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mintjamsblog · 1 year

Note

I've been revisiting your stargazing posts on here and wanted to know if you'd give us some insight into something you posted in response to a previous ask about Tommy breaking the news to Alfie. You mentioned the "almighty showdown"--what did that look like? And likewise, the moment they both realize that Tommy's not actually going to do anything about it (despite saying otherwise)? <3

Thank you for this ask! Trigger warnings a plenty - it's Tommy/Alfie! (ABO, mpreg, unhealthy attitudes to pretty much everything, mentions of rough sex, violence and possible termination)

It was a Thursday afternoon in late May when Alfie decided to hell with this shit. He’d been uncomfortable all morning, like a knuckle was lodged against his ribs, and every time he sat back for a moment it dug a little bit deeper. (Had nothing to do with his breakfast neither, he won’t have a word said against the cafe on Greenland Street.) He summoned Ishamel with a loud yell, threw his pen across the slew of papers and demanded to be driven, immediately, back to my fuck ugly rural abode. His chair hit the floor with a crash as he stood to leave. He didn’t bother to pick it up, only glanced at the disarray on his desk and roared at Ollie to, “clean up that fucking mess.”

Being at least 24 hours earlier than scheduled, he weren't surprised, upon his return, to find Tommy’s study empty. He was probably still in his Digbeth office. Or out at some overpriced dinner attempting to prize something valuable or useful from people who were, most likely, neither. Could be visiting Pol, that was another option. Though given the cryptic call she’d made to the bakery earlier, that didn’t seem terribly likely.

It weren't that Polly’s questions had prompted Alfie’s early departure, they'd merely preceded it — a small but important distinction given he made it a point of principle not to pry into Shelby business.

This meticulous lack of prying had given him the distinct impression there was trouble in paradise. Or Small Heath. Or wherever the fuck it was they all lived these days in their gaudy rural mansions. Alfie neither knew nor cared (except when they turned up on his doorstep to drink too much and yell at each other). Though both mercifully and suspiciously, they hadn't done so in weeks.

He looked out of the large windows at the final moments of dusk, the dark pink remnants of daylight hugging a horizon of green. He liked to catch the sun’s final blink, the bright flash before the day disappeared beneath the unbroken line of fields. Not that he ever admitted that to Tommy. To Tommy, his presence in Warwickshire was an inconvenient, and frequently lamented, personal sacrifice.

He wandered back out to the hallway to drop his hat and coat on the stand, dismissing the maid who offered to assist him (as if he hadn't been perfectly capable of removing his own hat and coat, all by his very lonesome, since the age of three and a half). She must be new – most of 'em knew better.

A warm glow from the parlour drew him across the hall. He was poised to call that new maid back and enquire as to why the fire was lit in an un-fucking-used room, when he stuck his head round the door and spotted a dark head resting on the back of the sofa. Took a moment to clock it was Tommy, and a moment longer to be sure he was sound asleep, tie tugged loose at his throat, shirt tails untucked from his trousers.

As it happened the maid appeared again, hesitating when she spotted the boss. Bosses. S’pose Alfie counted as one of ‘em now. He waved her in and she crept about, closing the curtains and lighting more lamps before scurrying out like a scared mouse.

Tommy didn’t stir; his hands lay either side of him, palms towards the ceiling. Alfie might’ve been beguiled if this weren’t the third time he'd caught Tommy napping since Easter. Or retreating to bed after dinner. And not with a glint in his eye neither, but with some weary half-baked excuse about tax inspections and early starts. Not that he didn’t look tired; the flame shadows dancing over his face, accentuated every hollow. Alfie stared at the clock on the mantle: nearly half past eight.

He'd had his suspicions for weeks — like midges hovering nearby, vaguely irritating but eminently ignorable if you swiped at 'em once or twice. Now he'd walked into a cloud of the bastards — too many to bat away.

The smell in the room weren’t helping — that awful cologne Tommy'd taken to wearing. Claimed Ada had sent it from Boston, all the rage with the Yanks. Too sweet, Alfie’d told him. Same as their fucking gin. And yet Tommy’d continued to douse himself in it, day and fucking night.

There was some other stench besides, above the woodsmoke and the aftershave. Stale and sort of creamy... a lot like the pubs by the docks. He scanned the room, tensing when he spotted the barely touched pint of stout.

He took his hands out of his pockets, rubbed them the length of his face, smeared a day’s worth of grime into his beard. The carriage clock on the mantle chimed the half-hour.

It’s not like Alfie was usually one for avoiding difficult topics. Preferred to attack with his horns — head down, plough on, look up when it’s done. Which begged the question, didn’t it, why he’d let this go on so long. Incredulity, mostly. Cowardice, perhaps. All washed down with a healthy slug of good old-fashioned fear. Couldn’t even say it in his head, could he? The word sat on his tongue like a pill he couldn’t swallow. Filled his mouth with bitterness.

"When the fuck were you gonna tell me?" His voice came out a good deal louder than it had any need to be. He was only standing three feet away, between the sofa and the door.

Tommy opened his eyes. Didn't bother to lift his head off the back of the sofa.

"Evening Alfie."

"Thought you weren't back till tomorrow."

"Only just." Alfie glared at the clock again.

"I asked you a fucking question."

Tommy's eyebrows dipped, formed an expression that were meant, presumably, to convey confusion. As if Alfie were some fucking underling too green or too intimidated to read defiance into the accompanying pout.

"Nothing to bloody tell."

Alfie spoke with deliberate slowness. Balled his fists at his sides. "How long do you plan on taking me for a complete fucking imbecile?"

"Not taking you for anything, Alfie." Tommy pulled his shoulders forwards, the movement just shy of a shrug.

