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Alfie gets that things won’t look up right away with Tommy. Would be strange if years of repressing that the war even happened, silently suffering and lashing out at everything and everyone trying to approach him were habits that went away overnight. Though during the weeks after the ‘Incident’, which he’s come to call the fight and sub sequential hell following it, he begins to feel a creeping suspicion that he may be in over his head.
First, there’s the episode with the cellar, which honestly makes Alfie –for a moment- regret ever unravelling all those coarse stitches Tommy had used to put himself back together. Because it’s a terrible thing, innit, watching him come apart so fully there in the dark. Makes Alfie wish he’ll never have to see it again. Though he knows that he will, and that he’s put himself in this fucking situation, so no whining about it, right? The opposite would probably be worse. What would’ve happened if Tommy had been alone? The images that thought conjures are enough to make him want to never let Tommy out of his sight again.
Right, so first there’s that.
Then, he comes to realise that maybe he underestimated just how bad the nightmares are.
Admittedly, he hasn’t fully understood how often Tommy has them either.
Alfie is a heavy sleeper, he has to give Tommy that –because yeah, Tommy claims that’s why he almost never wakes up during the night. Alfie believes the quote was ‘I nearly kicked you out of the fucking bed once, and you just rolled over and continued snoring’. Alfie definitely doesn’t snore. But being a heavy sleeper, sure, that part is true. So the usual thing in terms of nightmares may not have succeeded in waking him up on a regular basis. But the hell that now breaks loose does.
...
The scream pierces through the thick veil of sleep and causes him to bolt upright in the bed, looking around, confused and wondering who the fuck is being murdered in his bedroom.
Right next to him, Tommy is lying curled up on his side, arms clasped around his head in a convulsive grip. He screams again, this utterly heart wrenching sound filled with dread, and curls up tighter into the protective ball. As if trying to shield his body from an onslaught of falling rocks and dirt.
Alfie doesn’t quite know the proper etiquette here, but there’s no fucking way he’ll just sit here and wait for Tommy to wake up on his own from this.
“Tommy, go on, wake up love.” He grips his shoulders and shakes him, without much of a response. When he tries again, with a bit more force this time, Tommy’s eyes snap open as he scrambles to sitting position. Chest heaving frantically in too-fast breaths, he stares wide eyed into the darkness of the bedroom. Alfie reaches out, turns on the lamp on the bedside table. Then he envelopes Tommy in a tight embrace, ignoring his flailing limbs as he pulls him to his chest. It’s clear that he still has no idea where he is, he struggles wildly against Alfie’s grip. Alfie hopes this won’t result in finger shaped bruises on Tommy’s arms, but what is he supposed to do, eh? Can’t very well let him go, because Tommy will end up falling out of bed if he just leaves him to his own devices.
“Just a dream, love, can’t hurt you,” he mutters, hoping his voice will reach through the fog that clouds Tommy’s terror-stricken mind. “You’re not in France, not stuck under all that dirt- Just in a bed in London, safe and sound.” Tommy squirms a bit, but it’s not as panicked now. Alfie softens his steely grip into a more tender one, continuing with the muttered words. “You dug yourself out, remember? From all that stone and rubble. Good thing that you did too, wouldn’t have you here otherwise, eh?” His lungs seem to finally be getting enough air again, because Tommy’s breathing calms slightly. “But now I do. Lucky bastard, as I am. So I’ll keep you safe. Make it worth your while, all that fucking digging.”
Tommy’s arms wrap themselves tightly around Alfie’s chest as he clings to him.
“Better, sweetheart?” His palms are slightly damp from the cold sweat that covers Tommy’s back.
“Better.” The answer comes after a little while, muttered against the crook of his neck where Tommy has buried his face. Not ‘fine’, as he so often claims, without any evidence to support that.
For quite a while, Tommy allows himself to be held like that, cradled against Alfie’s chest as he mutters soothing nonsense and rocks him back and forth just slightly. But then he pulls out of the embrace. Alfie cups his cheek and is rewarded with a sigh. Tommy’s eyes are tired, but quite calm: The look of someone who deals way to often with shit like this and knows the routine.
“Want to try and go back to sleep?”
“No point right now. I’ll just go downstairs for a bit,” Tommy says softly. “But you sleep. Don’t want to keep you up.”
Alfie rubs the bridge of his nose. He’s reluctantly learning that if he wants to keep Tommy, he can’t always have his way. This is the constant balancing act, right, to give Tommy just enough space as to not make him panic like a cornered animal, but not all the space he wants –because were it up to Tommy he’d fucking isolate himself completely a lot of the time. He knows that ‘don’t want to keep you up’ means, ‘I need time alone to brood on your couch for a while’.
