soundtrack: sptfy.com/bbfch2

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟐:
 𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐬
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"Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God." -Romans 12:19

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Trixie assumed that she and Tommy would discuss the terms of their Lover's Quarrel in advance, but when she peered through her front window to find Tommy waiting in front of her door for her, she realized that she had been wrong. 

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, yanking the door open. "How do you know where I live?"

He pressed the door with his fingertips and Trixie, startled, moved out of the way, allowing it to swing past her so that Tommy could come in. "Do you think there's anything in this city I don't know?"

"I'm positive I can find something."

Tommy ignored her, inspecting her body. She hadn't yet gotten ready for the day—usually, she left around eight, and the sun had barely risen now. Nevertheless, Tommy was wearing his usual three-piece suit, looking as immaculately sharp as ever. In her striped pajamas—Luca's old nightclothes—she felt dreadfully out of place. This was improper, she knew. Tommy Shelby—or any man—should be seeing her in her nightclothes. But despite her dislike of him, she was afraid of him to some extent, especially without Polly around to defend her. "You're not ready," he remarked.

"You didn't tell me you were visiting," she retorted, turning her back on him and returning to the stove to find her water boiling over. Trixie pulled a bag of oats out from her cabinet and poured some into a bowl, following it with water from her kettle. "Why are you visiting?"

"Figured we could get the quarrel out of the way," he replied. When she turned, she found him looking at the few drawings she had tacked up on her wall. Luca had been something of an artist, sketching charcoal portraits of her and her father as gifts prior to his proposal. Trixie hadn't ever been able to afford a camera, so they were the only images of her likeness she owned.

"At seven-thirty?" she asked. "Sun's not even up."

"I'm an early riser." Something about the way he said it made Trixie feel like it assigned some sort of judgment towards her, but she didn't completely understand how. She ignored it. "The men at the cargo ports start working at seven. We should be at the Cut before they finish unloading their first batches."

Trixie sat down at the table, shoveling a spoonful of porridge into her mouth and considering. Men at the ports didn't gossip that much, did they? Certainly not enough to justify Tommy being at her house so early. The only other explanation was that he'd done this to, yet again, assert some sort of power over her. There he was, looking the way he did—and her, bare-faced and wearing her dead lover's pajamas.

He turned away from the portraits to find her eating her breakfast. "Care to hurry up?" he asked.

"Not particularly," she replied.

Tommy's lips flattened into a displeased line, but he didn't say anything, just pulled out the other chair and sat down in it. Trixie did her best not to flinch—she hadn't disturbed the chair's position since Luca's notice came in the mail all those months ago. But Tommy had just thrown himself into it as though he owned it. She didn't comment.

After a long moment under his scrutinizing gaze, Trixie pushed back, abandoning her oatmeal. "I'm going to get dressed. I swear to Christ, Tommy, if you look at me, I will sell you out to this copper myself."

For the first time since she'd known him, Tommy's lips quirked up into a slight smile. He looked so much younger for that moment, less god and more human. She'd overheard stories of how he'd changed from before the war, but she'd never asked Polly about how true they were. All she knew—all she'd ever known—was the cold-hearted, ruthless man who'd been glaring at her over a bowl of oatmeal. The humanity faded as quickly as it had arrived, and she brushed past him towards her armoire, pulling out a work dress and coat.

Tommy, to her relief, allowed her her modesty. She watched him over her shoulder as she shrugged off the nightshirt and replaced it with her brassiere and dress. The line of his back remained stiff and facing her sink. He looked so odd there in her kitchen, like a knife atop a pillow. Trixie remembered her father warning her, When the Devil comes knocking, turn him away. Yet another way she'd failed him.

After slipping on her stockings and shoes, she grabbed her hat and marched back over to her kitchen, her heels clicking threateningly as she went. "Fine," she said. "Let's go."

The chair skidded noisily across the floor as he stood, and she hissed in a breath. Tommy gave her a look of exasperation, collecting his own coat and heading for the door. Outside, Trixie's upstairs neighbor was pissing on the trash bins, muttering to himself absently. She kept a careful distance from Tommy, noting yet again that the sky was gray. At this rate, she wouldn't see the sun again until she died—and honestly, with the person she'd become, she sorely doubted she'd be let into heaven.

