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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It took too long for his cigarette to light, trapped between his teeth. The flame shook between his hands, disturbed by the wind and his unsteady fingers, and for the life of him it wouldn't catch, not until he stopped on the side of the street and allowed its fire to take hold.
Merciful smoke filled his lungs a moment later, tainted oxygen feeling almost like the cleanest he had ever inhaled, right after his first gulp of fresh air outside those godforsaken tunnels. The car waited on the curb outside the Garrison, black and gleaming, but Tommy let it wait for a moment longer, closing his eyes for the briefest half-second. Just long enough for his nerves to ease, for his shaking hands to still.
Fuck this. Fuck all of this. It was ridiculous, foolish, Tommy's hands shaking like those of a normal man, unused to carnage and unbloodied by war. Everything would fall on his head if he fell prey to this parasitic weakness, crumbling beneath the strain the way Arthur had.
I'm fucking sinking here, man.
The gleam of Micky's tears flashed through Tommy's mind, followed by a bang, followed by the blood trickling slowly down his neck as he lay slumped and dead in that chair. Perhaps it was the same chair Grace had stood on to sing to him, all those years ago.
Happy or sad?
Sad.
Already, Charlie would be stoking the fire for Micky's body, ready to burn the black cat down to cinders. The business was done. It was over. The rat in their ranks had been filched out and killed, as well he should have been. It was a death well-deserved from the moment Micky picked up that phone and sold their secrets to their enemies. So why was Tommy still seeing his bloody face, hearing his fucking pleas and apologies? Christ.
Curling his free hand into a fist at his side, Tommy took a long drag from his cigarette and opened his eyes. He held the breath like a treasure in his lungs, taking in the dim light of Small Heath for that final moment, then started towards the car. The day was far from done: he had business to complete in Margate, and no time for the vices of regret and memory.
"Excuse me."
A voice cut into the grey light of the day, and Tommy stopped short by the front door of the car. For a moment, he didn't turn. It was a woman's voice: bell-like, young and clear, if slightly uncertain. One of the mothers of Small Heath come to ask a favour, perhaps, or a whore looking for a fix. As he turned to face her, Tommy reached into one of his coat pockets to pull forth a wad of cash.
And then he stopped, a surprised frown creasing his brow. The sky was overcast, the colour of an oncoming storm, his exhale heavy with smoke to match it. His cigarette paused on its descent, trapped between two fingers.
It was the girl from the asylum. That small, frail, brittle thing with her awful wounds and her doe eyes.
