"What'd you and Sam get up to?" Alfie redirected, furrowing his brows as he joined Freya on the chairs.
"Did some research," Freya replied with disinterest. "Whatever he told you..." she trailed off with a smile, "it wasn't as bad as he made it seem."
Whenever she blinked, her eyes would roll slightly. He would've thought she was tired if he hadn't seen the empty bottle of rum or tasted it on her lips.
"I went outside today," she informed softly, smiling whole-heartedly, finding Alfie's eyes. There was an indescribable pain in the amount of pride she felt for having left the house. She conquered many gangs, did deals with Section D, brawled with a pedophilic priest, shot a man, fucked another in front of generational enemies, and yet burying her heels in the mud of Small Heath was incomparable.
She didn't know if she was going back to anything—anyone. She wasn't secured allies or security. She was alone. It was like dropping a bomb and coming back to the destruction after all the smoke had cleared, only she didn't do anything wrong, and the bomb had been cast by her closest friend—her own blood.
It was a risk going back. A risk she did on her own. She didn't owe that bravery to anyone but herself. She didn't argue for Ollie or Samuel not to come, but she wasn't going to argue when she went to see Polly by herself. Doing that, being there, it took guts, whether anyone understood that or not.
Alfie's belly felt funny when he looked into Freya's eyes now. She had enough liquor in her body to make her sloppy, and yet she seemed more herself now than she did that morning. Her eyes glowed under the firelight, and her smile was so innocent, so pure. She should have been too intoxicated to form coherent sentences. She should have been out of her mind after the day Samuel said they had. She shouldn't have been looking at him like that. She shouldn't have been looking at him with wide, glossy eyes that reflected star-like embers floating in her widening pupils. It was that self-love sort of look he doesn't remember ever seeing on her. How could one person capture such innocence?
"You did more than that, Love," Alfie chuckled lowly, being too enraptured to have let the hilarity reach his voice entirely. He interlocked his fingers together as he leaned forward, setting his elbows on his knees to find her face more naturally. "Sam said you put on quite a show at the public records office," Alfie informed her. "And you got 'im drunk and ran off."
"I gave him some ale to calm the fuck down..." she trailed off with a small smile.
Alfie knew whatever she said now would be the truth. He couldn't see it in her eyes but could hear and smell the truth regardless of how well she held her drink.
"He's always in shambles when you send him my way," she sighed with narrow eyes. "He's a keeper though," she commented. "He was more help than Ollie would 'uve ever been..."
Alfie winced slightly, studying her face and making note of all the freckles she had lost since her captivity. Her face warmed to the fire, making her cheeks rosy, and her eyes warmed to him, making them big and studious against his own.
"Where'd you run off to?" Alfie asked, resisting the urge to fall into her gaze and lay in a pile of ardor and carelessness for the rest of the night.
Freya snickered falsely. The humor found her eyes only because the idea became so funny in a state of drunkenness. In the big wide world, she was worried about a bit of snow. In a world full of war, death, sickness, and hunger, she was fretting from the safety of her lover's Victorian home. She had a modest dwelling in Birmingham and an even more humble number attached to her name if she ever returned to her second oldest brother. The reasons for her bouts seemed silly in retrospect.
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.
"You seem to have something on your mind," she inquired, sitting upright and closing her eyes as the music in the background soothed her weariness.
He hummed again. "And you seem to be at the end of your night," he added, seeing as she swayed and sleepily listened closer with her eyes shut tight.
"No, I am not," she shot back, moving too slow to have beaten Alfie to the neck of the bottle.
He smiled victoriously, and she smiled in defeat. Swiftly, she held her erect middle finger to the air before Alfie laughed and swatted her down. Relentlessly, she lifted it back into the air just for him to shoot her back down. She fell in defeat and giggled.
He took another swig and handed her the bottle. "Where's your mind at?" he wondered, not denying her any fun but wanting to know why she chose to drown herself in such a potent liquid. "I'm not complaining, but you don't often drink like this... And quite frankly, I'm a bit offended you started the party without me," he winced sarcastically, watching her neck move as she swallowed another shot of rum.
"Sure sounds like you're complaining," she quipped, handing Alfie the remainder of the rum and watching as he finished the bottle with a few sips. She earned herself a few spurts of humor before she rubbed at the side of her face and fell melancholic. "I... don't... wanna have to think about what I saw today... It's... It's nothing to be concerned about, my love," she admitted, not wanting to tell Alfie what was truly bothering her whilst also wanting to be open with him after what they went through in the past.
Alfie hummed. "That's enough rum to knock a circus act on its arse," he replied, setting the rum down on the table beside them.
"It's been a few hours," she reflected. It was true that she was shitfaced drunk, but Alfie didn't need to worry about it like he was.
"Poe doesn't take very long to read," he added softly, shaking his head and forcing her lazy eyes to his.
"Usher House, perhaps. But you have a collection that needed revising," she said softly.
He furrowed his brows and tilted his head with interest. "Poe aids in woe, right."
"And rum makes you a poet," she jested, erupting in a fit of giggles before he rolled his eyes at her frankness.
"Why would Poe and rum make good company after seeing your auntie now, eh?"
"Because they're good company, aren't they?" she shot back defensively.
"Right," Alfie replied, throwing himself backward. "And that wouldn't have anything to do with the bullshit you lot went through togever back in December, right? Nothing of the sort?"
Freya's humor fell in an instant. She didn't want his words calling her back to the places she so ardently tried to forget. Everything he said affected her so harshly. She didn't understand why.
"Why would you think that?"
