soundtrack: sptfy.com/bbf28

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟖
𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬
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"Be kind and tenderhearted to one another." —Ephesians 4:32

It took a long time for either to move from the caravan. Trixie knew it wasn't wise to idle—Johnny Dogs and the other Lees would probably start to worry and try to find them, but the sun had begun to set around them and glorious pink light was streaming in from the gaps between the canvas walls. Tommy looked so young and happy, smiling lazily around his cigarette.

For once, she didn't want to say something to upset him. What seemed to keep him at peace? Everything he seemed to like involved danger, or risk, or suffering—horses, money, power. He'd been clear about his feelings on the house, she supposed. "It'll be strange to see the sunset," Trixie remarked. "When I live out here."

At her side, he seemed to stiffen. "Right."

"You can't see it in Birmingham," she explained. "It's always just gray and then black."

Tommy was quiet for a long moment, so still she twisted around to check he hadn't fallen asleep mid-conversation with a burning cigarette in his hand. "What else will you do? In your house."

Trixie shrugged. "Cook a lot. Read. Maybe I'll keep a garden."

He grunted an acknowledgement.

"Get that cat I mentioned."

"I see."

"What will you do when I'm gone?" she asked, suddenly all-too-aware of how she was holding her face, trying so hard not to let the inevitable sting show.

He said nothing for a long stretch of minutes, before replying, "Find a new accountant."

Trixie shifted onto her back so she could avoid his eyes. A thousand pathetic, horrifying things came to mind. Care about me, she willed. Say you'll miss me. Ask me to stay. But he didn't, and he wouldn't, and she knew he wouldn't, and wanted it anyway. Cruelty twisted her words, and all notions of keeping Tommy happy disappeared. "I suppose I'll only be in the house until I marry." She swallowed. "It's strange to think I'll have a husband one day. That I'll have his children. And everything I've done before, everything I've been with you, will become just a secret that I get further and further away from, until the memory's gone."

She waited patiently for him to react, to tell her that it wasn't any of his concern what happened to the house and whose children she had after he bought it for her, to say something, but instead he sat up. And pulled his shirt off her chest. And got dressed. "Let's go," he commanded.

She gaped, still naked, her clothes strewn across the caravan floor. When he waved a hand expectantly at his side, she moved, trying not to shake as she dressed. The soreness between her legs was a reminder that less than an hour ago he'd been calling her his wife and touching her like he couldn't help himself; now, he was back to being a stranger. Trixie chided herself for expecting any different.

"Mind telling me what crawled up your arse and died in there in the last thirty seconds?" she muttered as she found her footing on the dirt road. One of her hands was still struggling with the buttons on her dress, and she waited for Tommy to offer to help her just to put her out of her misery, but he was too busy lighting yet another cigarette and glaring off at some point in the distant field. "You know, I worry every day about the poor woman that actually gets stuck with you. She's going to be left rotting away inside the palace you gift her while you're off brooding and sleeping with prostitutes and bloodying your hands." Stop talking, she willed herself. You were supposed to negotiate. Not upset Tommy until he refused to look at her. But now she'd pushed too hard, and she couldn't back down until he said something, snapped at her and told her how he felt. "Can you imagine her raising your children? Those poor babies, they'll be traumatized—"

Abruptly, Tommy shot out his hand and grabbed Trixie by the waist, holding her body against him, his forearm like an iron bar that kept her from wiggling free.

"There you go, Tommy," she taunted, searching his blue eyes desperately for signs of life. "Prove you're still human. Prove you're still alive."

He released her, pushing her away, and spun off, muttering a curse under his breath. "Christ." Tommy waved a hand. "You think I'm dead? I can't be dead. If I was, this deal wouldn't be ruining my fucking life!"

