, and pauses, noticing the further absence of both Alex and the dogs from the house. 

"Where's Alex?" Tommy inquires. A twinge of a headache begins to form.

"He went out for a walk with the dogs," Esme responds over her shoulder. 

Tommy probes further. “Alone?"

"Yeah," John replies nonchalantly, a shrug accompanying his words. "I don't think he had anything to eat before he left either.”

Tommy rubs a hand wearily down his face, prompting a sympathetic noise from Arthur as he sets his teacup down onto the worn table. 

"That kid's a nightmare and a half," Arthur mutters.

"The only reason you don't like him is because he's Nine's," John points out, causing Arthur to wrinkle his nose in distaste. While those two playfully swipe at each other, mindful of Mary fussing in John's lap, Finn slyly snatches a piece of bacon.

"I'll go find Alex," Finn says, tossing the bacon into the air. With a playful grin, he catches it in his mouth, then gives Tommy's shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he brushes past him.

Tommy watches Finn depart through the front door before retreating to his office, closing the doors with a soft click. There, on his desk, lie several envelopes and a parcel wrapped in brown paper. Curious, Tommy settles behind the desk and sifts through his mail, finding nothing of significance. His attention then turns to the mysterious parcel, noting only his name on the tag and no return address.

Carefully, Tommy unwraps the weighty parcel, catching a whiff of a familiar aftershave that quickens his heartbeat. He blinks, sensing a suspicious dampness forming at the corners of his eyes, refusing to acknowledge it as tears. Absurd, he thinks, yet his fingers tremble as he hastens to reveal what lies beneath the brown paper.

Within the parcel box, he discovers a solitary rose, intricately crafted from metal. Grasping the stem and lifting the rose from its confines, Tommy notices the coolness of the metal against his skin. Warm sunlight streams through the open window, casting a radiant gleam upon the silver flower. Absent-mindedly, Tommy twirls the rose between his fingers, mesmerised by the sight. 

Upon closer inspection, he notices something etched onto one of the petals. Bringing it nearer, Tommy discerns elegant script. The message reads, ‘I'll be back soon,’ with the number nine elegantly signed below. There's nothing else and Tommy blinks once more, trying to clear the wetness from his eyes. 

It's a gift. Nine has sent him a gift—a stunning creation that must have taken hours to fashion. Tommy's chest tightens uncomfortably. He wants Nine to return home.

With a deep breath, Tommy carefully returns the metal rose to the parcel box and stows it away in the top drawer of his desk; out of sight, out of mind. Seeking to quell the unease within him, he retrieves his cigarettes and matchbox from his pocket. Placing a cigarette between his lips, he bites the filter and ignites the end with a match, flicking the spent stick into the ashtray perched on the corner of his desk.

As he inhales the sweet tobacco, Tommy closes his eyes in palpable relief, finding solace in the familiar rush of nicotine. Relaxing into his chair, he leans back, tilts his head, and exhales a stream of smoke, opening his eyes a notch to observe it rise lazily towards the peeling ceiling.

It's crucial for him to steer clear of thoughts about Nine and the unexpected gift. Despite his best efforts to push them away, his mind whirls incessantly. Receiving a handmade rose is undeniably perplexing. It seems absurd. Flirtatious. A blatant display of affection.

Tommy had once mentioned his fondness for roses to Nine, and the hitman not only remembered but painstakingly crafted a metal rose for him. Weary, Tommy massages his temples with the tips of his fingers. The throbbing in his head intensifies.

A regular rose would have been perfectly fine, but Nine went above and beyond, creating something that wouldn't wilt and perish. A keepsake. 

"You're an idiot," Tommy mumbles, drawing on his cigarette. As he exhales, he lets the smoke glide out through his nostrils and then between his slightly parted lips.

"Who's the idiot?" Alex queries.

Tommy straightens up, spotting Alex propped against the doorway of his office. He hadn't registered anyone approaching, let alone the doors opening. He must really be out of it today. 

"Your father," Tommy replies, sinking back into his seat and gazing up at the peeling ceiling once more.

"That's an understatement," Alex mutters. He limps into the office, his cane tapping on the hardwood floor, and settles into the chair across from Tommy's. For a beat, silence lingers, until Ada enters the room, trailed by the Dobermans, their paws softly padding on the floor.

"Breakfast," Ada announces, placing two plates of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast onto the desk. "Since neither of you bothered.”

She then extends her hand, plucking the cigarette from in-between between Tommy's lips and extinguishes it in the ashtray. "I'm serious," she asserts, disregarding Tommy's annoyed expression. "Eat. And no feeding the dogs. They've already had their fair share.” 

Shifting her attention to Alex, Ada adds, "You both need to put on some weight. You look like walking skeletons." With that remark, she exits the office, closing the doors behind her.

"I wouldn't go as far as to call you a skeleton," Alex says, allowing Duke to nuzzle into his thigh, sniffing along for scraps of food. "More like a... underfed feline.”

Tommy arches a single eyebrow. He's surprised to find Alex in a charitable-enough mood to talk. "Do you think you look any better?" He asks.

"Aside from the bum leg?" Alex replies with a smile that doesn't quite reach his grey eyes. "Yes.”

Tommy exhales sharply. “So that wasn't your hip digging into the palm of my hand like a blade last night when I guided you upstairs to bed?”

“Easy now,” Alex responds, proffering a slice of bacon to Duke, who accepts it gently before sauntering over to join Lady by the window. “You're starting to sound like you might actually care about me.”

“Leave my office,” commands Tommy.

“No,” Alex retorts. “My leg is throbbing. I'm not budging from this oh-so comfortable chair until we've finished breakfast.”

Tommy's fingers itch with the impulse to tousle the back of Alex's head. He's insufferable. And aggravating. It's like he's dealing with Finn, words going in one ear and straight out the other. With fondness, Tommy reaches a hand over the desk. Unlike before, Alex doesn't recoil, but his brow furrows, eyes narrowing into a glare.

“I'm not running a fever,” Alex asserts.

“I'm not checking for one,” Tommy smiles, playfully flicking Alex on the forehead.

“Ow!” Alex hisses, drawing back. He shields his forehead with his hand, resembling an angry kitten throwing a fit. “What was that for?” 

“For outdoing your father in idiocy,” Tommy says, withdrawing. He picks up his fork, pointing it at Alex. “Now, eat your meal and behave yourself.”

“What are you, my mother?” Alex mumbles quietly, but compiles nonetheless. Tommy feels a sharp pang at the remark. Heat rises to the back of his neck in embarrassment. There's nothing wrong with him looking out for Alex while Nine is away on business. However, the comment leaves a fluttering nervousness in his stomach — a warm, horrible feeling that leaves him slightly out of breath. 

Choosing not to dignify Alex with a response, they lapse into silence. They eat their breakfast, occasionally interrupted by Duke's visits as the dog scavenges for table scraps to share with Lady.

Following that, Tommy allows Alex to take the dogs for another walk, with the condition that Finn accompanies them. Ensuring they depart together, Tommy then returns to his office. He meticulously goes through the account books, checks the finances, and ensures everything is in order.

Glancing at the time, he realises it's just past noon. He should be meeting Charlie, going over a quick rundown of their stock. Donning his coat and cap, Tommy leaves his office, greeted by the bustling sounds of his workers in the kitchen and living area. Offering a few pats on the back as he passes, Tommy informs John that he's heading to Uncle Charlie's scrapyard before stepping out.

Under the bright sunshine of March, the sky is adorned with scattered clouds and a brisk breeze is in the air. Tommy adjusts his coat and strides along the bustling sidewalk. Passersby respectfully make way for him, offering murmured greetings as he passes. Tommy acknowledges them with polite nods, eventually arriving at the scrapyard, drawn in by the familiar scents of iron, rust, gasoline, and soot.

