Your prized actor boyfriend, Tom Hardy, can't make it home in time for Christmas.
Again? (Drabble)
You try to break up with your actor boyfriend because of his busy schedule.
Candied Prayers (Johnny Davis x Reader) smut
Summary: Johnny Davis is struggling to make amends with the complications of his marriage. While abiding his wife's wishes, finds himself drawn to you, his kids' Catholic pre school teacher.
Tomorrow Night, Same Time (John Fitzgerald x Reader) smut, angst
Summary: John Fitzgerald believed everything came with a price. He was a practical man with money to spend, and you were unfortunate enough to be needing his help.
Sweet Child Of Mine (Alfie Solomons x Reader) smut
Summary: Alfie Solomons often read his son the Torah—his favorite being the story of Lot—while you lived it in your own twisted reality
SERIES:
Haunted (Alfie Solomons x Reader)
TW: Smut, Explicit Language, Age gap, crimes.
Summary: Isobel Russo, known to most as Izzy, mastered the art of using her beauty and charm to exploit wealthy men. She managed to captivate Michael Gray, seeing him as the key to the ultimate heist to Shelby Company Limited in Birmingham. Immersed in a world of wealth, gang wars, and crime, her carefully laid plans unraveled when Alfie Solomons uncovered her true intentions. Striking a deal with her, she found herself sinking deeper into his world where the fine line between feelings and loyalties are blurred.
Chapter 2 - Small Heath
Chapter 3 - Camden
Chapter 4 - A Long Night (smut)
Chapter 5 - Loose Grip (smut)
Chapter 6 - Dealer's Play
Chapter 7 - Submission
Chapter 8 - Gods & Debts (smut)
Don't Worry About Her (Eddie Brock x Reader) COMPLETED
Summary: They always say, when a guy tells you not to worry about his girl best friend, you probably should. Izzy's wild and free-spirited nature has always contrasted with her best friend Eddie's quest for stability. Now that Eddie is engaged, he never expected Izzy to complicate things for both of them.
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Alfie develops an obsession with your pastries.
Soon half of Camden is convinced he's conducting business meetings simply to justify visiting your bakery.
The first time Alfie Solomons entered your bakery, nobody thought much of it.
Which was remarkable, considering Alfie Solomons entering anywhere tended to become everyone's business almost immediately.
Your bakery sat on a busy Camden street tucked between a tailor's shop and a bookseller, the windows perpetually fogged by the warmth of the ovens and the scent of fresh bread drifting onto the pavement from before sunrise until long after the lunch rush ended. It wasn't flashy. It wasn't fashionable. It certainly wasn't the sort of place people associated with gang leaders, bookmakers, smugglers, and men whose names inspired nervous glances and lowered voices.
It was simply a bakery.
A good one.
A very good one, if the queue outside every morning was any indication.
You were standing behind the counter dusted in flour, arranging apricot tarts in the display case, when the bell above the door chimed and a silence settled over the room so quickly it felt as though someone had sucked all the air out through the chimney.
You looked up.
Everyone else looked up.
And there stood Alfie Solomons.
Large.
Bearded.
Coated in enough authority to make grown men forget their own names.
He stared at the display case.
The display case stared back.
Then he pointed.
"What's that?"
You glanced at the tray.
"Lemon tart."
He nodded thoughtfully.
Then pointed again.
"That one."
"Custard slice."
Another nod.
"And that one."
"Cherry danish."
The questioning continued for nearly three minutes.
Not because he was struggling to decide.
Because he seemed genuinely fascinated.
Eventually he purchased one of everything.
Literally.
One.
Of.
Everything.
You watched him leave carrying enough pastries to feed a small family.
The entire bakery remained silent for several moments.
Then one customer quietly asked,
"Did Alfie Solomons just buy twelve pounds worth of cake?"
You looked at the empty display shelf.
"Apparently."
The following morning he returned.
Which wasn't entirely unexpected.