His words hit her the same time as the wind, the sky growing a baby blue over his shoulders. Trixie, for once, was lost for words. So instead, she said, "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"We need you," he confessed, his voice broken as he quieted. Trixie smothered the smile that threatened to rise to her lips. We need you, we need you, we need you. Thank God. "Strategically, we can't get any better than you. They're lying already, saying the IRA men were killed by cops, not us, because they don't want to admit that it was you. Look at all you've done. Look at all you've done, Beatrice! And nobody in London even knows your fucking name." He took several strides towards her, so quickly that Trixie stepped back on impulse, like she was being chased, but he caught her wrists in his hands and said, "We need you. And you still can't stop talking about the fucking house."

"I don't even want the fucking house anymore!" she shouted against the wind. "That's what I've been trying to tell you, you bloody idiot." Their chests were rising and falling with an urgency she could only remember from the night at the pub, back when they were covered in blood, and Trixie realized very suddenly how cold it was becoming, and Tommy's grip on her wrists was beginning to hurt. "Ow," she pronounced.

"Sorry," Tommy said, taking a step back. "What?"

Trixie laughed, furious beyond comprehension and relieved beyond words. "I don't want to leave. I stopped wanting to leave approximately two weeks after I agreed to go."

"Why wouldn't you want to get out of this?" he asked, huffing like he was struggling for breath.

Because of Polly. Because of Finn. Because of you. Trixie grit her teeth. "I worked on this expansion. I deserve the profits. I deserve the benefit."

Tommy ran a hand through his hair. "You do," he conceded, seeming to calm down. "You do."

"I know I do," Trixie sneered in reply. Another thought occurred to her—If I'm not leaving, when are we getting divorced?—but she didn't ask. Didn't even want to, and besides, Johnny Dogs was coming around a bend in the road with his hand on his gun.

"Boss?" he called out cautiously. "Mr. Shelby?"

"Yeah," Tommy replied, reluctantly tearing his eyes from Trixie. "We're all good here, Johnny. Just a lovers' quarrel."

Trixie snorted. Johnny's eyes drifted to her curiously, like he wanted to verify the story, and she nodded. "I didn't realize the time," she said. "We'll head back now."

"Alright," said Johnny. "I wanted to tell you, though, they've figured out what's wrong with her. It's worms, they say, and if she takes us back in this condition she won't make it." As he laced a rope through the caravan juncture, Trixie breathed a sigh of relief. Her shoes weren't meant for this sort of activity. "They've offered a guest room for the night that you and Mrs. Shelby can take, and we'll sleep in the van. We can catch one of the milk-carts back in the morning. My uncle works at the dairy, they'll take us."

He started pulling, and Trixie smiled and followed. Since the Lee alliance had been formed, she'd begun to wonder what, exactly, the others thought of her. Most of Birmingham steered clear by her mere association with the Peaky Blinders, but the Shelby family knew she was more than just a scorned wife—or was it less? The Lees, however, had been introduced to her in countless ways: accountant, bride, friend, ally. Did Johnny Dogs know of what she'd done? Or was she truly just Tommy's wife?

"That'll be alright," Tommy said. "They'll be compensated for the trouble, yeah?"

"Oh, yeah," said Johnny. "They offered to keep the horse. Nurse her back."

Tommy nodded. "Alright. Get them some cash, too. Beatrice? Can you put that in the books?"

"The books have fallen apart since you gifted the Garrison to your brother," she retorted. "But I will make a sincere effort to include that information, once you give me an amount."

"Good man," Tommy said, clapping Johnny on the shoulder. Trixie was glad they were moving, glad they had a plan, but she wanted to ask Tommy more about his sudden change of heart. As relieved as she was, the longer it set in, the more suspicious she became. Her husband—and that meant something by now, didn't it?—walked on ahead of her, seemingly oblivious to her stare. What do you want from me? What did they want from each other?

Trixie followed that thread until it led her back to the Proctor's House, where the other Lee men were waiting out front. Mrs. Proctor sat outside on the porch, her dress blowing back in the wind, one hand holding her hat to her head as she watched the commotion outside. Trixie was grateful for her graciousness now more than ever—had they been stranded on the side of the road, it might've driven her insane. "Hello, dear," she greeted, when she saw Trixie approaching. "Have you heard the news about your old girl?"