"What are we quarreling about?" she asked as they made a turn along the sidewalk. "Lover."

Tommy's face hardened, and she felt a pang of annoyance at the way everybody skittered out of their way to make room for him. She didn't blame them, but she had little appreciation for men and their politics of intimidation. "It would only be believable if you were upset with me."

Her eyes flew to him. "What?"

"If I was angry with you, I would be done with you. I wouldn't waste time with an argument," he responded smoothly.

Her jaw dropped the slightest bit. "You are the most arrogant man I've ever met." she gasped. "For Christ's sake."

"It's true," he said, his eyes still focused on the skyline through the haze of smoke and clouds. "You're only proving my point."

Trixie stared at him for another few seconds, and when he didn't react, she huffed and folded her arms across her chest. "You're unbelievable." They swung over to the road that walked along the canal, her footsteps growing quicker the angrier she got.

"You're mad at me," Tommy said. "Are you not?"

"I wouldn't waste my time arguing with you if it weren't my job," she informed him. "Why do you think I do so much work to avoid you?"

"Same reason they do," he replied, jutting his chin out at a group of men skittering to the side and nodding politely at him. "Gentlemen."

"Mr. Shelby," they each greeted.

Trixie skidded to a stop. "You don't think I'm afraid of you, do you?" she asked. Tommy sighed, pausing his steps to wait for her to finish her outburst. She waited for him to say something, and he offered her an arched eyebrow in reply. It was answer enough. "I'm not," she promised. "You may be able to fool everybody else in this damn city, but you cannot fool me, Mr. Shelby. I see you for what you are."

"And what's that?" he returned, the corner of his mouth turning up the slightest bit. Trixie faltered. Arrogant. Hubristic. A total and complete arse. She had answers, but as he stepped closer toward her they all seemed to die on her tongue. Now they were chest-to-chest, and he was staring down at her and waiting.

"You—" She stopped. "You're a bastard, Tommy Shelby. You're a bastard playing god, and you don't scare me."

His movements were sudden, three long steps that pushed Trixie towards the canal until the wall was digging into her back. He leaned in and she leered away, losing her balance and wobbling across the edge. The wind escaped her lungs, her pulse kicking heavy in her chest. When she didn't fall, she looked down to find one of Tommy's hands caressing her neck under the guise of a chokehold and the other planted firmly against the small of her back to keep her from topping backways into the Cut. Tommy Shelby was a great many things, but gentle wasn't one of them. Trixie glared at him and he pressed the pads of his fingers into her neck, white-hot against her skin. Not so much like a threat—more like a promise.

The fact of the matter was that Trixie had not felt another's skin on her own since Luca left for the war. She kept her gloves on with the sole exception of working with money, and even now, the satin fabric protected her as she gripped the jagged brick wall hastily, trying to stay still. Her eyes sunk shut and she leaned into the touch almost instinctively, enjoying the way his heat cut through the cold, before she realized what she was doing—who she was reacting to—and snapped them open again. Tommy's face hovered mere inches from hers, his eyes studying her closely. She recognized something in him—was it victory? Was it power? Something else?

"You could look less like you're enjoying this, you know," she informed him, only vaguely registering that he quite literally held her life in his hands. Her pulse raced, less from alarm and more from the thrill of closeness. Over his shoulders, passers-by watched the situation curiously.

"Funny," Tommy replied, though his face remained blank. "I was about to say the same to you." Leaning in close to her ear, breath hot, he mumbled, "Are you still feeling brave?"

She was grateful not to be fair like Ada, or else the blush on her cheeks would've given her away—given something away, at least. Tommy released her neck and pulled her back towards him. Trixie stumbled forward into his chest with a grunt.

"Jesus," she swore, her mouth pressed against his breast pocket. She caught a whiff of his cologne, subtle and deep and expensive; to her horror, she found herself enjoying the scent. After finding her footing, she stood up straight, fixing him with a glare. He remained unaffected. "I don't think you would've done it," she stated. "Thrown me in, I mean."