Enclosed by towering walls and a wide, corrugated iron gate left ajar, the scrapyard welcomes Tommy as he steps inside. His eyes wander freely, taking in the array of odds and ends, a myriad of scraps scattered about. To his right, a substantial bonfire burns steadily, its flames dancing towards the sky as Tommy gazes thoughtfully at the flickering heat. Soon, his uncle approaches him.

"Tommy," Uncle Charlie nods, wiping his hands clean of gasoline with an old rag.

“How's business on this end?” Tommy inquires, bypassing a traditional greeting.

Uncle Charlie tucks away the rag. “Running low on the liquor,” he replies. “And tobacco. But the horses are in fine form. Stalls cleaned out an’ all.”

Tommy bites the inside of his cheek. “And the firearms?”

“Every piece is in order,” Uncle Charlie confirms. “Checked thrice over by me.”

Tommy holds back a relieved sigh. After discussing their illicit wares for a few more minutes, Tommy decides to call it a day, planning to head back to the refuge of his office. However, his uncle stops him, placing a hand on Tommy's elbow.

“That weapon of yours hasn't returned yet?” Uncle Charlie questions with a tilt of his head. 

Tommy blinks deliberately. “Nine isn't a weapon.”

Uncle Charlie fixes him with a penetrating stare. “Of course not,” he says, not sounding the least bit convinced. 

Shrugging off his uncle's grasp, Tommy pivots and exits the scrapyard with a deep frown. It's not the right time to engage in an argument, especially when he's feeling somewhat exposed without Nine by his side. Keeping a composed demeanour on his walk back to the betting shop, Tommy retreats into his office for the remainder of the day.

Diving into his paperwork and files, Tommy finds himself split between work and thoughts of Nine. Eventually, he retrieves the metal rose from his desk's top drawer, gazing at it with a mix of longing and foolish infatuation, bewitched by tempting thoughts of things he cannot have. 

After securing the keepsake in its place, Tommy realises he has some caretaking duties to fulfil. Leaving his desk strewn with papers, he ascends the stairs in search of Alex.

He discovers the boy in Aunt Polly’s old bedroom, perched on the edge of the mattress, towelling his damp hair. 

“Here,” Tommy offers gently upon entering the room. “Let me help.”

Alex releases a prolonged sigh but allows Tommy to attend to him. Tilting his head back, he fixes Tommy with piercing silver eyes, clearly unimpressed. Tommy suppresses a smile as he dries the boy's hair with the towel. Content with his work, he hangs the towel over the heater and waits for Alex to slip under the covers.

“Is all of this truly necessary?” Alex rolls his eyes as Tommy tucks him in.

“Absolutely,” Tommy responds, a touch of amusement in his tone. “What sort of mother would I be if I neglected to tuck my son in at night?”

Alex flushes, embarrassed heat rising to his cheeks, and turns away, facing the opposite side. “Get out."

“I will,” Tommy says, allowing a smile to appear. “As soon as I check you for any signs of a fever.”

“I'm fine,” Alex insists, his voice wavering, sounding a touch higher. He pulls the covers over his head, seeking further refuge. “Please, get out.”

"Alright," Tommy concedes, small crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes. With a mischievous intent to tease Alex a bit more, he stoops down and plants a gentle kiss on the boy's head. “Goodnight,” he whispers softly.

He then moves towards the door, closing it behind him with a soft click. 

2787 words//unedited.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty: 

As Friday transitions into Saturday and Saturday gives way to Sunday, the looming deadline for Nine's mission coincides with a deluge of rain.

The heavens darken, shrouding Small Heath in a blanket of grey clouds. Tommy, standing by the kitchen counter, is seized by a deepening unease as he witnesses the rain thrashing against the window, accompanied by distant thunder.

“This storm doesn't bode well,” Aunt Polly remarks softly from her spot at the table, cradling a steaming cup of tea. The flickering candlelight on the table dances, casting shifting shadows across her face.

“I'm sure it's fine,” John attempts to reassure Aunt Polly, settling beside her.

Turning, Tommy leans against the counter. A bolt of lightning strikes the earth, searing the ground nearby, briefly illuminating the kitchen. Nervous flutters churn in his stomach. He feels as though he's adrift like a castaway at sea, lost and vulnerable. His anxiety must be palpable, for Arthur, seated in an armchair by the fireplace, gives Tommy a reassuring glance, which only serves to heighten his unease.

Avoiding Arthur's gaze, Tommy shifts his focus to Alex, who's seated at the foot of the stairs. Michael is beside him, the line of their thighs pressed together. There's a rare absence of their usual arguments. Behind them, Finn idly shuffles a deck of cards, leaning into Isaiah's side.

Aware that Esme and Ada are upstairs tending to the children, and with Freddy conspicuously absent for the past few days, Tommy's concern deepens. 

He is accustomed to the sounds of laughter, echoing footsteps, and spirited debates over trivial matters; today, the air is thick with only hushed murmurs and an underlying tension. Despite the bustling household, the usual lively energy of the betting house is notably subdued, enveloping the space in an unfamiliar quietude fraught with unspoken worries.

The piercing ring of the telephone snaps Tommy out of his thoughts. Instantly, Arthur springs from his seat, dashing towards the office. Tommy trails behind, his heart racing as he halts at the office doorway, watching intently as Arthur lifts the receiver to his ear.

“Yeah?” Arthur inquires, his voice hushed as he brings the mouthpiece closer to his lips.

Beside him, Tommy's fingers fidget nervously by his sides. He's already burned through two packs of cigarettes today, wary of sparking up a third for fear of incurring Aunt Polly's stern admonishment about his health.

Arthur exhales heavily, dropping his head wearily against the phone box. His eyes shut, intensifying Tommy's anxiety, constricting his throat. He struggles to draw in a breath as Arthur listens intently to the caller, only finding relief when Arthur's gaze flicks open, extending the phone towards Tommy.

With a thick swallow, Tommy reaches out for the receiver, his fingers trembling as he grasps the mouth and earpieces.

"Tommy," Uncle Charlie's composed voice filters through the receiver, eliciting a surge in Tommy's blood pressure. "Your weapon is in my yard. He has Anna with him."

A tremulous exhale escapes Tommy's lips, releasing the tension in his throat, allowing him to breathe freely once more. “Is he…" Tommy queries, gripping the mouthpiece tightly, disregarding Arthur's knowing gaze fixed upon him. “Are they safe?”

"More or less," Uncle Charlie responds. "Weapon's a bit worn out, rusted as they say—"

"—I'll get the car," Tommy interjects, striving to mask his longing in his tone, though uncertain of his success. Static crackles on the line, followed by a gruff voice demanding, "give me that," unmistakably Nine, causing Tommy's stomach to flutter nervously.

"Stay put," Nine instructs through the receiver, his voice slow and strained, his breathing heavy, hinting at injury. "I'll come to you."

With a soft click, Nine disconnects the call, leaving Tommy staring down, wide eyed at the mouthpiece. He puts the phone back into place, and feels a sense of disorientation wash over him. Blinking back the moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes, Tommy tries to school his features, evidently unsuccessful. 

Arthur lowers his head and meets Tommy's gaze with concern. "Hey," he offers gently.

Tommy blinks once more, his fingers twitching nervously by his sides. "He said he's coming," he manages to convey.

"Nine?" Arthur inquires.

Tommy nods silently, unable to articulate further. Arthur places his hand on Tommy's shoulder, giving a comforting squeeze before heading to share the news with Aunt Polly.

Left standing in the office doorway, Tommy takes a deep breath, mentally counting to ten to steady his racing heart. He remains unaware of the passage of time, the rush of blood drowning out all other sounds. It's only when a hand gently envelops his own that he snaps out of his reverie, lifting his gaze from the floorboards to meet Alex's concerned eyes.