This is better, still, that Tommy tells him things. May not always be the things he’d like to hear, but it’s something, alright.
Usually, he calls the shots right: if he wants to sit on the couch all fucking night, throw out his back, and not sleep, just because Tommy does so, he will, and Tommy can do nothing about it. But this sort of thinking led to a downright disaster last time. So: Give a little, take a little, right? And Alfie tends to take quite a lot: old habit that, to just take whatever he wants. He’ll give Tommy this. Even if it may not be what’s the best for him.
“Yeah, yeah- you do that love,” he mutters. “Just promise not to go out for any nightly walks, eh? Stay indoors, can you do that?”
Tommy kisses him, an opened-mouthed, deep sort of affair. His lips are soft and pliant against Alfie’s, and fuck, those lips makes Alfie want to give him the entire fucking world.
“No walks.” Tommy promises. “May steal some of your whiskey, though.” With those words, he slips out of bed. Alfie catches him by the wrist, but the touch is gentle.
“Could you, you know, come back to bed in an hour or two?” he says. “Try again then, with the sleep?”
“Sure.”
“Yeah, you’re lying right now, aren’t you love?”
Tommy’s mouth twitches in a tiny smile.
“Go back to sleep, Alfie.”
Very reluctantly, Alfie does.
He finds Tommy in the kitchen the next morning, a cup of tea in his hand and a cigarette between his lips. No food, still. In the pale, first light of day, only half dressed and with his hair standing at all ends, Tommy looks heartbreakingly human. His stupid, beautiful boy.
“Morning.” Tommy treats him to a smile. Hard to understand how exactly, because he looks absolutely exhausted. Alfie becomes sort of afraid this is just another tactical move on his part, another layer to all these walls he puts up.
“Morning, love.” He pulls him close, kisses his temple lightly. Feeling the outline of his ribs under his thin shirt, he sets about making breakfast.
“Did you sleep at all?” he waits with the question until they’re sat at the table, and Tommy has abandoned the food for another cigarette –it’s all about timing, this.
“No. Had a bad night.” Tommy states simply. Well fuck me, aren’t we making progress. Downright talkative today. Alfie choses the rare route of not just letting his thoughts pour straight from his brain to his mouth, and doesn’t say that.
“They’re about the war, eh, the nightmares?”
Tommy offers him a nod.
“The tunnels?”
“Yeah. Most of them.”
“Fucking awful business, that. Humans shouldn’t be underground, we’re not fucking… moles, yeah? Bet it does all sorts of strange things to the head.”
Tommy only nods, and Alfie realises a change of subject is in order. So he tells him about a dream he had instead, a long, intricate story about a dog in a top hat, and yeah, there was also, possibly, a boat involved. Tommy listens with this tiny little smile on his face. And it’s fucking bliss, right, to see him sitting there across the kitchen table, all soft and unabashed. But he looks so utterly exhausted, and halfway into the story, Alfie abruptly cuts himself off.
“Know what, fuck it. Don’t feel like it today.”
Tommy raises his eyebrows in mild surprise.
“Don’t feel like what?”
“Working. Hounding Ishmael around. Making sure Eli doesn’t fucking mess up the delivery schedule. Fuck it. Let’s stay here.” He gets up, takes Tommy by the hand and pulls him to his feet. “It’ll be a good exercise for the kids. To deal with shit on their own, while I’m otherwise occupied.”
“It’s a fucking miracle you’ve gotten anywhere in the world,” Tommy laughs, but quite willingly lets himself be led out of the kitchen as Alfie heads for the stairs. “What kind of morale is that?”
“I do what I want. All the time. And right now, I’d like to take you upstairs and spend the rest of this day in bed. Let the business fall to fucking ruin if it has to. Wasn’t meant to be if it does. I firmly believe in putting carnal needs above everything else.”
“Considering that I’m now quite involved in that business, this sort of talk makes me concerned.”
“Lucky for you then, that I’m very knowledgeable in the art of removing all sorts of troubling thoughts, eh?” Alfie grins. “All I need is an hour or two of your time and a quality mattress. And seeing as we have both, maybe you could do me the honour of keeping you in bed for once?”
Tommy, for once, is rather easily convinced.
So Alfie gets his way, and manages to keep Tommy in bed. Not at night, perhaps. But it’s something, innit?
...
