This was written to fulfill the prompt "begging" on my h/c bingo card, which it technically does. I can't tag warnings here like I can on AO3, so I'll do it here: This story includes themes of terminal illness, poverty, mental health issues, and major character death. If you're unsure about whether or not you can safely read this, please refer to the notes at the end for a more thorough description, but be warned that it may contain slight spoilers.

There was a time once, perhaps, when they could have been successful. Before their father ran his business into the ground, pouring more and more of their coffers into his ever more elaborate schemes and getting less and less back, until one day he'd emptied them out and vanished into the night.

If he'd stayed, maybe.

If he hadn't been a compulsive gambler.

If he'd been an actual father instead of a lying fucking thief.

Maybe then they'd be all right.

Tommy coughs. Passers-by give him a wide berth.

It was the war that really did them in, though, in the end. Three young men returned with frail bodies and broken minds, gas curdling in their lungs and oily nightmares clawing at their sanity. No good for business, that. No room in the respectable world for the likes of them.

Perhaps if Polly hadn't— If there had been someone to come back to...

No. Already enough speculation for one day, and it gets him nowhere.

He coughs again, and tries not to see the dark flecks on his sleeve when he's done. The wall is sturdy against his back, but cold, and the ground below is damp. His coat's not thick enough for this sort of weather; he's speeding up the sand by sitting out in it, but his time'll run out soon anyway and this way at least he can bring a few coins in first. Staying in bed might give him another week or two, but it would do nothing for his family, and his family is all he has left.

His worn cap waits on the ground next to him, a single farthing within.

—

He sits there until dusk, then climbs stiffly to his feet. He's collected almost three shillings' worth, and come nightfall he's more likely to lose them than to add to them. These hours are for the brave and the intoxicated, and the sick and the desperate make for easy prey.

Home isn't far, but it feels it, with the cold and the damp and the leaden exhaustion weighing him down. By the time he's fumbling for his key, he's shaking hard and seeing black at the edges of his vision.

"Jesus, Tommy," Arthur mutters when he opens the door. "Heard you comin' a mile away. Get in bed, will you? Go on."

He shoos Tommy inside and latches the door wearily behind him.

"Got a few shillings today," Tommy says, and coughs. "Put 'em in the jar or give 'em to Ada, I don't care." He digs the coins out of his pocket and drops them onto the table with a clatter. The bed in the corner of the room is just a mattress on the bare wood floor, but it's near the stove and it has enough blankets to keep him warm. He sinks down onto it with a stifled groan and starts picking at his shoelaces. "Where's Finn?"

"Still at the factory," Arthur says. "Doing the turnover shift tonight."

"Fuck," Tommy mutters, and gives up on the laces. "He's fucking ten, Arthur. He shouldn't be doing that sort of work."

"What," Arthur snorts, "you gonna do it instead? Don't make me laugh. You can't even 'andle your fuckin' shoes," he adds, bitter, but crouches down to help anyway.

"Don't," Tommy says. "Don't," but Arthur doesn't listen. He gets one shoe off, and then the other, then peels the coat off of his shoulders and hangs it up on the hook in the wall. Tommy gets himself under the covers, abruptly cold without the extra layer.

"Supper," Arthur reminds him. There's a pot of something on the stove, but Tommy doesn't want it.

"Not hungry," he says, and puts his back to the room.

Maybe, if he sleeps, he'll feel better in the morning. Maybe tomorrow will be drier, and the people of Small Heath more generous. He'll wake up and Finn will be back, and maybe John, too. Hell, maybe they'll even see Ada. Maybe Freddy will come by at last. Maybe Arthur will find a new job. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Only one way to find out what tomorrow will bring.

He sleeps.

—

He sweats through the night and wakes up drenched, too tired to move. Arthur's there with a bowl of thin soup and a spoon, and Finn is an indistinct blur asleep on the other bed.

"Come on, Tommy," Arthur says quietly. "You need to eat."

"Don't want it," Tommy mutters, slumped up against the wall. "You 'ave it."

"No, this is for you. I made it special, yeah?"

Tommy huffs out a chuckle, but it only starts him coughing.