"Is Dad alright?" Alex asks, peering up at Tommy with a worried furrow between his brows. Dark circles shadow the boy's eyes, a visual testament to his exhaustion. Tommy is acutely aware that despite tucking Alex in each night, bestowing a gentle kiss on his forehead in a bid to provide solace, the boy has been struggling to find rest. Similar to Tommy, who lies in bed each night, fixating on his peeling ceiling, his mind restless with thoughts of Nine's return.

Tommy releases a sharp exhale and tightens his grip on Alex's hand, the connection a lifeline he's unwilling to sever. Squeezing his eyes shut, he struggles to find the right words, but they elude him. When he reopens his eyes, he is met with Alex's wounded gaze, reminiscent of a forsaken pup in the midst of winter, fighting to endure.

"More or less," Tommy responds hoarsely, his voice faltering in his throat.

"Okay," Alex murmurs softly, his voice a gentle plea. "I'm tired. Can you tuck me into bed?”

"Of course," Tommy replies in the same hushed tone, acquiescing to Alex's request as they make their way to the kitchen and then up the stairs, bypassing the boys sitting there. The corridor looms dark, prompting a brief adjustment period for Tommy's eyes to acclimate. Lady and Duke are resting at the entrance of his own bedroom, the door left ajar. 

Entering Alex's temporary bedroom, Tommy finds it is orderly and pristine, the bed linens smoothed out, clothes neatly stowed in drawers. A flickering candle on the bedside table bathes the small room in a warm, golden light.

After Alex places his cane against the wall near the window, he allows Tommy to assist him in undressing. Once that task is complete, Alex eases into bed, and Tommy carefully tucks him in, drawing the duvet over Alex's shivering form and up to his chin, ensuring his comfort.

"Can you stay with me for a bit?" Alex asks, nestling his cheek against the pillow.

Tommy nods in affirmation, fetching a chair from the room's corner and settling beside the bed. As Alex reaches out from beneath the covers, his smaller hand seeks solace in Tommy's grasp.

Tommy envelops Alex's hand between his palms, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs. Gently, he presses a kiss to Alex’s knuckles. "Your father is going to give me a heart attack one of these days," he confesses in a whisper, the secret tumbling out of his mouth, unwinding like a ball of yarn.

"He tends to have that effect on people," Alex says, shifting slightly beneath the covers. He pauses, exhaling softly before inquiring, "Do you... like him?”

Like isn't the word Tommy would use. He harbours a deep attachment to Nine, feeling a sharp ache in his chest whenever they are apart for too long. He would surrender himself entirely to that man, exposing his vulnerable side without hesitation; would go belly-up, bare his neck, offer himself up for destruction. 

The extent of his feelings must show upon his face, because Alex poses another question, tender and uncertain. "...And me?”

"I thought I was being rather obvious about that," Tommy responds hoarsely. "Business and Finn have been keeping me occupied, and now... you.”

Alex blushes, his face turning a delicate shade of pink. Embarrassed, he buries his face in the pillow, attempting to shield his reaction. Tommy's smile spreads warmly, the gentle curve of his lips and the crinkles beside his blue eyes exuding unmistakable fondness. It's the first smile he has managed to summon since rising from bed this morning.

Outside, the wind howls, causing the window to rattle. The soft patter of paws draws Tommy's attention, prompting him to glance over his shoulder. Lady tentatively enters the bedroom, her head lowered, snout brushing against the floorboards.

"Come here," Tommy murmurs softly, coaxing the dog to approach.

Lady's ears twitch as she cautiously inches closer. She nudges her head against Tommy's thigh before leaping onto the bed, wriggling her way to settle in front of Alex.

With care, Tommy gently disentangles their hands, allowing Alex to snuggle up to the dog. Rising to his feet, he bows his head and plants a tender kiss on Alex's forehead. "Get some rest," he whispers softly.

"Will you wake me when Dad comes back home?" Alex inquires.

Tommy's heart aches. Home. He nods, words caught in his throat. Offering a gentle pat to Lady's head, Tommy extinguishes the candle on the bedside table and exits the room, closing the door with a soft click behind him.

Descending to the kitchen, he discovers Ada has joined their family at the table. Taking a seat beside his sister, Tommy is greeted with a reassuring smile as she places her palm over his hand in a comforting gesture.

"Oh, Tommy," she says gently. "I'm certain Nine and Anna are safe. Nine knows better than to upset you."

Tommy wants to convey that he isn't distressed, yet the words lodge themselves in the back of his throat like thorny vines. He swallows thickly, breathing steadily through his nose. 

Aunt Polly slides a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches across the table. "Smoke," she advises, appearing just as unnerved and perhaps even more than Tommy himself. "It’ll ease you.” 

Tommy ducks his head. He reaches for a cigarette, positioning it between his lips. With a strike of the match, he lights it, bringing it to the end of his cig. When the tobacco catches aflame, he flicks the spent matchstick into a nearby ashtray. Inhaling deeply, he lets the smoke linger in his lungs before exhaling. Wisps of smoke coil towards the ceiling, but they offer no solace for the turmoil gripping him.

The earlier call had revealed Nine's apparent injuries, leaving Tommy on edge, his nerves pulled taut. Questions about the extent of Nine's wounds and the possibility of lasting scars leave Tommy feeling hollow. 

He smokes the cigarette hastily, the taste of sweet tobacco clinging to his tongue as a headrush ensnares him. Extinguishing the end in the ashtray, he watches the embers sizzle until they fade. Glancing at the clock in the old glass cabinet across the room, Tommy registers that forty-five minutes have passed since Nine's call.

Outside, the storm rages unabated. John absentmindedly twirls a toothpick between his lips, while Arthur's gaze is fixed on the kitchen window, his fingers tapping idly on the tabletop. At the bottom of the stairs, Finn is engaged in a quiet conversation with Isaiah and Michael.

A sudden chill grips Tommy, causing him to shiver involuntarily.

"I'll brew some more tea," Ada offers softly, rising from her seat. The chair legs scrape against the floorboards just as tires screech to a halt outside the betting shop. Aunt Polly stands up abruptly, accidentally knocking over her empty tea cup, which John deftly catches before it hits the ground.

Tommy's heart quickens its pace, pounding resolutely against his ribcage, mirroring the intensity of the storm outside.

The front door swings open, ushering in a gust of chilly air and the quick pitter-patter of rain, accompanied by Uncle Charlie guiding a young girl wrapped in a thick blanket inside.

"Anna?" Aunt Polly breathes, her eyes wide with fear, tears welling up. She approaches her estranged daughter, tentatively taking hold of her shoulders.

"Mum?" Anna's voice is barely a whisper, her gaze fixed on Aunt Polly with a mix of emotion. Drenched and dishevelled, her brown hair sticks to her skin.

Aunt Polly enfolds the girl in a tight embrace, cradling the back of her head. "My baby," she murmurs, her voice strained and choked with emotion. "You're safe now."

Anna buries her face in her mother's neck, clinging to her with desperation, sobbing loudly.

Tommy tears his focus away, his gaze landing on Nine by the doorway, the door shutting behind him. Nine appears unnaturally pale, soaked from the rain, with dark hair slicked flat against his forehead. Blood splatters his face, trickling down his neck. A fresh pink scar cuts horizontally at the corner of his mouth, stark against his pale lips. A bruise shadows his left eye, and as he removes his wet suit jacket, more blood is revealed; staining the collar of his white shirt, saturating his cuffs, and pooling at his side.

Tommy stops breathing. A distant ringing fills his ears, leaving him rooted in place, trapped in a frozen state of shock.