"Why not?" he drawled, smoothing down her coat. She jerked away from him and did it herself. Once she'd flattened out the creases and brushed any gravel off her dress, she turned back to him.

This time, she pushed up towards his face, testing to see how still he would remain. "Because," she said. "You need me."

Tommy turned his head and flicked his cigarette past her into the canal. "We have never needed you, Miss Price," he replied. "You're only around because Polly needed an assistant."

"Accountant," she corrected. "Don't you dare treat me like I'm nothing."

He paused, and Trixie braced for him to try and cut her down with an insult, but instead, he gave a half-shrug. "We'll see how useful you can make yourself with this new copper."

She bristled. She was something—even apart from work. Even apart from the people she'd lost, and the haunted apartment, the church she now avoided. She was Beatrice Price; she wanted things like blue skies and a trip to the sea, nice hats, and something to believe in. Tommy Shelby didn't get to assign her value. Shoving past him, she carried on down the street toward, ignoring the loud heavy click of her heels on the concrete and hurrying along.

To her annoyance, Tommy's long strides caught up easily, and looked much calmer than her own staccato steps. She didn't say anything to him as he stuck beside her, just tried to resist the urge to attempt to strangle him. As much as she would enjoy it, she was doubtful of her ability to do so successfully, and also, it would definitely warrant her being either forcibly removed from the Peaky Blinders or simply killed by them. Neither consequence seemed all too appealing.

"Where are you going?" Tommy asked, as Trixie split off from him and headed in the direction of the Garrison instead of the headquarters on Watery Lane.

"I need a drink," she responded. "And since I have an hour before I'm due at work, thanks to you, I figure I'll kill my time at the pub."

"Alright," he replied, shrugging. "Goodbye then, dear." He ducked his head towards her and leered away.

"What the hell are you doing?" she hissed.

"Eyes on us," he mumbled, taking advantage of her momentary confusion to press a chaste kiss on the side of her face. When he pulled away, Trixie craned her neck and found a group of women watching them intently from the corner. They disbanded as soon as she started staring, all suddenly keeping to themselves. Trixe turned back around, hoping to give Tommy a piece of her mind, but he had already started down the street towards the office. Trixie stood flabbergasted, staring after him. What in the world had just happened?

Still trying to decode his odd behavior, she turned slowly back towards the Garrison and pulled the door open. Inside, men from the shipyards were already drinking and the stench of whiskey lingered, heavy. She sat down at the bar and crossed her ankles delicately, waiting for Harry to finish with the man at the end of the counter.

"Can I help you?"

Trixie jumped in her seat. The person speaking to her was decidedly not Harry, but a pretty blonde with an Irish lilt to her voice. "Who are you?" she asked, before she could help herself.

"Grace," she replied. "I just started working here."

"Huh," said Trixie, nodding slowly. "Alright. Can I have a coffee?"

"Yes, ma'am," Grace said, nodding and busying herself with making her drink.

Harry came to greet her soon after, pointing at Grace behind him. "She's a nice girl, isn't she?"

Trixie nodded, but responded, "Not sure how many nice girls end up working in bars like this. Where's she from?"

"Galway," Harry replied. "I warned her about working here, but she was awfully insistent. She had references and everything." They both watched her, humming as she brewed a pot of coffee and poured some into a mug for Trixie. Though Harry seemed pleased with the woman, Trixie couldn't help but wonder why anyone would be insistent to work in the Garrison. Even when she'd tried to get hired the previous year—given, it had been under different management—she'd been doing so as a last resort before prostitution. If she'd had references and been white, she certainly wouldn't have chosen the Garrison.

So it felt strange and somehow wrong that Grace went out of her way to be working here. She wanted something. She had to be wanting something. And Trixie needed to find out what, exactly, that was. Paired with the sudden arrival of an Irish cop? She doubted that this new girl's intentions were good.

"Did you run this by Tommy?" Trixie asked. Harry hesitated, which meant no. Which meant that this was news for Trixie to deliver, and hopefully, another way for her to stay useful.

