Once, they all naturally expected him to lead. His siblings assumed he'd take charge of the bookmaking family business. Aunt Pol would look to him for strategies, all the while puffing on her cigarette, formulating tactics in five minutes that Arthur wouldn't have been able to get at if he had five months worth of time to ponder them.

Despite his seniority in the line of siblings, he wasn't cut out to lead. To plan and execute ideas.

Tommy once told him, through clipped, controlled speech (and doesn't that describe Tommy to a fucking tittle) in reaction to an inebriated and challenging Arthur's screams: "I think, Arthur… that's what I do." He had pushed himself off the wall then, had strolled over in a measured pace, enclosing the space between them, and elaborated, tone even and practiced, "I think… so you don't have to."

Most men would've taken offense at that. Would've fumed and objected, would've pulled back a fist and swung wildly.

Arthur remembers he had only changed the subject.

Truthfully, the day he finally accepted that Tommy was the one running the show, was the day a burden (one of many) was lifted off from his shoulders.

That didn't mean things were easy from then on. Arthur never claimed to be the sharpest tool in the shed, but he still recognized how people used him. His lying scum fucker of a father, to start with. Tommy, to follow – tossing out his medicine when he needed Arthur to be fast.

Still, he went along with it all because he liked being needed. And he was bloody good at this part. (His fists always clenched, his gun always warm.)

Following orders gave him purpose and he tracked Tommy to the ends of the earth, with a trail of blood (and bullets, and ashes, and, even, chipped teeth) behind him.

But right now, Tommy can give no orders. He imagines he can barely see straight, eyes glaring into Arthur's, trying to gauge the situation. Arthur's hands grip the short hairs on the back of Tommy's head.

"Tell me," Tommy says. It's an even-keeled statement, without a hint of angry command or flustered panic, despite the pallor in his cheeks. Arthur's own heart is pounding violently in his chest, clammy hands flailing over his brother's jaw line and ears, but Tommy exudes confidence and assurance, always.

Turns out Tommy is just a skilled master of illusion. Because the façade drops and shatters like a glass with three words: "Someone took him."

Suddenly, Tommy appears like a man possessed, instinctively shoving and jerking away from Arthur's hold. And yet, Arthur wrenches him in, presses him close to his chest, and ignores the rancid odor of upchuck, permeating through Tommy's waistcoat. He knows that if he lets go, Tommy's own demons will consume him before any corrupt priest can. So he supports his weight when Tommy's knees buckle, runs his hand over Tommy's hair, clasps his neck and shoulder, and lets him pant rapidly for air, hiding from the world that isn't allowed to see him as weak.

Tommy lifts his head, slowly. Arthur thinks this means he's ready to come back into the world – composed, mask intact. He isn't prepared to see his little brother look even worse for wear. Tommy is as white as a sheet and the deep violet shadows beneath his eyes lie in stark contrast to his arctic blue eyes and ashen tone. His well-defined cheekbones only serve to make him appear even more ghastly and Arthur thinks: shit, he's going to die right here from a final rupture in a heart that France had fractured.

Well, fuck if Arthur'll let that happen.

Instead, he keeps Tommy still, keeps him close (thumb trailing on his cheek), and starts talking.

He genuinely doesn't know where the words come from, so fluently and authoritatively. This has rarely been Arthur in the past, especially not under pressure.

But he delivers instructions about setting up men at junctions and getting home to wait for a phone call into his ear, while Tommy nods blankly and repeats, "You do that," like a broken record, never looking once in Arthur's direction. These are the only signs that Tommy is listening (and they're piss-poor ones at that), but it's better than a complete breakdown.

Hand still clapped around his neck, Arthur guides Tommy to Pol's car. He knows his brother's body is an automaton (lips mouthing what the situation calls for, legs moving where they're led), but he knows Aunt Pol will take care of him.

Later, as Arthur jogs back to meet John inside the institute's building, mind still racing with thoughts of Charlie, he idly wonders for a moment if he had that in him all along. Then, promptly smothers the thought, knowing it doesn't make a lick of difference. Natural hidden ability, freak phenomenon of adrenaline, it doesn't matter. All he knows is the war never ended for him, and Arthur's still looking out for Tommy. In whatever way it takes.

-It just always intrigued me how Arthur totally took control of the Charlie kidnapping situation when the show made such a point of saying how even though he was the eldest, he WASN'T the leader of the Peaky Blinders. Wanted to explore that scene some more.

-Also, it was a chance at writing vulnerable Tommy, which is so rarely seen, that I wasn't going to pass it up.

-Title means "support" in Italian.

-Written for: By Order of the Peaky Blinders Fic Exchange 2019 on Ao3

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