Terrified, Tommy observes as Nine casually hooks his suit jacket on the coat hanger by the door, and then presses a hand to his side, over his wound. Blood seeps from in-between his fingers. Tommy is vividly reminded of a baby bird with a broken wing he once found as a child, chirping for aid.

But unlike the baby bird, Nine doesn't seek help. His expression remains stoic, his silver eyes vacant, closed off, completely defensive. 

"Nine?” Arthur rushes forward to assist the hitman, frowning deeply. 

Nine extends his free hand, palm up, silently halting Arthur's advance. Michael lingers nearby, and as Finn edges closer, Isaiah restrains him with a firm grip.

"I need to use your bathroom," Nine states calmly, his voice low and steady.

Tommy suddenly remembers how to breathe. 

"I need," Nine pauses, his silver gaze flickering around the room, pointedly skipping over Tommy as if he were invisible. "A needle. Thread. Some alcohol. Gauze."

"Upstairs. In the cabinet beneath the sink," Aunt Polly offers, her voice quivering slightly while still clutching Anna.

"Thank you," Nine nods in acknowledgment. Moving with an effortless grace that belies his injuries, he leaves a trail of rainwater and blood in his wake as he brushes past Arthur.

Uncle Charlie scoffs, causing Nine to halt in his tracks. An indefinable shift crosses Nine's features as he straightens to his full height, looming over Uncle Charlie. Fire ignites in his grey eyes, a dangerous and deadly glint, his muscles tensed like a snake poised to strike.

Tommy's hand shoots out, clutching at the sleeve of Nine's blood-stained shirt. His breaths come in ragged gasps, his head throbbing with intensity as Nine fixates on Uncle Charlie, his gaze akin to a frigid clash of glaciers—brutal and freezing.

In a panic, Tommy tugs at Nine's bloody sleeve, realising the dire consequences if a confrontation were to erupt at this moment, or worse, if he were to witness his uncle's demise.

Nine tilts his head, a crow-like gesture. "It's your lucky day," he murmurs.

Uncle Charlie remains unfazed. "Is it?" 

"Yes," Nine asserts. "It is." With a shrug, he releases himself from Tommy's grasp. "Thank your nephew," the hitman instructs before ascending the stairs to the second floor.

Tommy, sick to his stomach, sways forward, a desire to follow Nine evident in his movements, but Aunt Polly's disapproving shake of the head halts him in his tracks. He falters. Does Nine no longer want him? Did he ever? Tommy tugs on the knot of his tie, pulling it loose, wondering if it'll help him breathe better, if it'll alleviate the pain in his chest, the tremble in his fingers. He's once again reminded of that baby bird. It's as if he, not Nine, is the one with the clipped wing. 

“Tommy just saved your life,” John tells Uncle Charlie, his voice carrying a deceptive softness as he positions himself defensively in front of Tommy, shielding him from the intense scrutiny he senses directed at him.

“What did you do to provoke Nine into wanting to murder you?" Arthur asks, joining Tommy's side. His large, warm hand settles between Tommy's shoulder blades, attempting to ground him. 

It's disconcerting. He's not the one who's vulnerable and in need of care. Nine is. 

Tommy shakes. His gaze stays fixed on the staircase. The image of Nine soaked in blood persists in the forefront of his mind, a haunting presence. How grave are his wounds? Does he require immediate medical aid? Tommy should be upstairs, aiding Nine, cradling his head, tending to his injuries with gentle kisses, expressing gratitude, and welcoming him home. Instead, he stands idly by, allowing his siblings to defend him.

Uncle Charlie raises a single eyebrow. "I merely spoke the truth to him," he clarifies. "His... feelings towards Tommy are dangerous."

"Dangerous?" Ada's laughter slices through the tense atmosphere, sharp and venomous. Anger twists her expression. Even Finn, typically eager for confrontation, tucks his chin against his chest and fixes a steely glare.

"Nine is one of us," Finn asserts.

Having heard enough, Tommy shrugs off Arthur's hand, bypasses Isaiah and Michael, and hurries up the stairs. He had believed his own emotions were transparent, but it seems Nine has been an open book all along. How many times had Tommy accused Nine of being in Small Heath to kill him? And each time, he had been mistaken. Because Nine would never bring harm to Tommy.

Nine has always shown gentleness, caution, and kindness towards Tommy. He has offered assistance without expecting anything in return. Tommy realizes he has been oblivious, convinced he was the sole one harboring such desperate, foolish, forbidden feelings. 

Now, it's unmistakable that Nine reciprocates those sentiments.

Tears gather at the corners of Tommy's eyes, distorting his vision with a stinging sensation. The faint glow seeping from beneath the bathroom door, with Duke stationed dutifully in front of it, draws Tommy nearer.

Duke emits a soft huff and nudges Tommy's thigh, a gentle yet firm gesture of protection. Trained to guard, to serve, to defend, and to kill, Duke's presence offers a sense of security. As Tommy runs a comforting hand over Duke's head, a realization dawns upon him.

Nine must have left his dogs behind not out of necessity for his mission, but to ensure they safeguard Tommy and, most importantly, Alex.

Oh. 

Oh. 

He'd been so blind. Tommy hadn't recognized the depth of Nine's protectiveness and possessiveness, a realization that had eluded him in his preoccupation with personal concerns, until now. 

With resolve, Tommy grasps the handle of the bathroom door, prompting a soft whine from Duke. Ignoring the warning, he eases the door open, allowing light to spill into the corridor, revealing the imposing figure of Nine's back. He's met with the sight of broad shoulders, tense muscles, dried blood marking Nine’s skin, a ghastly scar etched above his left side, curving upwards to his shoulder, bearing the stark word monster.

Tommy's grasp on the door handle drops. The tears finally spill down his cheeks, immobilizing him in the doorway. His eyes flit around the bathroom, from the blood-soaked shirt slung over the tub to the crimson trails running down the sink and pooling on the floor, finally settling on Nine's reflection in the mirror. There, Nine bows his head, meticulously stitching the wound on his side with long, slender fingers.

A sob escapes Tommy's lips, a raw and fearful sound.

Nine pauses, raising his gaze to meet Tommy's in the mirror's reflection.

And Tommy clamps his mouth shut, freezing in place like a gazelle ensnared by an unyielding lion. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and his heart pounds against his ribs as if seeking an escape. Hot tears continue to flow down his cheeks, but his focus remains fixed on the vacant void he finds in Nine's gaze.

Eyes wide, Tommy observes as Nine completes the last stitch of his wound, then carefully sets the bloodied needle on the sink's edge. Motionless and silent, Tommy patiently awaits Nine's approach, unable to muster the courage to speak or even shift position.

Methodical and deliberate, Nine moves towards Tommy, his steps measured, calculating, predatory, like he's hunting. 

Halting just in front of Tommy, Nine stands his ground. His eyes drift down to Duke, a barely perceptible tilt of his head prompting the dog to pad softly away down the corridor.

As Nine extends his hand, Tommy flinches instinctively, a reflex he immediately regrets when Nine simply grasps the door handle and gently swings the door shut, enclosing Tommy in the bathroom. The door presses against Tommy's back, and he leans into it, flattening himself against its surface like a pinned butterfly, struggling against the impending examination.

Drawing nearer, Nine closes the distance. Tommy swallows audibly, the tension palpable. Their eyes lock—silver meeting blue in a searching gaze. Ducking his head, Tommy averts his eyes, focusing instead on Nine's wound. Counting the meticulous stitches, he notes seven on the relatively shallow yet inflamed gash, surrounded by bruised, purple-hued skin.