During the following weeks, this becomes a new routine, finding Tommy in the kitchen in the morning. It’s always obvious he hasn’t slept at all, but that Alfie himself has apparently managed to sleep through the entire business. Although waking up to that terror stricken scream is pretty high up on Alfie’s list of ‘horrible shit he wishes he never had to experience’, it’s almost worse when it’s the silent option. When Tommy wakes up and Alfie doesn’t, so he just slips out of bed and spends the night staring at a wall somewhere.
He brings it up one of those mornings, carefully, as if approaching a skittish deer. Or a wild horse. Tommy is just finishing his cigarette, stood by the kitchen counter and gazing out the window at the morning fog. Those circles under his eyes are looking increasingly like bruises with each passing, sleepless night. Got to be almost three weeks and counting now. Alfie is pretty sure very few of those nights in their entirety have been spent in the bed.
He comes to stand behind him, placing a kiss at the nape of his neck and wrapping his arms around the narrow waist. Always best to start with a bit of touching, usually softens him up a bit.
“Tommy, I know it’s hard alright, but the next time you have a night like this, just give me a shove, yeah? If I don’t wake up when you need me too.” Tommy just hums. Alfie lets the tips of his fingers flutter across his hips. “Don’t like it that you’re up on your own dealing with this.”
Turning around to face him, Tommy pulls him in for a kiss. His usual strategy when Alfie is saying things he doesn’t want to listen too. Well, that and simply ignoring him.
“No offence Alfie, but I would honestly not trust you on any less sleep,” he teases lightly. “You may just come off the rails completely.”
“As usual, you underestimate me in every way, darling.” No, no fucking banter. This was supposed to be a serious conversation. Alfie tries again. “But I mean it, yeah? Or I’ll just have to fucking lie awake and watch you. Not that I mind, very pleasant sight that, but it would be easier if you just woke me up.”
“I do wake you up,” Tommy says in a bout of surprising sincerity. “Part of the problem.”
“Wish you’d do it on purpose too.” He keeps his voice soft, coaxing. Like talking to a wild horse, innit, it could bolt at any second. “I fucking hate knowing that you’re up wandering the house. It’s been, three weeks?” Since the cellar. “Something like that. I’ve woken up from those nightmares five times, kept count, I have. And how many nights have you slept through?”
Can’t be many. No person who gets any type of regular sleep has that look in their eyes. Because Tommy may put on that charming half smile, raise an eyebrow, do all those little things that make him look just the right amount of aloof and above everything that happens around him. But Alfie sees the weariness in his eyes, no matter what expression is on that pretty face.
A wrinkle appears between the eyebrows on said face as Tommy attempts to distance himself, but Alfie doesn’t let him. Not this time. Not like that first time in the living room, when he let his anger get the best of him. Instead he wraps his arms tighter around him, pulls him close, close. Until he can almost feel his heartbeat against his own ribs. Bit of a shot in the dark, really. Because although Tommy can’t physically overpower him, if he starts fighting, actually fighting to get loose now, Alfie will have to let him go. He may be many things, many terrible fucking things, but he isn’t that kind of man.
Tommy doesn’t fight. Alfie feels his breath against his neck as his he buries his face against it. He sighs.
“Know I can’t force you. Fucking hell, Tommy, there’s a lot of shit I wish I could force you to do. But I can’t, can I, that’ just your nature, innit? So I’ll live with it, if you promise to at least consider it. Next time. All I ask, really.”
The answer comes after a little while, muttered against his skin as so many other of these promises Tommy makes. “Fine.”
...
It takes a few more bad nights before things change.
They’re in Birmingham, for the first time in quite a few weeks. Alfie realises just how many when they step inside the door and Finn more or less tackles Tommy to the floor with the force of his hug. One of those times when he forgets that he’s ‘practically an adult now’. Admittedly, it’s nice to see him. Alfie has a soft spot the lad, alright. Sort of nice to see the whole lot, actually. With the possible exception of Arthur, who takes one look at the dark circles under Tommy’s eyes and then spends the better part of the evening trying to murder Alfie via glares.
One thing he definitely hasn’t missed is Tommy’s awful bed. The only upside is that it has a decent headboard to use as leverage during the evening’s more appealing activities.
Alfie has his mind set on simply staying awake, at least until he knows Tommy’s fallen asleep. And he blames both the long car ride from London, and the completely different sort of riding Tommy indulges him in until they’re both satiated, for the fact that he falls asleep despite this intention.