"Do you think he'll be upset?" asked Harry.

"Not if she doesn't make any trouble," Trixie replied. Tommy was a prick, yes, and he liked to find things that were wrong with her, but that tendency didn't seem to apply to anybody else. In fact, he was relatively well-tempered, so long as nobody got into his way.

Harry tapped the counter, nodding thoughtfully. Whatever happened, Trixie needed to beat him to breaking the news to Polly.

"Milk and sugar?" Grace asked, and Harry took leave to the office.

Trixie hesitated. "Milk, no sugar."

Grace nodded, retrieving a carton and pouring a bit into the cup. She delivered it to Trixie and smiled nervously.

"What brings you to Birmingham?" Trixie asked, stirring her coffee and feigning innocent curiosity. The woman was a pretty blonde, thin but clearly not starving. Her clothes were bright and neatly pressed, and they fit her well enough that Trixie could recognize that they were tailored.

"Oh, I just needed a change of environment," Grace admitted.

"And you chose here, of all places?"

She shrugged and Trixie noted her pause. "I wanted to try living in a city, but London overwhelms me. Do you like it here?"

If she was working with the new Chief Inspector, Trixie could start feeding false information to her and see what happened with it. "It's not bad," she said, choosing her words carefully. "My fiance's family is here, so I don't mind it much. Weather's dreadful, though."

"Congratulations on the engagement," Grace commented politely. "When's the wedding?"

"We haven't set a date yet," Trixie replied flippantly. "He gets quite busy with work."

"What kind?"

Trixie paused. "Business," she answered eventually. "He's quite powerful around here."

"Would I have heard of him?" Grace asked.

"Maybe," Trixie said, playing coy. "His name is Thomas Shelby." She did her best not to let the disgust show on her face: the very thought of Tommy annoyed her, but the idea of marrying him? That was nearly too much to process.

She watched Grace's reaction carefully, waiting to see how she responded to the use of the Shelby name. Suddenly, she was very focused on finding a rag with which to wipe down the bar, even though Trixie couldn't see anyone who had spilled anything recently. It was still a hunch; maybe she'd heard of Tommy since her arrival but was only reacting because of the reputation he maintained. Or maybe she'd come here for the Shelbys. Either way, it was clear that they couldn't trust her.

Trixie took a long sip of her coffee, enjoying the burn against her tongue. "Thank you for the coffee," she said. "If you'll excuse me."

"Right, um..." Grace trailed off. "It's just...you didn't pay."

"Harry?" Trixie called, holding Grace's nervous eyes. "How much for the coffee?"

"On the house, Miss Price," Harry answered immediately. "Send my best to Polly and the rest, yeah?"

"Always, Harry," she returned, standing from the chair and collecting her purse. "Nice to meet you, Grace," she saluted.

"You too, Miss Price," the woman responded, still sounding slightly confused. The nod she sent Trixie looked almost like a bow. She tried not to smile at it. Though she loathed to be associated with Tommy in most cases, the free coffee she'd earned through her association with the Peaky Blinders was a perk. Polly would have Harry's head if Trixie complained. It was a power she tried to abuse in moderation. And anyway—Grace would learn soon enough of the type of service Trixie expected.

Outside, Trixie pulled another cigarette from her purse and walked hastily towards 5 Watery Lane. She should've known that eventually, their behavior would catch up to them. They couldn't pay off the cops forever, but they had certainly tried. Trouble had come to Birmingham; Arthur was right, but Trixie worried that it hadn't taken the form of a Chief Inspector, but the form of a pretty Irish barmaid.

When she reached the door, signing the cross on the way in as always, she marched straight to Polly's office and threw the door open.

"Dear God," Polly cried, already grabbing her gun and pointing it in Trixie's direction. "You scared me half to death," she admonished, dropping the weapon and setting it back down on the desk with a heavy thud.

"I've discovered something," Trixie explained. "Sorry for my entrance," she added.

"Come," Polly invited, gesturing towards the chair. "Sit down."