"No?" Alfie cocked his head. He picked up a marble ashtray from the table beside the sofa. "Still off your smokes I see." He tipped the single stubbed-out cigarette onto the carpet, paltry quantity of ash and all.

Tommy sighed and rubbed his eyes, dug two fingers into each socket and left them there for several seconds, as if he were some hard-pressed housewife who was gonna have to clean that up.

Alfie reached for the glass. "Why the fuck're you drinking stout?" Alfie reached for the glass and held it aloft before pouring it onto the carpet in a long, slow stream that made a rather satisfying noise as it splattered Tommy's shoes.

Tommy looked up at him, eyebrows raised, muscles twitching in his jaw.

Alfie dropped the empty glass and let it bounce on the carpet. "How many fucking weeks?"

"You want me to drink and smoke more?" Tommy plucked his cigarette case from the coffee table and placed one between his lips. "Fourteen," he said, reaching into his pocket for a lighter. "Fifteen, maybe. Thereabouts."

The floor swayed beneath Alfie's feet. How'd it taken him so fucking long to put two and two together—

"Fifteen?" The maths simply didn't add up.

"It doesn't matter," Tommy said, staring at the table.

"Course not. Only a baby innit? Why would it fucking matter?"

Alfie looked over at the fireplace, at the paintings of horses and dogs, the pair of Tiffany lamps, and had the strangest sensation he'd been tipped into some weird dream. Except that in dreams you know where's where and who's who because dream-world rules apply. No-one needs to look familiar for you to be sure who they are; a house you’ve never seen before can stand in for your childhood home. Alfie looked at this room he knew and didn't recognise it. Looked at Tommy, elbows on knees, and couldn't accept him as the man he was bonded to. His dream-rules had been inverted. Nothing made fucking sense.

"February. You was closing that Caterham deal. Stress, you said. I remember.”

Tommy flicked the wheel of his lighter and stared at the little flame. "Stress can mess with me heat—"

"March. You was in Scotland. Edinburgh or Aberdeen—"

"It was business. I had no choice."

“That’s bollocks and you fucking know it.”

Tommy snapped the lighter shut. "Male omegas aren't likely to carry. I thought it'd" —he made a flailing gesture with the unlit cigarette— "deal with its fucking self."

"Right." Alfie nodded. "How very adult of you. You know the fucking risks."

Tommy got to his feet, flames dancing in his eyes. "Yes, I know the risks. And I will fucking deal with it!"

Alfie’s chest felt tight — his heart a claustrophobic thing, banging to get out. "You're fifteen fucking weeks, Tommy, no one’s gonna touch you.” He almost wished that were true, even as his mind conjured unhelpful images of meat hooks and blood-spattered aprons. Not that the alternative looked much better… his mind couldnt conjure that. “What do we fucking do?"

"We aren't fucking pregnant!" Tommy hissed the words, a wary glance towards the door where, no doubt, the maids were gathered.

Alfie's hands began to shake with the sort of rage that usually ended with blood up the fucking walls. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath — in through his nose, out through his mouth. Count to twenty-five. "You've made that very fucking clear."

"I’m going to bed." Tommy nodded towards the door.

“Nah, I ain't finished.” Alfie widened his stance. “What the fuck happened three weeks ago?”

Tommy sighed, attempted a glare. “You’re in my way.”

"February. Stress, you said." Alfie held his thumb in the air. "March,” —he uncurled his forefinger— “you was in Aberdeen. You said." He added his middle finger, watching as Tommy paled. “So that leaves us with Apri. What the fucking fuck was April?”

A crimson tide crept up Tommy’s throat.

"You fucking faked a heat."

A small part of Alfie was hoping for denial. Any less painful explanation, but Tommy went deathly still, thumb and forefinger paused over his eyes. Was he seeing the same things Alfie was? Replaying them in his mind? They’d been brutal with each other. And Tommy had begged for more.

"My desire was real,” he said, when he finally dropped his hand.

“You let me fucking choke you…” Alfie’s stomach contracted violently. To the left of the door was a dining chair propped against the wall; he slumped into it and hung his head in his hands.

The things they’d done. Used. The marks he’d left on Tommy...

“You weren’t even in heat.” Alfie’s legs were trembling. His nose dripped onto the floor.

“I asked for all of it.”

“Why?” Alfie looked up at him. “You had a baby inside you.”

He’d gone all taut, Tommy. Hands in his pockets, shoulders stiff. “Doesn’t change what I want.”

Alfie shook his head. “D’you honestly think I’d have done any of that if I’d—”

“No! I don't fucking know—”

“Please, Alfie, harder, Alfie…” He hated the sound of his imitation, hated the spite in his voice. Yet he couldn’t stop himself. The images crashed into his field of vision — desperate, pornographic: Tommy’s mouth slack and bleeding, eyes rolled back in his head… taking and fucking taking it. “All them whores you’ve fucked. Guess you must’ve been taking notes. Make it look good for the punters, eh? Keep’em good and riled.”

Tommy was breathing hard, chest rising and falling as if he’d run a lap of the grounds. His mouth twitched like he was about to defend himself, but Alfie didn’t want to hear it. He exploded out of his chair, finger poised in accusation.

“What were you fucking hoping? That I’d fuck it out of you?”

He looked down at Tommy’s waist, tried to imagine a life in there, beneath all them bloody clothes.

“Would it matter if you had?”

The words forced a pained sound out of Alfie, like he'd taken a kick to the guts. “Guess not,” he managed to say, before he turned and left the room.

#tommy/alfie #my fic #stargazing #answered asks #asks #have I answered the entire ask?#no I have not #is there more to come?#hopefully #thanks for poking my muse #muse

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