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whirlybirbs · 5 years

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second. ⇢ alfie solomons

summary: the subject of payment has alfie & you testing the waters. pairing: baker!reader x alfie solomons word count: 2k rating: some mild swearing & canon-typical banter a/n: alfie is going to work for this one, ok, i’m emotional about this goofy idiot.

“Miss, Mr. Solomons is here again --”

“Tell him to go away, Ellie.”

You’ve got a tray of five loaves in your arms, loading them fast into the oven and snapping the door shut. The heat sets along your face, sending your hair from its place swept high along your neck. You wring your hands from flour, sighing as you spot Ellie lingering in the doorway from the corner of your eye. The kitchen is hot and it’s doing nothing to quell your mood.

“Ellie.”

“Miss, he’s insisting --”

“There you are!”

He’s like Hades: charming and quick witted and terribly handsome, and God, he’s persistent. This is the second time this week he’s paraded himself through your bakery’s doors demanding you sit for an apology -- it’s all for show. And you’re not about to be muscled into some sort of new business deal from the infamous Solomons leader. You’re not looking to snack on seeds of pomegranate and lock yourself into his own version of hell.

Your father had a deal, and you intended to keep the deal.

The men working the shop watch as Alfred Solomons swaggers into the kitchen.

His cane snaps against the floors of the bakery; your eyes roll faster than you can catch them. As the man staggers into your bakery, you fleet about -- the icing for the O’Dooley’s wedding needs mixing, so you see to it. And Alfie watches.

His hat hangs low on his face. Green eyes watch from under the brim. He seems more predatory today than before. Even when he’d lurched through your front doors with his gargantuan personality, he’d not been so terrifying. But now? It’s almost like he’s looking for trouble.

Bones to pick his teeth with.

He scratches his beard before speaking again -- despite the mean look in his eye, he’s chipper, and you aren’t feeding into it. You turn, mixing bowl on your hip as you fold in the sugar with deft hands.

“Smells wonderful in ‘ere,” he says, waving ringed fingers through the air, “Really, love, s’nice, yeah?”

“Do you need something, Mr. Solomons?”

“Yeesh,” he breathes through gritted teeth, “M’ here t’ apologize, luv, really -- though I did come las’ week an’...”

“That was two days ago.”

You shove past him, dropping the bowl to the counter with a clatter and motioning to Alfie’s henchman crowding the tiers of cakes. Your hand falls to your hip, eyes narrowing when Ollie -- young and lanky -- doesn’t move.

“Well, I mean, yea, but t’was Friday, an’ now it’s Monday --”

Frustration builds fast and bubbles over. You throw your hands in the air, groaning loudly. When you turn on your heel and spy Alfie unceremoniously poking around by the pastry case, your voice rises sharply.

“Mr. Solomons, I have a bakery to run.”

He jumps a bit, gaze snapping from the macarons to you. “Alfie, luv, s’Alfie. M’not y’ father.”

No. He isn’t.

Alfie tries not to seem so… hungry. He blinks at you, straightening himself, and proceeds to wave Ollie off. The young man seems to hesitate, but upon Alfie settling into one of the stools by the island, he ducks out the back door and busies himself outside, watching carefully through the cakes in the shop window.

Ellie watches, keen on distrust, before you wave her off as well. No doubt she hurries off to gossip with your sister.

With Alfie’s settling in, you sigh.

Clearly this wasn’t just about an apology.

“I’ll try n’ make this quick, yeah?” it’s a low growl, “Your ol’ man had a deal wiv us, y’see, an’ now tha’ ‘e is dead in th’ ground, m’ makin’ sure you understand exactly wha’ kinda deal we made, yeah?”

“Mr. Solomons --”

“Alfie, just call me Alfie,” he snaps, quickly recoiling at the volume of his own voice, “No need fer th’ formalities, yeah? No need. Jus’... quit that.”

Reminds him too much of the Army.

You swallow, moving to cross the kitchen and discard his apart tantrum. “Then make it quick, Alfie, I have work to do. The O’Dooley’s wedding is tomorrow --”

“No shit,” he chirps, “Max?”

“No,” you breath, “Oldest one, Thomas.”

“Ah,” he leans back in his chair and it creaks, “Well don’ let me stop you, yea?”

You pause, only for a moment, before you unceremonious drop a tier to the kitchen island and gather a knife to begin icing. Alfie watches how quick your hands move, watches how careful you are -- you’ve been under the wing of your father for years, and as lead of The Bakery & Pastry Shoppe on Main, you have a reputation to uphold.

The family business had been built form the ground up.

It shows in the cracks in the walls; shows in the cutthroat way you hold yourself. You’re used to the threats, no doubt.

“You’d said you’d make this quick,” you shirk out, “If you’d like cake decorating lessons --”

“Yeah, yeah,” Alfie chatters, waving his hands and dropping his hat to the table. He looks younger like this, less like a wolf in sheep’s skin. His hair is unkempt, though you suppose that’s as much as his staple as the chains hanging low around his collarbone. He crosses his arms. Your gaze jumps to him for a mere second. “Yer father an’ I had a deal.”

“You said that.”

“Mm, an’ yer father paid me a fair sum t’ keep you an’ y’ sisters nice and safe, right?”

“I’m aware.”

“An’ still, I ‘aven’t gotten a payment,” Alfie says, voice rising, “An’ why’s that, lil’ girl?”

Alfie hadn’t expected the reaction he got.