Forcing himself to shift his attention, Tommy scans over Nine's muscular chest, revealing a tapestry of scars—some old, some fresh. A pink gunshot wound marks Nine's shoulder, still in the process of healing. Thin knife incisions mar his bicep, while a jagged scar runs beneath his collarbone. Overwhelmed, Tommy squeezes his eyes shut, refusing to witness more.

A guttural, wounded sob escapes Tommy's throat, searing with raw emotion. It burns him from the inside out, like a dying star. 

Chilled hands, icy to the touch, tenderly cradle his face, lifting his chin. Tommy can't help but whimper softly, reluctantly parting his eyes to find Nine looming over him, caging him in against the door, those grey eyes half-lidded, exuding a dangerous allure. 

Streaked with crimson, Nine's hands leave traces of blood on Tommy's pale skin, branding him in a primal, ancient way that triggers a flutter in his chest, a warmth in his belly. Yielding to Nine's touch, he leans into it, exposing the vulnerable curve of his neck. Tommy peers up at Nine through his long eyelashes, full of unbearable need and want. 

A fleeting darkness passes through Nine's eyes, swift and enigmatic. Is it satisfaction? Tommy ponders. Does his instinctive submission suffice?

Regardless of Nine's dark history, the lives he's taken, the blood on his hands, they now cradle Tommy's face tenderly, Nine's thumbs delicately brushing away his tears.

Tommy blinks rapidly, attempting to halt the flow of tears. Nine adjusts his grip ever so slightly, his thumb trailing over Tommy's lower lip, leaving a faint streak of blood in its wake. Compliantly, Tommy parts his lips, releasing a sigh, observing Nine's pupils dilate in response.

"I understand," he manages, his voice strained. "I understand," he repeats, tasting the metallic tang of blood on his lips. "I know you're not here to kill me,” he whispers.

Nine smiles down at him, small, soft, the pale-pink scar on side of his mouth shifting with the expression. "Took you long enough," he says quietly.

"I want—" Tommy breaks off, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. He envelops Nine's wrists with his hands, guiding them down to his waist. He patiently waits for Nine to catch up, for his large, calloused hands to possessively take hold of his waist, and then slowly, carefully settles his palms onto Nine’s chest. 

Cold to the touch from the storm outside, Nine elicits a nervous lick of Tommy's lips. Breathing unevenly, Tommy's chest rises and falls as he runs his hands over Nine's skin, tracing the strong muscles and scarred skin tenderly. Finally, he encircles his arms around the hitman's neck, clinging tightly.

"I want you to lower your head," Tommy dares to request.

Nine hesitates, a faint, confused furrow appearing between his brows, before acquiescing, lowering his head, unable to deny Tommy anything.

"Thank you," Tommy breathes out, captivated by their proximity. Leaning in, he bridges the gap between them, flutters his eyes closed and presses his lips to Nine's. His heartbeat stutters when Nine immediately reciprocates, his mouth moving hesitantly, ever so carefully against Tommy's, as if he's afraid of hurting him. 

Tommy sighs into the kiss, a wave of warmth spreading from his core to every inch of his being. He slumps back against the bathroom door, relieved, and Nine chases after him, holding him reverently, his grip bruisingly tight on Tommy's waist. They kiss as if time stands still, as if it's their first meeting, reminiscent of the moment outside the garrison pub under the soft glow of street lamps, fingers brushing as Nine offers Tommy a cigarette.

As they part, Tommy whines at the loss. He runs his fingers through Nine's wet hair, tugging gently, craving more of the closeness. Nine's thumb traces soothing circles on Tommy's hip as he places a tender, chaste kiss on the corner of Tommy's mouth.

"There you are, sweetheart," Nine murmurs, his voice low and filled with awe as he presses his forehead against Tommy's. "I've been looking everywhere for you.”

4219 words//unedited

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-One: 

Nine gently wipes away the bloodstains he inadvertently left on Tommy's neck and cheeks, his grey eyes shielded by lowered dark lashes. Droplets of water trickle down the side of his neck as he works. Silence fills the space between them, unspoken words hanging heavy in the air.

Tommy swallows hard, a thick lump forming in his throat, stomach traitorously somersaulting, and directs Nine to clean up the bathroom and to take a shower, lest he get ill. Nine acknowledges with a nod, his searching silver gaze softening as he plants a tender kiss on Tommy's temple, a tentative gesture to gauge the unspoken boundaries, before carrying out the tasks assigned to him.

While Nine attends to the cleanup, Tommy escapes the bathroom to seek solace in his bedroom, needing a moment to simply breathe.

Perched on the edge of his bed, Tommy buries his face in his hands, contemplating the implications of his impulsive kiss with Nine. It had felt right, comforting, like Tommy was brought into this world simply to belong to Nine. Despite the intimacy shared, he acknowledges that if Nine had shown a smidge more of his dominance, Tommy might have allowed the kiss to evolve into something more. Yet, Nine had approached him with gentleness, hesitance evident in his actions. 

Tommy wrestles with the weight of his actions, questioning the rightness of his choices. While he is certain of Nine's reciprocated feelings, a gripping fear tightens around his heart, leaving him unsettled. The repercussions of their secret being exposed outside the confines of the betting shop loom large in his mind, threatening to upend his life and drag his family into the maelstrom. The prospect of societal judgment and legal consequences for two men being discovered together is a chilling reality—one that could lead to imprisonment and death. 

Shaking his head to dispel these troubling thoughts, Tommy's gaze shifts to the cuffs of his white button-up shirt, stained with Nine's dried blood. Outside, the storm rages unabated, rain drumming against the windowpanes and wind howling through the night. With resolve, Tommy rises, changes into his night attire, and gathers clothing he believes may suit Nine's taller frame.

Quietly padding down the corridor, he lightly taps on the bathroom door. Entering, he finds no trace of Nine's earlier wound sewing, only the sound of water cascading behind the shower curtain and Nine’s shadow moving behind it. Tommy arranges a towel and the selected clothes on the sink, then exits the bathroom silently, closing the door behind him. Heading halfway down the stairs for a quick check-in, Tommy leans against the banister, surveying the scene below. Anna has been outfitted in dry clothing, nestled by the fireplace with Aunt Polly, cocooned in a heavy blanket. The boys—Finn, Isaiah, and Michael— are lounging in the living room, sprawled across the couch and loveseat. Meanwhile, Ada, John, and Arthur are engaged in a quiet conversation in the kitchen. Uncle Charlie is nowhere in sight. Tommy comes to the conclusion that he must have departed earlier. 

Retracing his steps upstairs, Tommy discovers the bathroom door left slightly ajar, devoid of Nine's presence. Continuing along the dimly lit corridor, he halts before Alex's temporary bedroom, cautiously nudging the door open to lean against the frame. Peering inside, he finds Nine seated in a chair beside Alex's bed, dressed in simple pajama trousers, his torso wrapped in bandages. Alex is peacefully asleep, with Duke and Lady nestled on the floorboards near the bed's end. The flickering candle on the bedside table casts dancing shadows over Nine's features as he runs his fingers through Alex's hair, a soft smile gracing his face while he attentively observes his son murmuring in his slumber.

Tommy's heart aches at the sight. 

He wants this. He wants it so badly that it hurts. It burns him from the inside out, like a bullet being fired or a constellation of stars being born, a hunger so profound it feels like a bottomless void clawing at his insides, urging him to act on his cravings. With a trembling breath, Tommy steps quietly into the room and halts as Nine's gaze locks onto him, his stormy grey eyes gleaming in the subdued light.

In a silent standoff, they remain motionless, the air thick with tension, akin to wild animals sizing each other up in the untamed wilderness. A flash of lightning outside briefly bathes the room in stark white brilliance, revealing the ongoing tempest as rain hammers against the weathered window. A plaintive noise from one of the dogs—likely Lady—prompts Nine to tilt his head ever so slightly. The rise and fall of his chest is slow and soft, steady, as he detangles his fingers from Alex's hair and extends his hand towards Tommy, silently beckoning him closer.

