Forbidden Afflictions // Alfie Solomons Peaky Blinders

(18) I'll Follow You Into the Dark pt. 2

Freya smiled timidly, fluttering her heavy lids as her words pooled around her tongue. "It is my aunt's birthday in the morning," she informed. "I found Polly... That's where I ran off to..."

Alfie sighed, dropping his weight slightly in defeat. "You found 'er?" he wondered, wanting to hear some good news but failing to actually believe any of his hope. "How was she?" he asked, taking up the rum she deserted between them.

Freya watched in wonder as he followed her lead. She had never seen him drink directly from the bottle before. He produced and sold liter bottles made to be shared or enjoyed on several occasions. She had only ever seen him pour himself a glass. Never had she witnessed him take a swig straight from the source before.

Something about his lack of question made her heart grow fonder. His instant acceptance warmed her in a way she hadn't felt before. He didn't question her recklessness as her family did. He didn't tell her to stop or show any inclination that she had had enough and should call it a night. He knew how much she had drank, and yet he wasn't trying to yield her. He trusted her to stop when she deemed fit. He trusted she had a good reason to drink, and instead of stopping her in her tracks, he followed in her footsteps without a second thought.

"She's alive, which says a lot these days..." she cooed, intertwining her fingers in front of her face and upholding the weight of her head against them.

"And well, I hope," he added, mellowing in the liquor and scratching absent-mindedly at his beard and neck.

"I've seen my lady in Wales for some pearls I thought Polly would like. And some ingredients for your corticosteroid, so stop itching," she urgently insisted, reaching for his hand and pulling it from his face.

He groaned at her protest but obliged—mostly.

"Alright, Mum," he teased, rubbing his fingers over the affected area to relieve the pain without worsening it.

Freya hummed as if to be humored when the name brought a sickly feeling to her belly. She didn't notice her hand go to her vacant stomach until Alfie's eyes followed.

"I'm sorry," he confessed. "You know I didn't mean it—"

"It's fine," she offered coldly, feeling only a faint tinge of sadness where the void was left in her child's wake. "You're only jesting," she acknowledged.

She tried to hide how badly his words affected her, but the drink made it impossible to disguise.

"I'm sorry," he proclaimed, tilting his head and frowning slightly as he faced her bravery.

"I know," she smiled timorously. She removed her hand and sighed. "It is in the past as it should be," she disclosed, taking the bottle of rum and adding to her fill.

"Is uh..." he trailed off awkwardly, searching for the right words before settling for something just sort. "Is she the reason for your headache on the morrow?" he questioned, extending his hand and waiting for her to share the alcohol rather than snatch it from her grasp. "Polly?"

She winced and did as he wished. She hummed neither affirmingly nor negatively and watched again in fascination as he took a few more drinks from the bottle.

"Rough day at work?" she wondered, noticing how he seemed to drink not just to even the playing field but to aid in something else entirely.

Alfie mimicked the sound she made, neither confirming nor denying her assumptions. "I want to fill my belly with my own labor and enjoy a night with my love. Is that too much to ask for?" he asked rhetorically, lifting his brows and setting the bottle back down.