"I heard she's sick," Trixie replied. "I don't know much about horses, though. The boys tried to explain it to me but it mostly goes over my head."

"Well, she's sick, indeed. That's mostly what you need to know." She put a hand on Trixie's arm and shuffled toward the door. "We have shepherd's pie, if you're hungry. Your husband offered us so much money, I'd feel terrible if you weren't well fed."

"Thank you, ma'am," said Trixie, "but really, we've been such an imposition already. You've already offered more than enough."

She clicked her tongue. "No. You must eat."

So she did, silently, across the table from Tommy, before they were both led to the guest bedroom downstairs. Trixie ran a gentle hand over the bedspread as Tommy undressed to his drawers, her eyes on the full moon outside the window. It sat on the horizon like a wide-open eye of God, watching her carefully, warning her of what was coming. Before she could think the better of it, Trixie drew the curtains shut.

When she turned, she found Tommy folding his shirt neatly and placing it on the boudoir. She ought to strip too, she knew, but without the franticness of pre-coital urgency, it felt so much more humiliating. "Don't look," she said.

Tommy stilled his hand on the shirt, raising a curious eyebrow, before settling on the bed and facing the opposite wall. Trixie took her time unbuttoning her dress, the fabric shwoop-ing as it landed on the floor in a heap. Should she keep her stockings on? Her garters? She hadn't realized how long she'd spent puzzling over the question until Tommy grunted, "Can I turn around yet?"

"Alright," she said, though she was barely less clothed than before. While he watched, Trixie slipped a hand up her side to unhook the garter belt, taking the suspenders with her before setting on the bed and sliding the stockings down her legs. She tossed them atop the dress haphazardly, desperate to be covered by the blanket before Tommy could remark on her body. "Goodnight, I suppose," she said, diving for the sheets.

Tommy said nothing, but she could imagine the expression of exasperation on his face as he slid in beside her. Now he was a furnace, and she was struggling not to shiver. For hours, or minutes, or days—Trixie couldn't tell now that the moon had been covered—they lay beside each other, feigning sleep, knowing that the other was awake. She could tell he was bracing for nightmares. And what was she waiting for? Trixie didn't know. She just knew she couldn't sleep yet.

"What are you imagining?" she asked, her voice coming out a pathetic grade just above a whisper, so obviously labored. Her cheeks warmed.

"My mother knew the constellations," Tommy said in reply. "She grew up out here in the country."

Trixie held her breath. This felt too sacred for something so trivial as an exhale.

"I don't remember the ones she taught me. Not that it matters in Birmingham. She was a different person when I was young. Might've even been happy."

He was offering her a secret like a knife. Trixie took it gently and tucked it far away where it could not be touched or hurt. "What were you like as a child?" she asked.

Tommy inhaled, and she rolled over onto her side to watch him. In the dark, he met her eyes. "Arthur's friends used to beat me black and blue. I was quiet. I was my mother's favorite. I wanted to learn to read."

"I wish I had known you then," she said, only it came out a whisper. "I think I would've liked you." I think I could've saved you. They were always meant to be the same, it was only a matter of who got to the other first. "I saw you once when we were younger." This was a secret Trixie meant never to tell, meant to keep it buried in the deepest parts of her heart until it stopped beating. But it was spilling out of her mouth now, taking on a life of its own. "You and your brothers were throwing rocks into the cut. I was getting wine for the church. You made them stop because you didn't want them to hit me on the other side." When she pushed the breath from her lungs, they shivered. "I was so young then. Maybe six. You were thirteen, I think."

"I don't remember," Tommy said.

"It's alright."

"'M sorry." Trixie searched the quiet for the ticking of a clock, since there were no cars or horses or fights outside to keep her company. But Tommy spoke again. "I don't sleep. Not since the war. But I sleep when you're here." He reached out for her face, settling his calloused palm on her cheek. "You saved my life."