Cheeks flushing under the gentle glow of the candlelight, Tommy's heart trips all over itself as he crosses the room, slipping his hand into Nine's, registering the rough calluses and comforting warmth he can feel against his skin. He eases himself onto the edge of the bed, the mattress yielding gently under his weight. Alex remains undisturbed, his visage unchanged, soft breaths signaling his deep slumber.

Nine gives Tommy's hand a reassuring squeeze, his thumb tracing a tender path over the back of his knuckles, gaze unwavering as he studies Tommy intently, as if gauging his response, assessing the boundaries of what he is permitted to do.

Silly man, thinks Tommy, studying Nine back. The dampness of the shower clings to Nine's tanned skin and dark hair, accentuating the new pale and pink scar near his mouth, a subtle invitation that calls Tommy for a tender kiss. He manages to resist the temptation, noting that Nine is enveloped in a floral scent, likely from the shampoo he borrowed, a departure from his usual crisp and sharp aroma. Tommy wrinkles his nose disapprovingly, yearning for the familiar spicy hint of Nine's aftershave. With rapt focus, Nine responds promptly, retracting his hand. Undeterred, Tommy gently reclaims it, encouraging their closeness. 

“It's the shampoo,” he whispers hoarsely, momentarily dropping his gaze to the crimson woven bracelets adoring their wrists, “not you.” 

Suddenly, he finds it hard to breathe. They should be discussing the kiss they shared in the bathroom, now whatever this is. Tommy wants to say, I’ve fallen in love with you. Let's have a baby. Instead, what bubbles up his throat and tumbles out of his mouth, like a ball of yarn unwinding is a petulant, almost childlike whine. “No women,” he demands, deceivingly soft, the weight of his emotions colouring his controlling words. "No men, either. I don't share.”

Nine blinks, pupils dilating in the soft candlelight, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. "I don't share either," he murmurs, a dangerous edge to his voice. Tommy is certain that if he were to focus his attention on someone else, Nine would eliminate them without a hint of remorse.

What's more unsettling is that Tommy finds himself not objecting to this notion. There's a peculiar warmth that spreads within him at the idea of Nine eliminating others for his sake, a sensation that leaves him feeling oddly tender. Struggling against the tumult of his own emotions, Tommy clears his throat before speaking. “We... we should wake up Alex,” he says, striving to maintain composure under the scrutinizing silver gaze. “He did mention wanting to be awakened upon his idiotic father's return.”

A glint flickers in Nine’s narrowed eyes. “I'm not an idiot.”

"Let's just have different opinions on this one," Tommy replies, slowly reeing his hand from Nine's grip, grateful for the fleeting moment of normalcy. Shifting, he turns towards Alex, gently shaking his shoulder in an attempt to rouse him from slumber. Alex emits a low groan as he blinks his eyes open, expression clearly conveying annoyance at being disturbed. 

"Good morning, princess," Nine greets his son with jest. "One can only hope that you behaved in my absence. Surely you didn't ignite any fires or fracture any of poor Michael's delicate bones?"

Another groan escapes Alex before he swiftly seizes the pillow from beneath his head and hurls it at his father's face with precise aim. The pillow strikes Nine squarely, catching him off guard, leaving Tommy struggling to suppress his amusement as the pillow lands in Nine's lap, revealing his exasperation.

"That," Alex mutters, somewhat disgruntled, as he moves to sit up, "was for taking an eternity to return home." 

"You're quite lucky to only get a pillow to the face," Tommy says, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "If I were in Alex's shoes, my retaliation would have been a bit more… aggressive."

Nine makes a low noise in the back of his throat. “Mhm. That’s rather understandable. However,” he leans in unexpectedly, cupping Tommy's cheek in one hand and Alex's in the other, planting a tender kiss on each of their temples, "have either of you considered how much I missed you?"

A blush creeps up Tommy's face as Nine withdraws, his expression tender, the curve of his mouth gentle. Tommy's heart flutters as Nine settles his arms on the pillow in his lap. He’s momentarily captivated by the thickness of Nine’s biceps and the grace of his slender fingers. His distractive thoughts are interrupted by Alex's loud scoff.

"Wonderful," Alex interjects dryly. "Now that you've clearly professed your undying love for one another, I suppose I'm condemned to witness your soulful gazes, hand-holding, and," he adds with a mock gag, "heaven forbid, kissing."

"Would you truly believe I'd allow your foolish father to kiss me?" Tommy retorts, attempting to conceal the fact that he not only permitted a kiss but also initiated it himself.

"Let me ponder that question overnight," Alex sasses with a knowing tone. Reclaiming his pillow from Nine's lap, he fluffs it up and shoves it under his head, laying on his side to face the wall. "Make sure you tuck me in properly and extinguish the candle before you depart, dear mother."

A wave of warmth tingles on the nape of Tommy's neck, setting off goosebumps across his skin as Nine's perceptive gaze locks onto him. Suppressing the sudden lump in his throat, Tommy carefully tucks Alex into bed, a routine he's performed countless times, yet the current situation makes him unusually jittery. "You brat," he murmurs,  planting a gentle kiss on Alex's forehead. "Goodnight."

Alex stifles a snicker into his pillow as Tommy rises, blowing out the candle on the bedside table, enveloping the room in darkness. As his eyes adjust, Tommy takes Nine's hand, coaxing him to stand up and leave Alex's quarters. They’re immediately cornered in the dimly lit corridor by Arthur, who holds little Mary in his arms, the fussiness evident on the child's face at being awake at such a late hour.

"Hm," Arthur begins, his expression serious in the shadows. "You're still in one piece," he remarks to Nine. "I half expected to find you sprawled out in a pool of blood on the bathroom floor."

"I'm sure that would have been a moment of celebration for you," Nine quips, prompting a subtle eye-roll from Tommy. "I exist to shatter expectations."

"You certainly excel at that," Arthur mutters, passing little Mary into Tommy's arms. The girl nestles against his chest, her chilly nose nuzzling into his neck. "There," Arthur states, “Mary should stop you from tryin’ any funny business in the bedroom.” 

“Funny business?” Nine echoes, arching an eyebrow. Pausing to process the remark, he turns to Tommy. "Were you planning to lead me astray, sweetheart? Straight to your bedroom to put me on a leash?"

"No," Tommy clicks his tongue, ignoring the flutter of delight at the endearment and the idea of tying the knot with Nine. “I’m not putting you on a leash. I was guiding you downstairs. There's a spare couch in my office, where I’m planning to kick you onto for the remainder of the night." He refrains from mentioning his intention to join Nine downstairs, ensuring Anna and Aunt Polly can utilize his bedroom.

“…so we’re not getting married?” Nine asks softly, a blend of teasing and sincerity in his tone, likely aiming to provoke a reaction from Arthur.

Adjusting his grip on Mary, Tommy shoots a stern glance at Nine. This is the man he had to fall in love with? It couldn't have been absolutely anyone else in the entire world? 

"No fighting," he orders. Leading the way downstairs, his brother and Nine trailing behind, they join the family scattered across the lower floor, engrossed in various discussions. Tommy disregards the chatter, making his way into his office. The lamp on the windowsill casts a warm glow, illuminating the room. Tommy attempts to lower Mary so he can prepare the couch for her to rest, but she persists in fussing, clinging tightly to his neck and emitting discontented sounds.

At the click of the lock securing them inside, Tommy shifts his attention towards the noise, discovering Nine hanging the keys on the coat rack. A dryness fills Tommy's mouth as realization sets in.

"You've locked the doors," he observes.