"You're a fuckin' mess," Arthur says, but it's drily affectionate. "Have some water, at least. Ease your throat."

By the afternoon he's able to get up and shuffle dizzily around the room, so he fixes Finn something to eat when he wakes up and then returns to his bed to work on his coat. It needs patching and mending, but it blurs before his tired eyes. Not half an hour later, he's asleep against the wall.

—

It's another day before he's strong enough to go out again – another day of Arthur stubbornly feeding him spoonfuls of soup and bits of dry bread, another day of sweating and shaking and coughing up red, another day of his ten-year-old brother doing more to support the family than him – and Arthur doesn't want him to go but he does.

"I'm not letting Finn do all the work," he says, laboriously pulling on his coat.

Arthur's jaw twitches, but in the end he doesn't stop him. "See if you can find John," is all he says, and Tommy nods even though they both know he won't be able to. John vanishes thoroughly when he wants, and Tommy isn't well enough to be traipsing the streets more than he already is. They both know, but neither of them admit it. That would be too much like giving up.

—

It's fucking cold. Winter is well and truly on its way, the air sharp and gouging in his lungs. He coughs and coughs and coughs, but finds the breath to whisper Rroma blessings on those brave enough to approach and drop coins in his cap.

He's shaking – hard, agonizing shudders – and his fingers are stiff even though they're tucked under his arms. This was a mistake. He wants to head home to his mattress by the stove, but Finn shouldn't have to support an entire family alone, even if what Tommy brings in barely enough to count.

No, he'll stay out here and do his part, however small.

Doesn't mean it's going to be enjoyable.

He coughs hard enough to go light-headed, and spits a wad of blood and phlegm onto the ground before leaning back against the wall, eyes closed, panting. There's a sharp noise of concern, and then footsteps approaching.

"Sir?" he hears. "Sir, are you all— Oh." She must see the cap, then, with its meager contents. "I'm sorry," she says, but there's the jangling and clinking of coins being dug out and dropped in. Big ones, by the sound of it. He opens his eyes, and is hit with a vision of blue-grey eyes and honey-blond hair standing over him. "I'd tell you to buy yourself something warm," she goes on, "but in case you can't..." As he watches, she unwinds her own scarf and crouches down to settle it around his shoulders and over his bare head. It's wool, thick and soft, and the difference is immediate. If nothing else, she's given him the strength to last the day.

"What's your name?" he rasps.

"Grace," she tells him. Her voice is deep, with an Irish lilt, and it's a balm to his ears.

"Grace what?"

If she thinks it an odd question, she doesn't show it. "Grace Burgess."

"Grace Burgess," he repeats, and spins her a powerful blessing: protection against evil, the fruition of all her dreams, the kindness of strangers in time of need. "Thank you," he says in English when he's done. "Your kindness will be rewarded."

She clearly doesn't know how to respond to that, but eventually she settles on "Stay warm," and stands, and leaves. Once she's gone, he lets himself look in his cap. There, on top, are six crowns. A full pound and a half. Ten times what he made yesterday. He tips his head back against the grimy wall and laughs.

—

John's there when he gets back.

"See?" he says to Arthur, after smothering a cough in the crook of his arm. "I found him."

"Yeah, yeah." Arthur waves him off. "Sit down."

Tommy drops into a chair across the table from John and empties his pockets onto the rough-hewn wood. John's eyes are still blank and far-away, but even they widen perceptibly as Arthur spins around at the noise.

"What've you got there?" he demands, coming over to look.

"Two pounds," Tommy tells him, and lifts one end of the scarf around his neck. "And this."

"Fuck," Arthur breathes, trailing his fingers over the metal. "Where the 'ell did you get all this?"

"An angel," Tommy says. "A guardian angel, direct from Ireland."

—

John's got demons none of them know how to fix. He's either fine or he's not, and when he's not it's like he forgets everything about himself. He'll go far away, to another part of town – or to another town altogether – and stay away for weeks, working or drinking or gambling or god knows what. Sometimes he comes back with money, but mostly not. This time he does, and between that and Tommy's take, they can set enough aside for a full Sunday dinner at the end of the week.