"I want you alive," Trixie admitted. "You may not like me, but you know me better than anybody else. That doesn't come easy. Being seen isn't—it's not easy. But you do."

He brushed his thumb over the swell of her cheekbone, the scar there, that reminder of how far she was willing to go for him. "Where have you been, Beatrice?" he rasped. "I've been looking for you."

"You found me." Trixie covered his hand with her own and turned her head to press a kiss to his palm. "I'm here. You found me."

"And you'll stay?"

She nodded. It was almost involuntary, like she was bound to him. There was a shadow he cast over the world that made everything sharper, and she had made her home in that dark. "Sleep," she told him. "You never rest."

"I'll sleep when I'm dead," Tommy murmured. "Not dead yet."

So they didn't sleep, not really, just watched each other as the slats of light through the window shifted across their faces, and Trixie held his hand tightly and kissed the crease of his brow, and maybe she drifted—into dreams of chickens in the yard and pink mornings and the cobbled streets of Birmingham—but she did not stray for long, returning always to the man in bed beside her, her husband, her keeper.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

"What the fuck is that?" Trixie whispered. The crowing outside was getting louder, jerking her from her daze violently just as the first rays of pink had begun to enter the window.

Tommy opened one eye. "Rooster. They crow at dawn. Farmers always wake early."

As if on cue, several loud creaks emitted from the staircase as someone descended with heavy footfalls. "We should go," she said. "Milk carts will be here soon."

Though he said nothing, Tommy seemed to agree, if the fact that he rose from the bed and began dressing was any indication. Trixie followed, her poor dress hopelessly wrinkled by their romp in the caravan and its general mistreatment over the last twenty-four hours. She wished for some perfume, but knew she would have to settle for a long soak in the bath as soon as she got home. How long that would take, she wasn't sure, but she hoped that John had done his part and cleared the way for their return. Arthur's sudden departure had made the whole affair slightly more complicated, but Trixie had faith in the Peaky Blinders. It was the least she could do, after all the trust they'd put in her.

She could feel his eyes on her as she dressed, drawing the stockings back up her legs and clipping them delicately to the belt. Her clothes smelled like his cologne, she noticed, pulling the dress back up her body. "Let me," he interrupted, when she reached for the buttons.

This was what she used to do for Luca. Button his shirts, knot his ties. They would make jokes as she did, about the day ahead or the morning news. The milliner she went to once told her that men's buttons were inverted so that it would be easier for women to dress their husbands—to give, to serve. It had never felt like a language of power with Luca, but did now. Tommy's hands on the pearls, slipping them into their clasps—it all felt like submission. "Thank you," she whispered. "You didn't have to."

He said nothing. Trixie covered his hand with hers. This man would disappear when they opened the door, left the room. Tommy—this version of him—hers—would splinter and get washed out by the dawn. Back would come Mr. Shelby, hand always on his gun, eyes unclosed. She had him, finally, and she couldn't keep him, but she could not let him go either, not really. When Tommy reached for the doorknob, though, she did not protest. Trixie would grieve as she always did: quietly.

Almost immediately came the smell of toast. "Good morning," she could hear Tommy greet as he stepped out into the hallway.

"Good morning," said Mr. Proctor.

Tommy gestured at his side for Trixie to follow, and she cleared her throat as she skittered forward towards him, allowing him to put an arm around her shoulder. "Hello," she said.

"Morning, Mrs. Shelby. Hungry?"

"I—oh my God." Trixie covered her mouth. "I'm sorry, it's just—the sky."

Mr. Proctor turned around and looked out the window—the window Trixie had assumed was a painting when she first noticed it, because of the purple sky outside. "Oh, yes. It's cloudy today, but the dawn always takes it nicely. Porch faces east, if you'd like to have a better look."