"I have," Nine responds with a shrug, his voice hushed. "Your family were eyeing me like a pack of hungry hyenas. I'm sure they're brimming with questions and concerns about my well-being after being stabbed and shot and whatnot, but all I want to do is collapse… with you.” 

"And the baby," Tommy hastily adds. 

"And the baby," Nine confirms, drawing nearer. He gently brushes the back of his knuckles against Tommy's flushed cheek, causing his heart to somersault within his chest, as if yearning to break free. Ridiculous, thinks Tommy, subtly tilting his head back, silently conveying that he would like to be kissed. Nine, hyper aware of every little detail hammered into Tommy’s broken soul, reciprocates, meeting him halfway. Their lips meet delicately at first, then with more insistence, as if reluctant to part. Nine's hand, warm against Tommy's cheek — the other curled possessively around his hip — offers a comforting caress, his thumb moving back and forth soothingly. Tommy feels a surge of emotion, a desire to cry even though he doesn't comprehend the reason. Yet he dismisses the impulse, having shed enough tears already.

They soon draw apart. Tommy blinks, unhurried and soft, slightly breathless from the simple kiss, and tenderly pats Mary on the back. She remains unwilling to release her hold on him, having drifted into slumber against his shoulder, her breathing steady and gentle. Tommy contemplates passing her to Nine when the hitman's hand transitions from his cheek to the back of his neck, clasping firmly. His fingers exert pressure, urging Tommy to tilt his head back even further.

“Why do you not feel the need to put me on a leash?” Nine whispers, his voice resonating softly, sending delightful shivers down Tommy's spine. 

"As you mentioned," he manages to rasp out. “You’re not a dog.” He licks his lips, noticing the way Nine tracks the motion with his eyes. Is he hungry? Tommy certainly is. A warmth begins to pool in his belly, spreading through him. He shouldn't be allowing Nine to have such an effect on him, and yet…

He stifles a gasp as Nine's hands slide under his shirt, fingers flexing, gripping his waist firmly, almost to the point of bruising. The assassin nuzzles gently at Tommy's neck, planting delicate kisses along the sensitive skin, a sensation that ignites conflicting desires in Tommy. He wants to both strike Nine and pull him into bed. It’s frustrating, akin to tug-of-war—a vexing emotion, one he wishes he could banish. "Allowing you to kiss me may have been a momentary lapse in judgment," he says, hoping the wobbly tone in his voice isn’t as noticeable as he believes it to be. 

Nine hums into the line of Tommy's jaw, tracing a path to the corner of his mouth. Leaning in, he gently nudges their foreheads together. "For me," he responds softly, “it wasn't.” 

The tender gesture fills Tommy with a bashful sweetness, a feeling he hasn't experienced in a long time. Nestling into Nine, he buries his face in the crook of the hitman's neck, his heart fluttering vulnerably in his chest.

They linger in this intimate moment in the heart of the office, Mary nestled between them, and Tommy craves this. He yearns for it so deeply that tears well up in his eyes, threatening to spill over. He longs to confess the depths of his emotions to Nine, but fear grips him, rendering him mute. This desire, to have a baby with Nine… It’s unfathomable. Unattainable. He's a man; he cannot conceive or bear a child. He dreads Nine's reaction. Would he be repulsed? Would he no longer desire Tommy? He decides the truth will remain buried within him, never to be revealed.

The weight of his foolish longing leaves Tommy feeling drowsy. He leans heavily against Nine, unsurprised by the taller man's unwavering strength. Blinking back his tears, conscious that his eyes may be reddened, Tommy avoids meeting Nine's gaze as he takes a step back. He nestles his nose into Mary's golden locks, occasionally peeking at Nine, who unfolds the couch and arranges the cushions and blanket into place. 

When Nine catches him stealing glances, Tommy turns away to extinguish the lamp on the windowsill, plunging the office into darkness. He rests on the couch, shifting into a comfortable side position, embracing Mary against his chest. A shiver runs through him as Nine covers them with the blanket, settling in behind Tommy. 

“Is this okay?" Nine's low voice breaks the silence, his breath tickling the nape of Tommy's neck. 

Blindly reaching for Nine's hand, Tommy guides it around his waist to press against the flatness of his belly. He compels himself to relax, interlocking their fingers and remains silent, unable to trust his own voice; leaving Nine's question hanging in the air. He isn’t sure when he drifts off to sleep, but this time, there are no haunting echoes of phantom shovels scraping against the nearest wall to keep him up. 

Morning arrives with sunlight filtering through the window. Tommy squints against the brightness, finding his cheek pressed against Nine’s bicep, Mary sprawled between them, her tiny hand fisted in his shirt. 

With silence reigning through the rest of the betting house, Tommy surmises it's still too early for anyone else to be awake. The world outside seems to echo this stillness, with only the gentle chirping of birds breaking the quiet. Blinking wearily, he studies Nine as he slumbers. His disheveled black hair, slightly parted lips, and long lashes grazing his cheeks paint a serene picture. In sleep, Nine exudes a tranquility rarely seen while awake. Tommy absentmindedly snuggles closer to Nine's bicep, pondering how they ended up face to face, with Nine's arm beneath Tommy's neck, serving as a makeshift pillow. They must have naturally shifted into this position during the night.

Slipping his hand out from under the blanket, he extends it to gently touch Nine's cheek. The bruise beneath the hitman's eye is turning to a yellowish-green tint, a sign of healing. Tommy runs his thumb over the bruise thoughtfully. Nine bears injuries from his time in Australia, likely incurred while safeguarding and rescuing Anna from wherever the girl was kept, and yet he remains silent about it. 

A soft sound from Mary interrupts Tommy's reverie. He withdraws his hand from Nine's cheek and instead runs his fingers through Mary's golden locks, soothing her back into slumber with a gentle hush. 

The inhabitants of the betting house are not expected to rise for quite some time, and as Tommy has no urgency to awaken, he closes his eyes and attempts to slip back into slumber as well. He hovers in a dreamy state, between wakefulness and sleep, drifting like a leaf on a tranquil river, until a faint, almost imperceptible knock on the door startles him from his drowsiness. Instantly, Nine is on high alert, looming over Tommy and Mary, positioned protectively over them. Their gazes lock—Nine's cloudy grey eyes meeting Tommy's blue ones—as he positions himself as a shield against any potential threat.

Tommy gazes up at him, a mix of confusion and sleepiness clouding his thoughts. He contemplates whether this surreal scenario is a mere creation of his imagination, a peculiar dream unfolding before his eyes.

“Good morning,” Nine rumbles, voice heated. The rough texture of his tone sends shivers down Tommy's spine, evoking conflicting impulses within him—to retreat into himself or to expose the vulnerable expanse of his neck like a frightened animal. Blushing fiercely, the color creeping up to the very tips of his ears, Tommy feels a wave of heat rising from his belly, engulfing him from within, leaving his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth.

“Excuse me, sweetheart,” Nine murmurs. His disheveled dark locks lightly brush against the side of Tommy's cheek as he tilts his head, evoking another round of shivering. Tommy is then captivated by the sight of Nine's back muscles flexing as he climbs over him, rising to stand, the bandages on his body adjusting with the motion. In that moment, Tommy catches a fleeting glimpse of the initial letter of Nine's dreadful and chilling scar. Who could possibly be responsible for carving the word 'monster' into his flesh?

Despite bearing such a haunting scar, Nine is anything but. Yes, he can be exasperating, excessively self-assured on occasion, but he also exudes kindness and tenderness. Even with his hands tainted by countless deeds of violence, they never fail to cradle Tommy with caution and care.

Nine is— 

The clink of keys jolts Tommy back to the present as Nine unlocks the office doors, nudging them open slightly. Unable to identify the visitor, Tommy props his elbow on a cushion, resting his cheek in his hand, curious as he eavesdrops.