John's still not entirely there during supper, but he's making his way back. After they eat, Tommy takes him and sits the two of them down on his mattress, side by side, his arm around John's shoulder.

"What I wouldn't give for a cigarette, eh?" he says eventually, giving John a little shake. "Those always calmed you down, didn't they, John-boy? Always got you back where you needed to be. Too bad we're skint broke these days."

John snorts, just a tiny huff of laughter. "You'd sound even worse if you smoked," he mumbles, and Tommy claps him on the back.

"That's a fact," he agrees. He'd had to stop months ago - it was an expense he couldn't justify, and the smoke that used to soothe him only made it harder to breathe. "Still miss it, though."

"Yeah."

They're quiet for a while. Arthur's doing the meager washing up, and Finn's already gone to work. The night noises are setting in – shouting voices, slamming doors, breaking glass – but those are almost soporific at this point.

"I'm sorry," John says eventually. "I don't know why I keep doing this, I just feel like I have to— And I know you lot're in a bad way, you sick and Arthur out of the job, but I can't— I can't make myself stop. I can't make myself stay."

"It's all right," Tommy tells him. It's even almost true. They've learned to get by without John, though it's good to have him home. "Just don't forget that we're here for you, eh? Don't forget that we're family."

John scrubs a hand against his eyes and looks away. "I try," he says, choked. "I try, I just—"

"Hey, hey hey hey," Tommy says. "None of that now, none of that. You're all right, John-boy. You're all right, and you're home now. Stay as long as you can, but when you leave again, you can always come back. You can always come back."

—

He wakes up early the next morning – soaked in sweat, as per the fucking usual – but John and Arthur are already up. Up, and talking about him, so he stays where he is.

"—don't like it," John's saying quietly. "I hate that 'e's out there like this, so—"

"You think I haven't tried to talk him out of it?" Arthur cuts in, but he doesn't sound angry. He just sounds fucking tired. "But every now and then, he gets lucky, and gets it in 'is 'ead that this is what's best for us, that it's what we want."

"Can't stand being dependent," John says. "Stubborn as hell, the lot of us." He sniffs. "You found a job yet?"

"Nah. Been looking, but no one 'round 'ere wants to take a chance with me. I could go farther out, but Tommy— Fuck, John, he's really sick. He acts like he's not, tries to keep normal for Finn's sake, but it's got to where I don't want to leave him alone."

"He getting worse?"

Arthur scoffs. "'Getting?' He's been worse, for a long time now. He just can't hide it anymore, can't even get out of bed half the time, and what am I supposed to do then? Leave 'im by 'imself? Leave Finn in charge of 'im? Fuck no. I'll be damned if I let Finn be the one who finally finds 'im cold."

A shudder skates through him at that, half chill and half irrational dread, and he pulls the blankets closer. He knows he's running out of time, but he tries not to dwell on it too much. That's how people get hopeless. Just needs to take it one day at a time, that's all, and he'll keep taking it one day at a time until he runs out of days. But he knows he's in a bad way, he's not fucking stupid. He's lost too much weight and is only getting thinner, and even the slightest exertion leaves him trembling and exhausted. He's not long for this world, but as cold and heartless as it is, he's not ready to leave it.

"You heard from Ada?" John asks.

"Not in a while, no. She's staying with Freddy. He don't have much to give 'er, but it's more than we do. He's all right, really. He does well by 'er."

"She happy?"

"I think so. She's probably gonna marry 'im one of these days, and Ada's not the sort to settle."

"True enough," John agrees. "Does she know?" he asks after a bit, quieter. "How bad it is? She seen 'im lately?"

"No. She knows he's sick, but if she knew how sick, she woulda come. I know she would."

Tommy's breath catches, and he has to close his eyes and grip a handful of quilt until the sudden surge of emotion wanes. Fuck, he misses Ada, and she'd made it clear that she never wanted to see him again but if Arthur thinks—

He chokes on a tight, frustrated sob and hears chairs scrape back from the table as he falls to coughing. The clammy fabric of his shirt and bedsheets is suddenly heavy around him, stifling, and he can't get out from under them.

