Chapter Text
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He'd been sitting in his office at Arrow House for a while now, smoking and drinking while looking out the window, staring into nothing. The ticking of the clock echoed down the hall. The doctor had told him it'd only be a matter of time before he started cycling again and he'd been right. Now that Grace was dead, he'd also said that, when that time finally came, he'd have to make a choice, for he'd remained unmarked. Thus, even though it'd return gradually, given his age, it'd come strong, since he was still fairly young and had no real attachments.
So, the man had added, he had three possible solutions to choose from when it hit full force or became unbearable: he could go back to suppressants and blockers, find an alpha to mollify most of the physical symptoms, or seek for isolation during a couple of days and wait it out. However, though it still remained undecided, he was starting to feel that vaguely familiar pull of lust and he’d started to shuffle possible courses of action.
Reason called for mandatory isolation ruled by mourning, but body and spirit thought there was wasn't much to lose in trying to allure a trustworthy alpha to do the job in the long run. He'd be able to keep the senses his recovering status had honed so much, such as the sense of smell his years of cigarette abuse had dulled to numbness and the newfound capacity to see even further into the possible consequences of his schemes and machinations, which only turned him into an even better strategist. Still, it surprised him to realize he'd almost forgotten what it was, for he'd gone into suppressants when he was very young and even tried illegal methods of chemical sterilization before going to the war, trying hard to conceal and ignore that part of himself.
However, it was there. It was back. He could feel it and it was far from being as tortuous as he remembered. His skin was getting hotter by the hour and everything started to feel and look so sensual it was hardly unpleasant. The grazing of fabric against the skin was also becoming harder to overlook so, he stood up, downing his drink, and headed outside, into the gardens. Holding a cigarette between his lips, he unbuttoned his vest and shirt, right before crossing the threshold.
When he stepped outside the door, the flesh, finally free, seemed to feed on the coolness of late hours. He walked and smoked until he leaned onto one of the fountains, splashing some cold water on his burning skin, rubbing it down his chest and abdomen absentmindedly, sighing at the bite of winter frost. Estrus and alcohol numbed him out; too hot and drunk not to revel in the cold breeze. The wind fanned the heat away in waves, as if struggling to put out flame. Tommy walked into the darkness beyond the trees, drawing a long and last toke of smoke before tossing the cigarette away. Ambers flashed in the dark before he stood still, breathing vaporous huffs into the night air as he studied the horizon.
He'd been drinking for weeks now. It had been a month since Grace died, or had it been a week? A year, perhaps? It certainly felt like it, but he'd been putting too much alcohol and drugs in between to remember. He only had head for business now and he had to meet Alfie the next day to settle on some embarkment. He’d call, but he wouldn’t handle it through the phone. Last time he did, it had played against him. Besides, something deep down told him it was better to talk to him face to face. He’d done his fair share of thinking and he hadn’t seen or thought about the man since before the funeral. Now, the memory of Alfie came to speak of an old certainty of his past. No matter how much he’d lost, the world remained the same and Alfie still ran that bakery in Camden Town.