"Where's Anya?" Nine inquires softly.

"At the library," comes the quiet reply. Tommy raises an eyebrow. He recognizes that voice. It belongs to D'mitry. The conman must have arrived from Russia earlier this morning, just after the storm had subsided. And how did he manage to infiltrate Tommy's home? Did he pick the lock, perhaps? 

Tommy wrinkles his nose, unimpressed by the conman's tactics. 

A simple knock would have sufficed.

A brief silence follows as D'mitry hands a paper bag through the door. The bag crinkles as Nine accepts it, placing it beside the coat rack without even sparing a glance at its contents. Tommy’s attempts at eavesdropping become futile as the two men switch to their native language. Russian spills from D'mitry like an icy river, his tone notably colder in his mother tongue than in English. 

Tommy has never found much interest in the Russian language until this very moment, where Nine begins to speak it. His tone is pleasant and even, deceptively soft, stirring nervous butterflies in Tommy’s stomach, causing his heart to swoon. 

"Spasibo," Nine ends the conversation, shutting the office doors before D'mitry can utter another word. 

Tommy buries his face into the cushion, stifling what feels like a terrible whine. The rustling of the paper bag as Nine moves around the office fills his ears, prompting him to take a moment to collect himself. Mentally counting to twenty, he finally lifts his head, resting it on his palm, only to find that Nine has already unwrapped his bandages, the purplish-green hues encircling his slightly inflamed sutures coming into view.

Struggling to avert his gaze, Tommy's eyes involuntarily wander over Nine's imposing frame, admiring the strength of his physique, down to the well-defined V of his torso. A sudden urge to surrender to Nine washes over him. Nine is big, undeniably so. Does he know how to be gentle in bed? 

Tommy bites down on the inside of his cheek, wishing he could banish his treacherous thoughts altogether.

"You're staring," Nine remarks, placing the paper bag on the office desk and sifting through its contents, retrieving a small glass jar that he proceeds to unscrew.

"I don't stare," Tommy mutters, as he flickers his gaze over to the broad expanse of Nine's shoulders and to the impressive bulk of his biceps. A realization begins to dawn on him. Tommy might actually be facing a dilemma. Silently, he hopes that Nine will soon don a shirt.

"I observe," he corrects himself.

"Of course," Nine smiles, a hint of amusement in his eyes, as he applies the contents of the jar onto his sutures. Tommy surmises it must be some form of antiseptic. Setting the jar aside, Nine retrieves a roll of bandages and what seems to be a set of clothing from inside the paper bag. Tommy wonders how D’mitry became aware of Nine's necessity for new attire.

Was the conman tipped off by someone? Perhaps Aunt Polly or Ada? Those two are perpetually meddling in Tommy's affairs. Could they have orchestrated for D'mitry to be informed about Tommy and Nine's newfound... relationship?

And is it even a relationship? Tommy squints his blue eyes into a glare, his mouth curling into a frown as he watches Nine wrap the bandages around his torso. They've shared kisses, yes, and opted against straying from one another, like the easily jealous and possessive beings they tend to be, but...

"Now you're glaring at me," Nine murmurs. "What could I have possibly done to upset you in the ten minutes it took for me to get out of bed, speak to D’mitry, and change my bandages?"

Tommy is about to falsely assure Nine that he's not upset and wasn't glaring at him, but his attention shifts as Mary begins to stir and whimper upon waking. Adjusting into a seated position, Tommy picks up Mary, settling her onto his lap. She rubs her small fists against her eyes, emitting soft, discontented sounds as Tommy wraps the blanket snugly around them both, warding off the morning chill.

"Mummy," Mary blinks sleepily, nestling her face into Tommy's chest, seeking comfort. Her tiny hands clench onto his nightshirt, pulling gently, though Tommy is unsure of what she's after. 

"No, darling," Tommy says tenderly, planting a kiss on Mary's head and gently nuzzling his nose into her tousled golden locks, "it's just me."

"Uncle Tommy," Mary mumbles tiredly into his chest, tugging at his shirt once more. Tommy runs a comforting hand down her back, drawing her closer. Sensing a gaze upon him, Tommy redirects his focus back to Nine, discovering the hitman leaning against the office desk, his expression pensive.

Feeling uneasy, like he’s been caught red handed, Tommy lays Mary back down on the couch so that they are both facing away from Nine. He continues to comfort the little girl, the sounds of the crinkling paper bag and the rustling of clothes indicating that Nine is likely getting dressed. As Mary falls back asleep, Tommy’s eyelashes flutter as he struggles to maintain consciousness, eyelids growing heavy. 

“Sweetheart,” Nine's soft voice calls out from above. Tommy blinks. When did he get there? 

"Hmm?" he manages to murmur, turning slightly to look over his shoulder.

"I have some business to attend to," Nine explains, leaning in to plant a kiss on Tommy's temple. "I'll drop by later." He pauses, his grey eyes glinting dangerously as he contemplates, calculates. 

"Tommy," he says, his tone low and oddly tender, full of understanding. "Do you want a baby?"

"No," Tommy lies, his voice barely above a whisper. His heart aches in his chest. Deep down, he desires a child, especially one with Nine. He would confess the truth if he weren't so afraid of rejection. Tommy's trust is fragile.

"Alright," Nine concedes, moving to pull away. Tommy stops him by grabbing his tie and pulls him back in for a brief, affectionate farewell kiss. When they part, Nine offers a gentle smile, then departs the office. As the doors click shut behind him, Tommy settles back on the couch, closing his eyes so that he may slip back into slumber.

Later, following Esme's arrival to rouse him and retrieve Mary, Tommy readies himself for the day ahead, methodically going through his typical morning rituals. Breakfast unfolds amidst the persistent stares of his family members, which Tommy ignores, balancing the task of ensuring Alex doesn't ‘inadvertently’ harm Michael with utensils. Once the meal concludes, Tommy's relatives disperse, some heading out for errands while others rush to enjoy the pleasant weather. As the betting house gradually fills with employees, Tommy hides in his office to review documents.

As lunchtime approaches, Nine fulfills his promise, making an appearance. Gathering Tommy, Alex, the dogs, and even persuading Finn to join, Nine leads them to a nearby restaurant for a meal. The waitstaff scurry in a frenzy, unsettled by their presence, swiftly ushering them to an outdoor table and promptly serving fragrant, steaming dishes.

Tommy nibbles on his salt and pepper chips, a tad flustered as Nine's hand discreetly rests on his thigh beneath the table. Meanwhile, Lady, nestled under Tommy's chair, nudges her snout against his ankle, prompting him to toss her the occasional chip as a treat. 

"Alex," Nine sighs, amused, watching his son scrape vegetables to the side of his plate. "Those carrots won't hurt you if you give them a try."

"And do you eat your fucking greens?" Tommy grumbles.

"Does anyone?" Finn interjects, teasingly offering a piece of broccoli to Duke. The dog sniffs it briefly before disappointingly retreating under Nine's chair.

"See?" Alex bats his eyelashes innocently. "Even Duke agrees that vegetables are revolting."

"Duke is a dog," Nine deadpans. "And speaking of dogs, Anya brought a new one from Russia. Though I suspect it's more of a rat than anything else."

Finn takes a guess. “Is it a Chihuahua?"

"No," Nine shakes his head. "It's definitely an oversized rat."

"Ugh,” Alex grimaces. "Why can't someone bring home a cat for once? I'm a cat person."

"Why not ask Michael to get you one?" Finn teases, flashing a grin.

Tommy isn't swift enough to prevent Alex from jabbing his elbow into Finn's sternum. He reckons this might be as civil as an outing between them will ever become.

5080 words//unedited.