People came back once they'd tried your pastries.
The surprising part was that he arrived before opening.
You unlocked the front door at seven sharp.
Alfie was already waiting.
Not pacing.
Not smoking.
Just standing there.
As though this was perfectly normal behavior.
"Morning," you said.
"Morning."
"You've been waiting?"
"Yeah."
A pause.
Then:
"Need those raspberry things."
You blinked.
"The turnovers?"
"That's them."
You tried not to smile.
Failed.
Alfie watched you smile.
Then immediately looked away.
Three weeks later he had become a fixture.
Not a customer.
A fixture.
Like the display case.
Or the front door.
Or the oven.
People expected Alfie Solomons to be there.
Which should not have become normal under any circumstances.
Yet somehow it had.
Every morning.
Every afternoon.
Sometimes twice a day.
Sometimes three times.
He always had a reason.
At least officially.
Unofficially, nobody believed him.
"Business meeting."
That was usually the explanation.
"Business meeting."
Again.
"Business."
"Important discussion."
"Negotiation."
"Meeting."
The issue was that his business meetings increasingly involved only himself and a cinnamon bun.
People started noticing.
One afternoon a bookmaker wandered into the bakery looking for Alfie and found him sitting alone at a corner table eating a custard tart with the concentration of a man decoding military intelligence.
The bookmaker stood there for several seconds.
Then asked,
"Thought you had a meeting."
Without looking up, Alfie replied,
"I do."
The man looked around.
"There ain't anyone here."
Alfie took another bite.
"There is."
The bookmaker followed his gaze.
Directly to the counter.
Where you were frosting cupcakes.
The realization was immediate.
The expression that followed was priceless.
Word spread.
Because of course it did.
Camden thrived on gossip almost as much as crime.
Soon people were placing bets on how long it would take Alfie to invent an excuse to visit your bakery on any given day.
The current record was eleven minutes.
A man delivered paperwork to Alfie's office. Alfie read half a page. Declared he required pastries for concentration.
Left immediately.
The truly alarming thing was that he wasn't subtle.
At all.
Alfie Solomons approached subtlety the same way a freight train approached flowerbeds.
He learned your baking schedule. He learned which days you made seasonal pastries. He learned how long croissants took. He learned what time you arrived every morning. He learned which suppliers annoyed you. Which recipes were family recipes. Which ones you'd invented yourself.
He remembered everything.
Every offhand comment. Every complaint. Every preference. Every story.
One rainy afternoon you mentioned you disliked making macarons because they were temperamental.
Three weeks later Alfie appeared carrying a crate of imported almonds.
You stared.
Then stared harder.
Then looked at the almonds again.
"Why?"
Alfie shrugged.
"You were annoyed."
"That was weeks ago."
"Yeah."
You waited.
"That's it?"
"Mm."
Your heart did something deeply inconvenient.
The staff noticed first.
Then the customers.
Then the entire borough.
Eventually even the rival gangs noticed.
Which was arguably ridiculous.
A man once walked into a warehouse expecting a criminal negotiation and instead found Alfie discussing puff pastry techniques.
The man stood there for nearly a full minute before finally interrupting.
"Alfie."
"Yeah?"
"What are you doing?"
"Talking."
"About what?"
"Butter."
The man blinked.
"Butter."
"Yeah."
A pause.
Then Alfie pointed accusingly.
"Important ingredient, that."
The funniest part was that Alfie seemed genuinely unaware that everyone knew.
Or perhaps he simply didn't care.
Both possibilities were equally likely.
Meanwhile you found yourself looking for him.
Which was unfortunate.
Because once you started noticing his absence, there was no going back.
You noticed if he arrived late. You noticed if he skipped a day. You noticed if he looked tired. You noticed when he'd clearly forgotten to eat proper meals and was surviving primarily on tea and stubbornness.
Which happened more often than it should have.
One morning he failed to appear entirely.