Trixie followed her instructions and sat down, her spine straight and her purse on her lap. "I went to the Garrison for coffee this morning and I found that there's a new barmaid from Ireland. Harry said she arrived yesterday and insisted on working there. She seemed to be making quite an effort to play dumb when I mentioned the Shelby name."

"Huh," Polly mused, after a long moment. "Where in Ireland is she from?"

"Harry says Galway," Trixie responded. "But she didn't have a good answer for why she'd come here. Just that she wanted to live in a city."

"Nobody wants to live in this city," said Polly.

"Exactly," Trixie agreed. "I think she may be working with him. The Chief Inspector, I mean. Perhaps as some sort of spy? I'm not entirely sure, but I think we need to be careful when it comes to her."

Polly nodded slowly, leaning back in her chair. "Well, alright," she agreed. "You want to watch her?"

"I mean, I could," Trixie said. "I could try to give her information and see what happens with it. But only if you think that's the best plan."

"I'll talk it over with Tommy," Polly agreed. Trixie smothered a sigh, which drew a smirk from the older woman. "He mentioned that the quarrel went well," she shared, changing the subject.

"Is that what he said?" Trixie drawled, unimpressed. "I'd be quick to disagree."

The knowing smile on Polly's lips cooled Trixie's frustration. "I should say that he found it believable. Well may not be the right word." She leaned forward, putting her elbows on the desk. "He says you didn't apologize for the fight."

At that, Trixie broke down and snorted out a laugh. "Apologize for what, exactly? He's the one who nearly threw me into the canal by my neck."

"Well," said Polly. "That does seem unnecessary."

"It was," Trixie assured her. "He just likes the attention."

"Quite the contrary," Polly disagreed. "You're right about Tommy often, you know, but this is one of those times where I have to say you've assessed him incorrectly. Tommy doesn't do anything for flair unless it's deliberate."

Trixie took a drag of her cigarette and blew out the smoke. "So why did he nearly throw me into the canal? Was that deliberate?"

Polly shrugged. "Depends on who was around to see it."

This wasn't how she wanted Polly to respond to her summary of the morning's events, but Trixie didn't bother changing her mind. Polly would do as she pleased, and Trixie was along for the ride. It had done her more harm than good over the last year. She couldn't complain about much, except maybe the rats in her apartment walls.

"Fair enough," she conceded. Though she had no plans to hold it against Polly, she certainly held resentment towards Tommy for the incident. Or—she thought it was resentment. All she knew was that he burned to the touch, and that had to mean anger, right? "I'll head into the parlor, Polly. Will I see you after work?"

"We'll see," said Polly. "Depends on how the day goes."

With a nod, Trixie stood and gathered her things before heading down the hallway towards the parlor. Inside, things were quiet. Numbers had not yet begun rolling in, but when the round of breakfast drinking concluded, they would be sure to see bets in large swathes, especially given Monaghan Boy's excellent performance in the last few races.

As she removed her gloves, Trixie almost hesitated. She had been touched that morning, for the first time in over a year—by Tommy, no less. It felt wrong to know all that and still bare her hands for the workday.

Despite the guilt, she slipped the gloves off, trying to discreetly press her fingers into the side of her neck, where Tommy's own hand had been not long ago. Her own skin didn't burn like his. Somehow, the feeling was almost...disappointing?

No, Trixie scolded herself. She wasn't disappointed by the absence of Tommy; she would never be disappointed by the absence of Tommy. It wasn't worse without the burn.

It just wasn't quite the same, either.

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A/N: hello everyone thank you so much for reading! as i mentioned before, we are going to be going a bit au but i do love grace so i will be doing my best to honor and respect her character even though she won't be tommy's love interest in this story.

anyway, if you feel so inclined, please leave a comment letting me know what you thought of the tommy/trixie and grace/trixie scenes in this chapter :) 

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Chapter Three / Various Storms & Saints

"I'm Inspector Campbell," the man said, sitting beside Trixie in the church pew and interrupting her Hail Mary. "I heard you were having some problems with your husband, and I wanted to make you an offer."

Beneath her veil, Trixie struggled to suppress a smile. "Fiancé," she corrected. "But you were right when you said we're having problems."