“Alfie.” The soft voice tugs at his consciousness, gently drawing him out from the grip of sleep. Alfie lets out a grunt to acknowledge it, but can’t quite open his eyes. And he’s not sure what the voice wants exactly. It’s not until a hand grasps his shoulder in this gentle, almost hesitant way that he manages to wake up.
Tommy is sitting next to him in the small bed, looking at him with eyes that are so filled with exhaustion it almost physically hurts. Once he sees that Alfie is awake, he withdraws the hand. And the always so self-assured, confident Thomas Shelby, who acts first and asks for permission later if at all, looks so utterly insecure at that moment. Fuck, what it must’ve taken for him to finally reach out…
Alfie sits up too, rubs the sleep from his eyes with one hand and reaches for Tommy with the other, cradling his head in it.
“Bad night, love?” He treats it like no big deal, that Tommy has decided to wake him up. Fucking finally.
“Can’t go back to sleep.” Tommy’s head becomes just a bit heavier in his hand as he leans into the touch. “I don’t know what to do,” he admits. “I’m so fucking tired. But every time I close my eyes, I just hear…” his voice trails off, and Alfie wraps an arm around his waist. Tommy sags against his chest, head coming to rest against his shoulder.
“What do you hear, sweetheart?”
“The shovels. Against the wall,” he whispers. “Feels like I can even hear them now. It was better for a while. When I had you next to me. I don’t know why it’s gotten like this.”
Alfie thinks that he may have an idea.
He was so convinced all of this pent-up trauma would have to be dealt with, and tries to tell himself it’s for the best. In the long run. But yeah, again, it feels like he’s ripped all those stitches that just barely held Tommy’s mind together. And now, in the middle of the night with this fragile little person in his arms, he is hit by a twinge of doubt. Rare, for him to ever doubt anything he does. But when all the layers of confidence, charm and cigarette smoke are peeled away for a moment, Tommy is just a broken little boy. Like that night in his office. Or the cellar. And Alfie feels that maybe he’s in over his head. Maybe he can’t fix this. Should’ve just left well enough alone, Alfie you fucking idiot. He’s so used to just do whatever, and leave a trail of bodies behind. Act first, think later. It’s all trivial shit, innit, in this life they both lead, him and Tommy. But now, maybe he’s fucked something up that actually matters.
“Sort of my fault,” he finally says. “Maybe I shouldn’t have fucking messed with your head.”
Tommy pulls out of the embrace just a bit, hands coming up to hold Alfie’s face between them.
“Not your fault,” he states simply. “But try not to get sick of me because I am this way.” Maybe it’s the late hour that does it –causes this blunt honesty. Alfie shakes his head slowly at this ridiculous notion.
“You want to stay in bed or go downstairs?”
Tommy just looks tired. So fucking tired. Right, he needs to be in a bed, whether he likes it or not –Alfie is pretty certain he’ll collapse if he stands upright. He’ll make the decisions this time.
His mind made up, he slumps back against the mattress and opens his arms in a welcoming gesture.
“Come here, we’ll just lie here for a while. If you haven’t fallen asleep within… say half an hour, give or take -time is a fucking illusion, but yeah- half an hour or so, we’ll go downstairs. Alright?” Making deals as usual.
This seems to be a pretty easy one to close: Tommy lies down and curls up against him, head coming to rest on its usual spot on his chest.
“Lately, I’ve been considering goats-“ Alfie begins.
“What?” Tommy cranes his neck and looks at him with this utterly dazed expression. Putting a firm hand on his head, Alfie pushes him back down again.
“Yeah, listen, I’ve put a lot of thought into this-“
“But I don’t… what does-“ Tommy attempts to raise his head again, but Alfie holds him.
“Hush now, you don’t have to understand shit, we’re just going to have this very casual conversation about goats in the middle of the fucking night.”
Because the talk about shovels against the wall can wait, until Tommy has gotten some sleep. Until the pitch black has given way to the usual, grey Birmingham morning, and Arthur comes to knock on the door just to fucking make sure Alfie never gets a moment of peace in this house. And they’ve had breakfast and Finn tells Tommy about this myriad of little things kids find important because he hasn’t seen him for so long- and John, with this very proud look on his face, will want him to look in the books, to see how well he’s handling it all on his own.
It can wait till the sun is up again. When things don't seem as frightening anymore.
Then they’ll see what can be done about the shovels. And dreams about the crushing weight of dirt and rock, forcing the air from Tommy’s lungs. Little by little, they’ll figure it out. Alfie may throw in a few glasses of whiskey to make the talking run a bit smoother. Means to an end, right?