"Um, yes, please," Trixie said. She wanted to be harder than this, difficult to please and impossible to excite, but as she stepped out onto the porch she cast away those wishes. Damn anger, damn power, damn Birmingham, where every day was clawing her way out of hell and trying to survive—this was fear of God, the sky, the golden fields, the way the fog clung to the world and carried the violet glow with it. Death was so small. The world was so big. "Oh, God," she said.

Faintly, she registered footsteps behind her. Mrs. Proctor, judging by the clip of a heel. "Hello, my dear."

Trixie turned. "Good morning."

"Sleep well?"

"Yes," Trixie lied, nodding emphatically to compensate. "I can't thank you enough."

"It's no bother at all," Mrs. Proctor said, lowering herself onto the bench. "I never get visitors. And our son—" She smiled with a sadness Trixie recognized from the mirror. "He didn't come home to us after the War."

"I'm so sorry." Trixie sat down beside her, unsure of what else to add. It had never helped her to hear it, but it was the right thing to say.

"It's a very quiet house since then," she explained. "So quiet."

"My fiancé died, too," said Trixie. "I lost him a few days after my father passed." When God shuts a door, the Devil opens another. "The loneliness is—it's unbearable. I just threw myself into work. It's like—I thought if I let myself feel it then it would kill me."

Mrs. Proctor sighed. "That's what Edward does. I thought it might get better but he just works all day. Tends to the horses. And I do all the grieving myself." She sighed, slouching against the back of the bench and crossing her ankles. "But he hurts, I know. They were so close. I lost our first two babies, and when Joseph was finally born, he and Edward were inseparable. All the things I thought I would have to do—rocking him to sleep, bathing him, Edward insisted on. I never loved anyone as much as I loved my son. But I think Edward might have loved him even more."

Trixie breathed a great big exhale and wondered why everyone she knew told the same story of grief. One million broken hearts—more—beating still for boys who had gone to a place where the people who loved them could not follow. Was it lonely there? That dark abyss that had taken everything from her? She imagined Luca and Joseph Proctor drinking together in a shadowy hall, imagined them happy.

"Are you hungry?" Mrs. Proctor asked.

"I really shouldn't trouble you any further," Trixie insisted.

"Please," said Mrs. Proctor. "My son is gone. Dead. I will never feed him porridge or toast or eggs again, and I have nightmares that he goes hungry. I was a mother for so long and then I wasn't. Let me do it again just once."

And the mother-shaped wound in Trixie's chest opened wide, the part of her that ached for someone to cradle her face and tell her that they loved her, that they wanted nothing from her but her own joy, was suddenly full of unbearable hurt, to lift her jaw against and speak. So she just nodded. Mrs. Proctor stood and went inside, and Trixie knew it was rude to sit without helping, but she was a woman getting used to the weight of a pistol on her hip: she could not weep. She gritted her teeth against the tears and swiped at her eyes haphazardly, the makeup from the day before long lost.

By the time Mrs. Proctor returned, the sky had lightened to pink, and Trixie had composed herself. "Eggs and bacon," she promised. "And orange juice."

Mr. Proctor delivered their food outside soon after, pressing a kiss to his wife's cheek and withdrawing back to the kitchen. When the two women were alone again on the porch, Trixie confessed, "I wish I could have this." She resisted the urge to slap a hand over her mouth in shame. "A house. A loving husband." Tommy could sleep through the night with her beside him, and that was something, but he would never be the man who cooked her breakfast each morning and delivered it to her with a kiss on the cheek. She didn't want to leave him for it, but she didn't want to be tamed into one of those women who lived off crumbs, waiting for their husbands to see them instead of seeing through.

Instead of chastising her, or pushing for more detail, Mrs. Proctor simply laughed. She jutted her head in the direction of the kitchen, where she could hear her own husband chatting with Tommy about how he took his tea, of all fucking things. "Devotion comes in many forms, my dear. I have met men like your husband before, and they are not sweet, and they are not safe. But you will be kept warm at night, and fed in winter, and they will let you know them. Sometimes that's the best anyone can do."