At first you assumed he was busy.
Then lunch arrived.
Then evening.
Still nothing.
The bakery felt oddly empty.
You hated that realization immediately.
The next day he appeared shortly before noon.
A bruise darkened one side of his face.
His coat looked worse for wear.
And there was exhaustion in his eyes he hadn't quite managed to hide.
You didn't even think.
The concern escaped before you could stop it.
"What happened to you?"
Alfie froze.
Actually froze.
For a man who regularly stared down armed opponents without blinking, the reaction was startling.
Slowly he looked up.
"You worried?"
The question sounded almost disbelieving.
You frowned.
"Obviously."
Silence.
A very strange silence.
Then:
"Right."
He sat down heavily.
And for the first time since you'd met him, he seemed genuinely at a loss for words.
Later, much later, after closing time, after the final customers had gone home and the streets outside had grown quieter beneath the amber glow of gas lamps, Alfie remained seated at his usual table nursing a cup of tea that had long since gone cold while you counted the day's receipts behind the counter.
The familiar comfort of his presence settled over the bakery like a second layer of warmth, and it occurred to you suddenly that somewhere along the way the large, intimidating, endlessly complicated man had become as much a part of your routine as the ovens themselves.
You glanced up.
He was already looking at you.
Not unusual.
Lately he'd been doing that a lot.
Watching.
Thinking.
Studying.
As though he'd discovered something he couldn't quite stop returning to.
"What?" you asked.
Alfie rubbed his beard thoughtfully.
Then sighed.
A long sigh.
The sort that suggested he was about to say something significant and was annoyed about it.
"You know," he began, "I've spent six months convincing myself I've got perfectly sensible reasons for being here."
You raised an eyebrow.
"Oh?"
"Yeah."
He gestured vaguely.
"Business."
You laughed immediately.
"Alfie."
"Listen."
"No."
The corner of his mouth twitched.
Then his expression softened.
Only slightly.
But enough.
Enough that your heart skipped.
Enough that the room suddenly felt smaller.
"The truth is," he said quietly, "I don't actually give a shit about half the meetings I arrange."
You smiled.
"I know."
"Yeah."
A pause.
Then:
"Arrange 'em anyway."
"I know."
"Know why?"
Your pulse quickened.
Because suddenly this conversation felt important. Dangerously important.
You shook your head.
Alfie looked at you for a long moment.
Long enough that the air seemed to hold its breath.
Then he said:
"Because if I don't, I don't get an excuse to see you."
Silence.
Outside, Camden continued moving.
Carriages rolled over cobblestones.
Voices drifted through the evening.
Life continued.
Yet inside the bakery the world narrowed to a single moment.
A single man.
A single confession.
Alfie looked mildly irritated by his own honesty.
Which somehow made it sweeter.
"You know," he muttered, "that's probably the most embarrassing thing I've ever said."
You laughed softly.
"I seriously doubt that."
"Trust me."
Your smile grew.
And something in his expression eased immediately at the sight of it.
As though your happiness mattered far more than his dignity.
Slowly you walked around the counter.
Crossed the room.
Stopped in front of him.
For perhaps the first time since you'd known him, Alfie Solomons looked uncertain.
Not frightened.
Not nervous.
Just vulnerable.
A man waiting to discover whether he'd misjudged everything.
You reached for his hand.
His fingers immediately curled around yours.
Instinctively.
Like he'd wanted to do it for months.
Maybe longer.
"You know," you said softly, "you could have just asked me to dinner."
Alfie stared.
Then barked out a laugh.
A genuine one.
Rare and rough and wonderful.
"Spent six months buying pastries when I could've done that?"
"Apparently."
"My God."
You grinned.
"You are ridiculous."
He pulled your hand gently.
Just enough to bring you closer.
"Yeah," he said quietly.
"Probably."
Then his gaze settled on yours.
Warm.
Steady.
Certain.
"But it worked, didn't it?"