In a blink, the knife you’d been using to ice the cake is drove into the kitchen island between his fingers, frosting flying across his shirt -- you’re dead-set, sneering in his face as you lean over the island. Alfie recoils, shouting.

“Good god, woman -- !”

The knife is retrieved from the wood with a satisfying plunk and is waved in his face. You’re rounding the counter, hunted turned huntress, and Alfie is rooted to his spot in his chair.

“My father told me about you -- told me plenty,” you spit, “You served alongside one another in that god forsaken war, he’d known your mother for christ’s sake. My father looked out for you as much as you did him. For you to come in here and belittle me --”

“Sorry, yes,” Alfie snaps, hand moving to press the frosting covered butter knife away from his face, “Rude a’ me.”

The knife snaps right back to its previous position.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t go to Sabini. Or the Shelby’s? Tell me why I should pay you all that when I could get the same amount of protection from the Peaky fuckin’ Blinders, huh? Or is all this,” you gesture to him, sitting there, looking rather wide-eyed, “all because of a bunch of gang territory horseshit?”

Alfie swallows, then, after a beat of silence speaks.

“Y’ know,” Alfie coughs, “Y’ father said t’ watch out fer y’ when th’ time came. M’ startin’ to realize ‘e meant tha’ you’d cut a man, rather than needin’ protection.”

You drop the knife then, frustration peaking. With a sigh, you wipe the knife quickly and turn your back on the gang leader.

“I’ll tell y’ why you shouldn’t go t’ those fuckin’ Peaky Blinders,” Alfie waves his hands, moving from his seat and leaning on the counter, “Because Tommy fuckin’ Shelby ‘as ‘is own shit to deal wiv, and a pretty lil’ bakery with a pretty lil’ baker is th’ last of ‘is fuckin’ worries, yea? I made a promise wiv y’ dad tha’ I would take care a’ you n’ your sisters. I ain’t lettin’ that slip.”

He closes the distance between you both, eyes wide -- he’s tall, even with his cane and crooked step. Your father had spoken fast about Captain Solomons. Imagining the man before you in that damned uniform your dad had come home in all those years ago? Impossible.

You can feel his breath fan across your face. You blink up from the cake.

“Don’t have your own shit to deal with, Mr. Solomons?”

A crooked smile.

“A promise is a promise, luv.”

A week later, you stroll through doors of Solomon's distillery.

Ollie nearly drops dead upon realizing it’s you getting out of the car pulled ‘round front. Your coat is pulled close, it’s only two weeks away from winter anyways, and your clutch is gripped tight in gloved hands.

“I’m here to see Alfie,” you say, peaking up at the lanky young man by the gates, “He doesn’t know I’ve come ‘round -- though, I have my payment with me. No doubt he’ll be willing to sit for that.”

Ollie hums, motioning you to follow. “No knives, Miss? Butter, icing or otherwise?”

You laugh. “No, but if you’d like to check --”

“Just procedure.”

The boys who stop you are quick. They pat you down, then give Ollie a nod. You slip them both a smile and follow Ollie.

The distillery is in the beaten up part of Camden, but there’s something about it that settles a bit of comfort into your bones. There’s a steady sense of work here -- the rooms smell like water and sugar and burns like rum.

Alfie’s office is at the end of the building, behind two heavy set steel doors. When Ollie knocks, he’s met with a low “Yea!” and the sound of shuffling. From behind Ollie, you watch as Alfie tugs the doors open and blinks between the two of you.

He’s dressed in a plain cotton shirt and apron, nose adorned with a pair of golden glasses. He looks at home here -- his office is warm.

“Well inn’ this a nice surprise.”

“May I come in?”

“Oh,” he breathes, “Right.”

Ollie lingers, watching by the far door, as you make your way into the room.

Alfie’s office is bathed in the warm light of gas candles, cluttered with paperwork and the back wall, behind his desk, is adorned with shelves and a heavy safe -- had you forgotten about the type of man you’d been dealing with before, you’d been reminded.

The gun on his desk is loaded.

He falls into the large leather chair with a breath, straightening his back and propping his elbows up on the desk.

“So,” he starts, “T’ what do I owe this pleasure? Gunna try n’ stab me again, yea? I wouldn’t say tha’s in y’ best interest, mm. Not ‘ere, s’ a territory thing, yea?”

You laugh. “Your boys patted me down.”

“Not too rough?”

“Not too rough.”

“Good,” he waves his hands, plucking his glasses from his face, “So, why’re y’ here?”

“Payment.”

You’re tugging your gloves off. Alfie is watching.

“Hm.”

Bare fingers muscle the stack of pounds from your clutch, leaning to place them onto his desk. Alfie quirks a brow, moving to lean to look at the small desk calendar to his left.

“It’s --”

“The eighth. I know,” you wave your hands, crossing your legs and huffing, “My father left a detailed will. He explained the payment system, how you preferred the transactions, when, the details of the agreement. I would have been here earlier had the bakery not been such a mess this morning.”

“So --”

“So, you coming into my bakery demanding payment? That was a way for me to see your play, Mr. Solomons.”

“Cheeky girl.”

You stand, gathering your gloves and clutch. Your smile is like a kick in the gut. Alfie Solomons has to catch his breath.

“Until next month, Mr. Solomons.”

“Alfie. Remember, m’ not y’ father.”

“No, you’re not.”

He laughs. You’re half way out the door when he calls your name.

“Mm?”

“I’ll be seein’ y’ sooner than the end a’ the month, yea.”

“Sure, Alfie.”

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