But not now. Now, Tommy is just going to sleep. One way or another.
“So, goats, right. Well firstly, let’s just establish, that they’re the worst fucking animals on the planet, second only to birds perhaps. Those pea-brained, flying lumps of meat can all fall into a chimney and burn for all I care.” It’s just his usual bullshit, but he keeps his voice to a soft mutter, for Tommy’s ears only.
“I think it’s a bit unfair that you lump all birds together,” Tommy mumbles and his body becomes just a little heavier in Alfie’s arms as he relaxes. “Crows are very intelligent, from what I’ve heard.”
“Of course you fucking like crows.” Alfie scratches his back in slow, rhythmic movements. “They’re the ‘you’ of the bird-world. All dark and brooding. Hold grudges. Plot to take down their enemies with their fucking crow-friends. And a group is called a murder. Of course you fucking like them.”
“Thought you were going to talk about goats?” Tommy yawns, and sinks a bit deeper into the embrace. His eyes are closed now, and all the tension that has been etched on his face during so many of the recent nights just melts away.
“Sure, yeah, goats. Awful animals. Terrible. Have you ever looked a goat in the eye, eh? It’s like staring into a soulless bloody pit. Nothing at all goes on in that ugly head of theirs, you can fucking tell by that glassy-eyed stare. And what is their fucking point? What’s their purpose in this world of ours, but to look stupid and bother me with their existence?”
It’s a rhetorical question of course, but Tommy lets out a hum. His breathing is deep and steady now. Alfie smiles a little and lowers his voice to a whisper.
“See I once saw this goat- think it was at the races. Well not at the actual races, wouldn’t that be something? But in connection to them, yeah? And I thought to myself- why?“
He goes on like that, and his talent for turning seemingly pointless little anecdotes into full length novels seems to be coming to good use, because after a while, Tommy is asleep in his arms. Actually, fucking asleep. Alfie lies awake for a bit, listening to the sound of his calm breaths in the dark. Looks like he finally may have done something right.
The next morning, Alfie wakes up, and finds Tommy still asleep next to him, lips just slightly parted and long eyelashes resting against his cheeks. And fuck if it’s not the most beautiful sight in the world, and if Alfie isn’t the luckiest fucking bastard alive to have this man –no, this unearthly, ethereal creature- in his arms.
His left arm is completely asleep, the bicep still cushioning Tommy’s head, but he stays utterly still, afraid that even breathing the wrong way will wake him up. He can move his eyes, at least, and looks out the window. It’s morning, alright. Quite a bit into it too. The house is utterly silent. Odd now that he thinks of it –does no one in this bloody household have any business to attend to?
Of course, the moment he thinks it, there’s a fucking knock on the door.
And Tommy doesn’t wake up. Right, this is just some bloody miracle happening right here. A miracle, or just the simple workings of the human body: if you go long enough without sleep, and then finally manages to catch some, might as well make it count.
As carefully as he can, Alfie inches his arm out from under Tommy’s head. Tommy sleeps through that too.
Another knock, and Alfie strings together a pretty verse of curses in his head as he pulls his trousers on, not bothering with underwear. Would serve Arthur right if he just opened the door completely naked –but the man might fall into a dead faint, or start screaming. That’s definitely going to wake Tommy up.
He opens the door and finds Arthur standing outside with a hand raised, ready for another knock. Before he can utter a word, Alfie puts a finger to his lips, gesturing for him to shut the fuck up, and ushers him further out into the corridor. He carefully closes the door behind him as he follows.
“What are you-“ Arthur begins, far too loudly and Alfie solves the problem quite effectively by putting a hand over his mouth.
“For fucks sake, Arthur, keep your bloody voice down,” he hisses and ignores Arthur’s livid expression. “Tommy’s asleep, I’d like to keep it that way.” He removes his hand, not wanting to run the risk of Arthur biting him or something of the sorts.
“What are you still doing in bed?” Arthur starts over, but at least he’s whispering –quite aggressively- now. “Tommy never sleeps this late. We were supposed to go over the books now.” A suspicious look comes over his face. “What did you do?”
“Why do you ask questions we both know you don’t want the answer to, mate?”
“You could’ve at least made yourself decent before opening,” Arthur mutters surly.
“And you should just stop barging in on people in the morning, yeah? Unacceptable behaviour. You can’t possibly need Tommy to weigh in on things every single fucking morning- but yeah, that’s another discussion- for now, let’s just say there hasn’t been a lot of sleep the last few weeks-“
“Don’t tell me things like that, for fucks sake-” Arthur hisses and covers his eyes with a hand.