"Easy, Tommy," comes Arthur's voice, and a pair of hands under his arms hauls him up while a pillow finds its way between his back and the wall. "Lean forward, that's it." Arthur's hand is warm on his shoulder, pressing him down while he chokes on his own rattling breaths, and the bowl kept next to the mattress appears between his hands. "Get it up, Tommy, get it up."

He coughs until he gags, and spits bile into the bowl along with ropes of bloody phlegm.

"I hate this," he gasps when he's done, still hunched over the bowl. "I fucking hate this." He wipes his mouth on his sleeve and slumps back against the wall, eyes closed, breathing hard.

He doesn't even notice he's shivering until a blanket is tucked around him and a hand presses against his forehead.

"He's burning up," John says. "Isn't there something we can do?"

"Nothing I've been able to figure out," Arthur answers heavily, and not for the first time Tommy curses the sickness, curses himself, curses the war.

Strong young men, so full of life, reduced to this. He would cry, but the war took that, too.

—

Grace finds him again two days later.

"There you are," she says. "I haven't seen you here recently. Thought you might have gone somewhere else."

"No," Tommy says, and coughs. His throat's raw with it, and his chest aches. "No, this 'ere is my kingdom. I just had to stay in for a bit, that's all. 'M nearing the end of the race, I'm afraid."

"Don't say that," Grace says, like it actually upsets her. Then, "Does it help?" He's wearing her scarf again, not over his head this time but piled high around his neck to keep his ears warm as well.

"It does," he admits, "but it's too rich a gift." He starts to unwrap it. "I shouldn't have taken it."

"Oh, no, please," she protests, startled. "Please keep it. Lord knows you need it more than I do." And as if that weren't enough, she drops a few more coins in his cap.

"Thank you," Tommy murmurs, and tucks the ends of the scarf back in. "You're a very kind woman. But be careful, eh? It's not a good town. Too much generosity, it makes you a target. Gets you in trouble." He turns away from her to cough again, but doesn't miss the way she takes a hurried step back.

"Are you looking for work?" she asks once he's stopped. "I know some places that are looking—"

"No," he rasps, and has to clear his throat a few times and try again. "No, they're not looking for me. I've got a month left, maybe less."

"I'm sorry," Grace says, genuine. Heartfelt, but not overly pitying. "Do you have family?"

He nods. "Three brothers. A sister too, but she's not speaking to me. Only one of them is working right now, though, so I'll take those names if you have them."

"Of course." She digs in her small purse for a scrap of paper and pencil, then stops. "Is it all right if I write them down?"

He can't help but smile at the hesitance in her voice. "Don't worry, I know 'ow to read."

"Right." She scribbles down a few lines, ignoring the flush in her cheeks, then hands him the slip.

"Tell your brothers I said good luck," she says, and he nods.

"I will."

—

"The Garrison?" Arthur reads out that evening, and John bursts out laughing. Tommy finds himself smiling, too, despite his exhaustion, and soon even Arthur is chortling. "Fuckin' 'ell, who'd be crazy enough to put me in a pub?" he demands. "That's a bright fuckin' idea, that is, putting the fucking bull in charge of the china shop." He mimes smashing a bottle in a fit of rage, and John howls with laughter.

"My good man, can you bring me a scotch?" Tommy asks in his best posh drawl, and Arthur pretends to flip the table.

"No I can fucking not!" he roars, then rounds it all off with a feral snarl.

John's helpless with laughter, head on the table and arms clutching his stomach. "I've changed my mind," he gasps out. "That's the best job I ever 'eard of for you."

Finn's just staring at them, not old enough to understand how Arthur's fits could possibly be funny or else not knowing how truly awful they can be. "You're mad as hell," he decides eventually. "All of you."

"An insult!" Arthur gasps, mock-outraged. "Why, I'll show you—" In the space of a breath he's got Finn upside-down, holding him around the waist and spinning them both around as Finn squeals and shrieks with laughter.

"Who's mad now, eh?" he demands, still with his play-anger. "Who's mad now!"

"You are!" Finn shouts, laughing, and Arthur stops his spinning and flips him right side up again.