I want more, Trixie thought. She wouldn't settle for Tommy's name, his house, his war-stories and night-terrors. Trixie wanted him to take her dancing. Kiss her on the cheek in front of his brothers. Hold her hand on the street, laugh at her jokes, say kind things about her. It was not soft, and it was not negotiable. She was hungry for care just as much as power.

Her attention drifted when she noticed Johnny Dogs coming up the walk. "Mrs. Shelby," he said. "I've secured you a ride back into town."

"Just us?" Trixie asked. "What about your limp horse?"

"We have business to settle in the Country."

Family business, she knew, though he hadn't said it. Trixie stood. "Thank you for everything," she told Mrs. Proctor. "I'm sorry about Joseph. He was well-loved, and that's the best you could do."

"Thank you," said Mrs. Proctor. "Safe travels, Mrs. Shelby."

"Tell Tommy?" Trixie asked Johnny, and he nodded. She set off down the front path, smiling at last at the metal trinkets in the garden, the flowers beginning to bloom. It wasn't until a familiar voice crowed her name that she looked up. "John?" she asked.

He was in his new car, grinning around a toothpick and revving the engine obnoxiously. "Nice, isn't it Trix?"

"Very nice," Trixie concurred. "Can't get worms either, can it?"

"Ha!" John balked. "Faster than a horse, and more comfortable than those bloody caravans. Hop in." He turned to Esme, who was in the passenger seat, and she skirted over to make room for Trixie to squeeze in back. To her surprised, Tommy joined her.

"How's things in Birmingham?" he asked his brother.

"Inspector's been called home. He was sent to recover the guns, and he's got 'em. They raided the office, but didn't find much." John slapped the wheel, hitting the gas and sending them flying down the dirt road. "You really did it, Trix. Fucking hell. You're taking to the Shelby name well."

"Congratulations, Beatrice," Tommy murmured. He covered his hand with hers. "You saved us."

"Almost," she said. "I have to make one last stop."

"Where's that?" John asked.

Trixie just smiled.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

"Mission accomplished, sir?"

Campbell looked up from his cluttered desk at the woman leaning against the doorway to his office. Beatrice Shelby smiled at him like a cat with a bird in its mouth. "The guns have been found, yes," he answered tepidly. "All but one."

"One of the machine guns, right?" she asked.

"Right."

"I've found it," she informed him. "It's not in Birmingham, though."

He released an exasperated breath. "Let's stop playing games here, Mrs. Shelby. I have things to do. I've been called back to the London office."

"Sorry," she apologized, sitting down in the chair opposite him without asking permission. She pulled a piece of paper from her handbag and scribbled something down, her letters sharp and precise. "This is the address where it's being kept. My husband sold to a man here to settle a debt." When Campbell reached for the paper, though, Beatrice drew her arm away. "I was promised payment. My last report panned out, did it not?"

"You were compensated fifty pounds for that intelligence. That's more than most people would dream of."

"I'm not most people," she dismissed. "I want another fifty."

Campbell pursed his lips. "It will take my time to get that arranged."

"I can wait."

"Do you have a name, at least? Something to verify the information?"

After a moment of consideration, Beatrice sighed. "Alright."

"Thank you," he replied wryly. He uncapped a pen and opened a fresh page in his notebook. "Go on then."

"Billy. Billy Kimber." 

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

thank you so much for reading!! this brings us to the end of episode 5 and now we've only got four chapters to go....and if we reach 5k votes before the end of the fic i'll be uploading the first chapters of from embers the same time as i post the final chapter of baptism by fire :) so please let me know what you thought of this chapter! see you all soon <3

Chapter 29 / Judas in the Garden

"Dear God, forgive me," Trixie murmured, eyes screwed shut and fingers steepled together as the cold Church tile dug ruthlessly into her knees. "I was made in your image, and now I too have learned to love the Devil."