“It’s not exactly due to the pleasant reasons –well there’s been a lot of that too, of course-“ Alfie can’t help himself. Arthur’s eyes are going just a bit too wide. “Right, calm yourself mate. Point is, Tommy needs to sleep. Not sure how long we’ll be staying, but while we’re here, I’d very much appreciate it if you’d keep the racket, right, to a fucking minimum.”
Arthur nods, and this soft expression settles on his face.
“Of course,” he mutters, and adds after some thought. “It’s the nightmares, yeah?”
“There’s been some… developments. Not all good. But we’ll see.” Alfie sighs, and leads Arthur a little bit further down the hallway toward the stairs, away from Tommy’s bedroom.
“And since we’re here, yeah, having this conversation for some fucking reason… Feels like we’re having a bit of a moment. You ever up during the night? You feel like the type. Nervous fucking wreck and all.”
Arthur crosses his arms defensively, but does answer him, “Now and again.”
“If you… if you find him somewhere, in the kitchen or something, and he’s just there chain-smoking and staring anxiously at some bloody wall. Go wake me up, will you? Or just fucking sit with him, since you’re clearly not over whatever weird hang-up you’ve got about me. Just don’t leave him alone with it, alright? Tried that, don’t think it was such a good move.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Arthur says gruffly. But for once, he looks utterly calm. Alfie finds himself actually believing him.
“’Cause this is the deal right, you don’t fucking like me, and you don’t fucking trust me, yeah?” Alfie jabs his index finger into Arthur’s shoulder. “That’s what you said, eh? Or something along those lines. And make no mistake I sure as hell don’t like you either. But you care about Tommy. I figured as much. It’s all a bit misguided and unnecessarily aggressive, but it’s about that, this behaviour. Right?”
“Right”
“And we both know he can’t fucking take care of himself, yeah?” This statement is met by a nod. “So it’s sort of our obligation to do it for him. See, people like Tommy, who are all dazzling intelligence and ambition and big blue eyes that men drown in- Who are just a little above being human according to themselves… People like that need someone to keep them grounded, you see. To stop them from turning into this…” he gestures vaguely into the air. “This ether that just floats around in the air. Because they tend to forget it, but they’re just fucking people, yeah? So they need to sleep and eat and drink something besides whiskey just like everyone else. And they need someone to hold them when things are bad, even if they won’t fucking admit it-”
Alfie realises somewhere halfway through his impromptu little speech that he’s probably lost Arthur. He cuts it short.
“So, we good? We got a deal here?”
“Still don’t like you,” Arthur grunts. He raises his eyebrows.
“Still don’t like you either, mate.”
“But yeah.” Arthur nods. “We’re good.”
“Well that’s just grand. Now if you excuse me, I’m going to join Tommy in bed and figure out a few ways to keep him there. I’d stay out of earshot for a bit, if I were you. Thin walls, and all that.” Alfie gives Arthur a smirk and slaps his back, quite satisfied to see the blush creep up his neck, and leaves him there in the hallway.
Upon entering the bedroom just as quietly as he left it, he finds that Tommy is awake. Still in bed though. He looks up at Alfie through his lashes and gives him that kind of smile almost solely reserved for their bedroom.
“Are you wandering ‘round the house like that?” he yawns and levels his eyes appreciatively on Alfie’s bare chest.
“Just told Arthur to fuck off for a bit. Thought you could use some more time in bed.” Alfie grins and unbuttons his trousers. “Never fear, you know this is a sight reserved for your eyes only, love.”
“I’m a lucky man.” Tommy looks at him the way only he can, as if Alfie is some perfectly chiselled sculpture on a pedestal. Having those eyes on him will forever be the biggest boost to his ego. Letting his trousers drop to the floor, he walks over to the bed and lets himself be pulled down by Tommy’s hands until he’s settled on top of him. Tommy parts his knees to give him more room and Alfie thinks that this, this right here is the proper way to spend a morning.
With Tommy’s body, pliant and still warm from sleep, right close to his, he mutters. “Did you sleep alright?”
“I did.”
Alfie props his elbows on either side of Tommy’s head and studies him. Tries to read whether his telling the truth or not. There’s a softness to those blue eyes now. Sincerity, perhaps. “The shovels stopped for a bit, did they?”
A hand cradles the back of his neck and he rests his forehead against Tommy’s. “Yeah.” His voice is barely louder than a breath. “They did.”
Alfie believes him. And thinks that, sooner or later, they'll figure this out.