"Right," he says, putting a hand on Finn's head to steady him as he staggers. "This one's definitely a Shelby. Who's next?"

John's hand shoots up, but Arthur swats it away. "Down, John-boy," he says, voice still breathy with mirth. "That's all I got in me, come on. Tommy'd be fine though, he's half your weight."

"Fuck off, Arthur," Tommy says, as Arthur drops heavily into the seat next to him, still laughing. He taps the paper thoughtfully. "I think this could be good for you," he says after a bit. Arthur groans.

"Come off it, Tommy. We just did the whole routine, didn't we? You can't think—"

"Harry knows you," Tommy cuts in. "He knows you fought, knows you were a good soldier. He's like as anyone to give you a chance, so what's the harm in asking? There's gotta be something you can do."

Arthur sucks his teeth, considering. "I dunno, boyo. Still don't think it's a good idea."

"Come on, Arthur," Tommy urges, leaning forward. "Give it a shot, eh? Worst that happens is you don't get the job. Best that happens is Finn doesn't have to work for a while. Think on it, all right?"

"I don't mind working," Finn chimes in, but Tommy shakes his head.

"You're a good brother, Finn," he says. "A good provider. But you shouldn't have to be. Us three, we should be taking care of you, not the other way around."

"But you—"

"Arthur needs to get a handle on himself," Tommy admits, "and John, too, but they can find work. I can't, but I'll keep helping out for as long as I can. It'll be all right."

"Are you gonna get better?" Finn asks, and the room goes still.

"Finn," Arthur warns, but Tommy quiets him with a hand on his shoulder.

"No," he says calmly, and Finn's had too hard a life for a ten-year-old's tears, but his eyes get wide and shiny all the same. "Listen to me, Finn," Tommy goes on, hoping against hope that he's old enough to understand now and young enough to move on later. "I'll try to make it to Christmas, all right? I'll try, but I can't promise it. No one lives forever, and I'm just gonna go a little sooner than the rest of you. When I'm gone, though, you three will keep taking care of each other, and Ada too. You'll all be fine, I promise. But let's not worry about this right now, eh? There's more important things."

"Sure, Tommy," Finn says quietly, and it kills him, it fucking ikills/i him to see his little brother look so weary. "I should go. Don't wanna be late for my shift."

"I'll walk with you," John offers, and Finn nods. When John holds out a hand as they head out the door, Finn reaches up to take it.

"Fuck, Tommy," Arthur sighs once the door is closed behind them. "Not even 'til Christmas?"

Tommy shakes his head. "I don't know. Just feel like I'm coming up on the end, that's all."

"You shouldn't be out there," Arthur says. "You should be staying in, resting—"

"And how does that help anyone?" Tommy asks flatly. "I'll still die, only I'll leave you with even less."

"Enough!" Arthur snaps, and shoves himself up. "Why can't you understand that you're worth more than the money? Why can't you understand that having you alive is more important than having a few more pounds in the jar? Why is that so fucking difficult for you?"

"Because I'm going to die anyway," Tommy says evenly. "And until then, I can either do nothing, or I can do my part for this family, and I've chosen to do my part."

"It's not that fucking simple, Tommy," Arthur tells him. "You're our brother." He heads for the door, snagging his coat and scarf on the way. "If you want something to eat, fix it yourself. I'm going out."

The door slams behind him, and Tommy's left with the silence and deepening dark of a winter night.

—

It takes some debate, but Arthur gets the job at the Garrison, where it turns out Grace is a barmaid. Figures, that. Arthur tells them all about it, but it's the singing he loves the most. "Three nights a week there's singing, lads," he says, practically starry-eyed. "It's enough to make you forget the war."

A week later John finds work at the BSA factory, and Freddy agrees to keep an eye on him, make sure he keeps his head on and sticks around.

It's getting harder and harder to drag himself out of bed in the mornings, and when he spits, it's more blood than mucus.

—

He sees Grace every day that he's out, but those days are getting fewer and farther between.

She knows. She'd probably know even if he hadn't told her, but he had, so she's sure. It would have been a guess, otherwise. A morbid, bitter guess.

