you are haunted like every other holy thing.
what tried to destroy you didn't have the strength.
still you stand,
sturdy and smelling of smoke.
- little bird, clementine von radics
༒
in which tommy shelby finds his asylum
in the ver...
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"There's someone for you, Mr Shelby—"
"I know, Frances," Tommy said without slowing. The front door slammed closed behind him as he walked, moving straight to the closed entrance to his study. His skin was cold and his hair tossed from the sharp wind outside, but he couldn't afford to delay. Weeks of dread and expectation culminated in that waiting door.
"Daddy!"
Fuck. Tommy slowed mid-step and turned. Unlike her older brother, it seemed Ruby had not yet found herself repelled by the sins of the father. He was sure it was only a matter of time. Rather than coax a smile to his lips, the sight of his daughter—barefoot in her nightdress, awake long after she should have been put to sleep—made his heart twist. He could see the shadow of her mother on the stairs behind her.
He turned away.
"Keep Lizzie and the children upstairs," Tommy said in a low voice to Frances as he strode past, running a hand over his aching eyes. The footsteps slowed, but he didn't glance back to catch a glimpse of his daughter's disappointment. He could picture it well enough.
Before the housekeeper could say anything more, Tommy reached the door and shoved it open, stepping from the gold-lit foyer into darkness. Only the hearth and two candelabras burned with light; the rest of the study remained cloaked in shadows, but for a lone silhouette seated opposite the desk, his shoulders framed against the window.
The heavy door swung shut, cutting short Frances's hushed platitudes to Ruby. Wordlessly, Tommy pulled off his coat, draped it over the back of one of the opulent armchairs, then strode towards the half-empty bottle of whiskey in the corner and poured himself a glass. He did not remove the holstered pistols from his sides.
The fire crackled in the hearth.
"Not even a greeting for a friend, Mr Shelby?"
Rather than turn, Tommy only drained his glass of its contents and poured himself another. Seated opposite the desk, Oswald Mosley tutted.
"Well. It seems only one of us is in good spirits." Though he stared vacantly at the fire, Tommy glimpsed movement from the corner of his eye as Mosley turned halfway and raised his glass. "Come. We have endeared ourselves to the public, and now we must drink in its name."
For a moment, there was nothing more than the sounds of the fire as both men drank, though Tommy for reasons of his own. It would be impossible to completely take the edge off, he knew, but he could certainly try.
Paper rustled, and Tommy turned instinctively, his eyes narrowed towards the desk. If his guest had wished to look through the documents scattered across the mahogany surface, he surely would have done so long before Tommy had entered the room. Nonetheless, Tommy's hackles raised—only to see one narrow hand patting a folded newspaper.
"Lord Rothermere seems rather fond of us," Mosley said coolly, without glancing up from the paper. "He's reached out to me several times in support of the cause, you know. And I hear Mussolini is quite a friend of his."