"Mmhm," he hummed, popping his bottom lip out and looking up at the ceiling in thought. "Maybe becoz I know a thing or two about how you work, Freya Shelby," he added, leering almost to intimidate her with his suspicions.
"Well, if you're all-knowing now, seems I don't have to explain meself then, eh?" she offered, throwing her hands out as if to put their conversation to bed.
"Nah," he grimaced. "Seems I've got it 'ol figured out. From the discomfort your belly's bringin' you to the sadness comin' from your auntie right now." He nodded matter-of-factly, causing Freya's hand to drop from her unconscious rubbing at the side of her torso.
"I said it's nothing to worry about," she said in all seriousness, furrowing her eyebrows and crossing her arms over her chest as if to cover herself from his observant eyes.
Freya was no longer in a gaming mood, and neither was Alfie. She didn't know when he traded his sweet tone for an accusing one, but the subtle shift made her feel slightly ill.
"And yet I come home to find you drunk and out of your mind," he commented. "I know better than to think you're fine, Love. Wot 'appened today that's got you in such overcast?" he wondered, licking his lips as he scanned her body for any more clues as to why she was acting so differently.
She narrowed her eyes and averted her gaze, getting to her feet and going to the throw blanket hanging off the back of the chair she had recently deserted. "I'm making another trip in the morning to sort things..." she grumbled. "I have it. You have enough on your plate at work. Catching up..." she reminded him, going back on what Samuel had told her before he left: about how absent Alfie had been when she was in jail. "If it's not life or death, I don't see a point in dwelling on it."
"I don't see a point in bottling it 'ol up if it ain't nothing to be concerned about then," he stated. "I thought we were a union, right? Ain't that wot we agreed on? A little unity?"
Freya shook her head in disagreement. "You wouldn't understand. It's a Shelby thing—"
"Surprise me, Love," he shot back. "I've been swimming in Shelby things for a few years now. I think I got my practice in."
She rolled her eyes and scoffed. "Pol's on snow, and she's talking to our ancestors like they're right here in this room with us," she spat back bitterly, tired, and quite frankly, too drunk to hold he tongue over something so festering.
Alfie looked only slightly taken aback due to his silence. His eyes didn't shift, but his lips fell agape as words didn't seem to find their way to his tongue.
"Didn't think so..." Freya wagged her head and went into the next room, igniting lamps as she moved for the upstairs bed chambers.
"She's not been in touch with the rest of yous, has she?" Alfie called out after her.
She didn't expect him to say something so curious. She paused in his tracks and gripped the side of the stairwell with enough strength to make her knuckles turn white. She didn't trust herself to stand idle on the steps without falling, and the last thing she needed was for Alfie to worry about how well she could hold her alcohol.
"How would you know that?" Freya asked, turning to meet his eyes as he stood at the bottom of the stairwell.
"I'm asking..." he admitted. "I assume a bit of exile will to that to person, no?"
Freya stared at him incredulously. It wasn't like him to speak so inquisitively. It was if he were giving her advice.
"What do you mean?" she wondered.
Alfie fell back on his heels slightly as he averted his gaze. "I mean," he began, finding her eyes again, "what you both went through was fucked, right. Neither of you deserved that. You lot have quite a lot under your belt, but nothing to deserve that," he said with a grimace.
He often imagined the worst-case scenarios late at night. He thought she would be hurt. She was. He imagined how often she cried and how often she fought. And she did. He sympathized more than he thought able. Thinking about the torture she endured, having to be put through that all whilst pregnant and alone... It turned his ears red quicker than it took Tommy to stick the Coppers on his own family.
"Coming back from that ain't easy, and Polly doesn't 'ave anyone but that cousin of yours," he added. "And from wot the paper says, he's been a busy boy."
Freya took a deep breath and gazed down at Alfie like he was an undiscovered element of the world.
He began to grow and shrink in size the longer she stared, so she had no other choice but to continue her journey to the room. "Please come to bed..." she trailed off, hoping Alfie didn't notice how unsteady she was as she finished her ascension.
"Wot do you mean?" he joked. "The party's just started."
"Party ends best in bed," she assured, coaxing him the rest of the way before baring what they had on their mind.
It was Polly and her newfound addiction first. From the snow to the ghosts, Alfie listened. He shared his thoughts and reflected on how she dealt with freedom after going through something like that. The way he mentioned her time at Holloway made her heart ache. Not only did his words imprison her, but she began to imagine what he felt during that time. It was one thing to be prosecuted and belittled for months on end, but to have to sit back and let all that happen, to be so powerless, so unable to help the person you love the most, it was indescribable.
Besides that, Alfie was still rung up on the ins and outs of the operation inside Holloway. He knew that it was no longer in his hands once Tommy handed both Freya and Polly over to the authorities. It didn't matter how powerful he thought he was; there was no way he could control what happened to them. And even though Alfie thought the most vile things about Thomas Shelby, he knew the man wouldn't wish that sort of harm on even his most mild enemies.
What happened to Freya, how she was treated, that was done inside. He kept thinking about her time in there, all alone, beaten, disrespected, so traumatized and abused she miscarried their child. He understood now that there were underlying disadvantages to ever having conceived a baby, a knowledge Freya had no idea Alfie knew. But it wasn't her body alone that killed him. She would have never had to go through that if not for the malpractice and mistreatment from within that rotten facility in London.
Someone had to take responsibility for that. Freya would never regain that sane piece of her mind because of them. She would never get that time or that safety back for as long as the memory still lived in her mind. She would never get her baby back.
They would never get to hold their baby. They never did, and they never would.
There had to be some justice for that. And Alfie was going to get it one way or another.