He knows she knows because she's giving him more. At least two pounds. Three, if it's been a while. He's still wearing her scarf. He's started wearing it to bed, now that even the blankets and the stove aren't enough to keep him warm anymore.

She's started staying longer, too. She'll drag over a crate or a sack to sit on and keep him company. They talk. She offers to pay for a doctor at one point, and Tommy just laughs until he coughs, then coughs until his head aches.

He doesn't explain. Grace doesn't ask, but she doesn't offer again.

—

Finn's back on the day shift, and no matter how tired he is when he gets home, Tommy beckons him over to sit down on his bed, and they have lessons. "If you know how to read and sum," Tommy's told him, "you can learn to do everything else." And so they practice, with books and slates and chalk, and neither of them talk about why they aren't doing it at the table instead.

He moves like a man three times his age, shaky and stiff and sore. When he's at home, he's in bed, saving his strength for the next trip out and the inevitable fights that precede it.

Arthur argues against it more angrily each time, but he hasn't tried to physically stop him, even though he would likely only need one hand to do it. So Tommy goes, and Arthur seethes, but when he comes back Arthur's there to give him soup and help him into bed.

—

When did it get to be so fucking cold.

—

It's his last day out, he's decided. It's his last day to be anything more than a burden, and then he'll get into bed and stay there until he dies or is cured by a miracle from the god he no longer believes in.

Grace is there, of course. She sits next to him on the cold stone ground and offers him a drag of her cigarette.

What the 'ell, he thinks, and takes it. They trade it back and forth, wordless, until it's done.

"I would've liked to know you, Grace," he says at last. "In another life, maybe I did. In another life, maybe I will."

"Is this it, then?" Grace asks. She won't look at him, and her voice is thicker than usual. "Is this the last time we'll see each other?"

"Probably. I'm going home soon. I'm going home to stay."

"And you'll be with your family?"

"Those that want to be there," Tommy agrees. "Those that can be. And those that are gone, I'll be seeing soon enough."

"Fuck you, Tommy Shelby," she says quietly, "for coming into my life so close to the end of yours. I would have liked to know you, too."

—

He goes home, and he gets into his bed, and he doesn't get out unless he has to. He's hardly ever hungry, but John and Arthur take turns trying to cajole him into eating. They're spending money they don't have on food they don't need, herbs and meat and fresh milk, and Arthur's not a gifted chef but he tries his best just to get Tommy to take a few bites.

He and Finn keep up with their lessons, but soon Finn's doing the reading and writing and Tommy's simply nodding or pointing out mistakes. "Good work," he rasps at the end, and ruffles Finn's hair. "Very good work."

The rest of the time, Finn seems torn between acting like boy he is and being the young man he's expected to be. At times he's sullen and withdrawn, and won't even look in Tommy's direction. More often, though, he'll climb onto the mattress with him and snuggle up against his side, as if trying to make up for the coming years of absence.

"Don't," Tommy tries to tell him, with a gentle push away. "You'll get sick, too."

"I don't fucking care," Finn grumps, and puts his head on Tommy's shoulder.

"I do," Tommy sighs, but lets him stay. Living in such close quarters, either he's already infected or he's somehow immune, same as John and Arthur seem to be. He hopes they're safe. Fuck, does he hope they're safe.

—

He sleeps a lot, but never feels any less tired.

He sweats a lot, but never really feels thirsty.

Arthur's holding a cup for him, helping him drink, but it seems like a waste of effort, especially when a sip goes down the wrong way and he chokes and splutters and can't drink any more for the coughing.

—

He's lying down again, all three of their pillows propping him up to make breathing less of a challenge, and there's a cold cloth wiping the sweat from his forehead.

"Go find Freddy," Arthur's saying softly to John, "and tell 'im Tommy's on 'is last legs. Tell 'im that if Ada wants to make peace, she'd better do it soon."

—

"Tommy? Tommy." The sound's hollow, coming from far away, and his eyes don't want to open. "Wake up, come on." He tries, and it takes a few goes but at last he's blinking Arthur's blurry face into something like focus. "That's a good lad," Arthur says, and smooths back his hair. "Look who's come to see you."

Ada's furious, and she plops herself down on the edge of his mattress and hugs her knees to her chest as well as she can around her growing belly. Freddy just looks shocked. "You bastard," he says distantly, and sinks into a chair like his legs don't want to hold him. "Why didn't you say something? Why didn't you fucking say something?"

"Did you think we wouldn't help you?" Ada demands.

"No," he says. It's the truth. "I knew you couldn't. Didn't want you to try."

Ada hits him over the head with her gloves. "You're fucking selfish, you know that? Three months of total silence, and then Freddy comes home and tells me that John says you're dying, and what do I find when I get here? A fucking skeleton, that's what. Look at you!" She picks up his arm, fingers circling his forearm easily, then lets it fall back to the mattress with a soft thump. "You don't get to invite me back here just to make me watch you die. What if I wanted more time than that? What if I wanted more time!" She's yelling, but she's crying, too, curled in on herself with her head in her hand. "You fucking bastard!"

It takes a bit for her to get it all out of her system, tearing into each and every one of them for keeping it quiet, but eventually she wears herself down. Arthur warily offers tea, and she takes it as the olive branch it is.

Freddy still can't take his eyes off him, can't look away from the deep hollows of his cheeks and the shadows that make his eyes look even more sunken and skull-like. Arthur's been cutting his hair for him and helping him shave, but the new angles of his face make for easy nicks, so his cheekbones and jaw are littered with cuts – some inflamed, some infected, all of them slow to heal.

He's seen himself in their small shard of mirror. He knows he looks like a dying man.

Tommy flicks his gaze between Freddy and Ada. "You two get married yet?" he asks, and Ada shakes her head.

"Soon, though," she says.

"How soon?"

"After Christmas, probably," Freddy says quietly.

He coughs. It doesn't have much force anymore – he hasn't the strength for it – but it still hurts, and he lets his eyes close.

"You gonna... You gonna have a party?"

"Maybe." Ada sniffs wetly. "Not sure who we'd invite, other than you lot."

"Find some people," Tommy tells her. "Make some friends. 'S... 'S not every day something good happens."

"Will you be there?" She's holding his hand, now. When had she taken it? He opens his eyes to find her glaring at him with tears and defiance. It sounds like a challenge. "Will you be at my wedding, Tommy?"

"No," Tommy says, and Ada looks away, blinking hard. "But I want to. God, I want to," he breathes, and thinks of her child, of Finn, of the life that they could all have had. "There's so much that I want."

"I fucking hate you," Ada mutters, but when he squeezes her hand, she squeezes back.

"Do me a favor?"

"Depends," she answers sullenly.

"Finn. 'E shouldn't be working. If Arthur—" He coughs. "If Arthur and John can't make enough to support 'im, you and Freddy take 'im in. Just... Just make sure he's taken care of."

"Of course," she promises. "We'll make sure of it. He won't end up like you."

"Good," Tommy sighs. "That's what I needed to hear."

—

It's two days before Christmas Eve, and he can't see. He can't really feel, either, but he knows he's not in pain. He knows he's not cold, not exhausted, not sore. He's comfortable in his bed, and he can't fucking see.

"Arthur," he rasps. "John." He wants to hold out a hand and ask someone to take it, to sit with him as he goes, but it doesn't move when he tries. "Ada. Freddy. Finn." No one answers. No one hears.

And then—

"Tommy?"

And then—

A small hand finds his, and then...

"It's okay," he hears, and then

.

More about the warnings:

The premise of this story is that rather than becoming the successful and terrifying crime family we know and love, the Shelbys fall into poverty while the children are still fairly young, and they never manage to get out of it. The war has harsher consequences on the Shelby brothers than it does in the show, leaving John and Arthur with serious emotional disturbances and Tommy with very poor health. In order to help support his family, Tommy (terminally ill with tuberculosis and unable to work) takes up begging. The story deals with the physical and emotional challenges of such an act, as well as of the general circumstances, until ending with Tommy's death.

Thank you for reading this utter shit piece of garbage and please come to my home to hit me with a two-by-four if you thought it was badly done and/or completely uncalled-for.