And honestly..
Looking down at the man who had somehow turned an obsession with pastries into a courtship, who had filled your bakery with laughter and conversation and warmth until neither of you remembered what it had been like before the other arrived, you found yourself smiling.
Because it had.
And somewhere outside, half of Camden would undoubtedly be delighted to learn that after months of pretending business required pastries, Alfie Solomons had finally admitted the truth.
He'd only ever been coming for the baker.
And now, at last, he didn't need an excuse anymore.
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It's a bit short, and we are still moving in the story, but it's important for Alfie and his wife's family.
There was a very simple code between Thomas and Y/N when he called her.
If he asked how she was, if he mentioned a family meeting, if he seemed troubled, she could talk to her husband about it. If he announced that Ada had invited her for tea, it meant a private gathering, without Ada, or anyone else, whose existence Alfie mustn't know about.
Y/N had sighed when her brother had called.
She had hesitated to remind him that she was pregnant, and that it would be difficult for her to travel to Birmingham, not only because of her morning sickness, but because her husband would be completely against the idea.
The poor man lost all control the moment she sneezed, throwing himself at her feet and demanding a doctor, ready to give his life in exchange for hers.
Not wanting to lie, she had managed to find a compromise by arranging for Tommy to come to London at a time when Alfie was busy at the Bakery. The men watching the house would see him, but there would be nothing odd about her brother paying her a visit.
Explaining Aberama Gold's presence, however, would be more complicated.
She didn't know him well, Thomas had called him when he'd had some trouble with the Irish. She knew his son was a good boxer who had faced Alfie's nephew in a fixed match. If her brother had summoned him, it must be very important, but not dangerous for her.
In any case, the man seemed moved when he saw her stomach, congratulating her in Romanian and suddenly apologetic for her presence.
Y/N invited them to sit down, offering them a cup of tea. There was coffee or water if he preferred, but any other type of beverage had been banned from the house by her husband.
She then waited for Thomas to begin speaking, but he simply lit a cigarette while looking at Aberama.
"Perhaps we shouldn't have come." the guest muttered, wincing.
"You insisted, Mr. Gold. And as I told you, it would have been better to ask my sister, rather than Mr. Solomons directly."
"Can you explain ?"
"Mr. Gold's son is dead. Murdered."
There was so much sadness in Aberama Gold's eyes that Y/N had to restrain herself from hugging him and from crying. Stupid hormones.
She offered him her sincerest condolences. Bonnie seemed like a good boy who didn't deserve to end up like this. This, however, didn't explain what he was doing here, or what his connection to Alfie was.
"Do you know if he knows the Billy Boys ?" Thomas asked, seeing that the other man wouldn't dare go through with it.
"The Billy Boys ? I've never heard of them."
"A gang of Irish, wild, violent."
"I could try asking him discreetly, but he's mostly been doing business with the French and Americans lately. Too complicated to know who's Irish and who's Irish, as he likes to say. Were they the ones who killed Bonnie ?"
"Yes. Someone sold us out."
Of course.
It wasn't a secret, everyone knew that Alfie had sold the Peaky Blinders to the Italians. Once. He would have had many other opportunities to do so, but he had married Y/N, which had given him a good reason to be loyal to the whole family.
From what she understood of their conversation, Tommy knew the traitor wasn't his brother-in-law. The suspicions stemmed from Aberama, who, after accusing everyone in Birmingham, had turned his attention to those who remained and whom he barely knew.
Unable to take Shelby's word for it, he had wanted to confront Solomons directly. To avoid bloodshed, he was therefore turning to her.
"I should add that these Billy Boys often serve as bodyguards in the North for certain political rallies. Sir Mosley's in particular."
"Sir Mosley ? Oswald Mosley ?"
"Yes."
"… The fascist ?"
She apologized afterward, several times, but at that moment, when she turned to Alberama Gold, who was staring intently at her, she couldn't suppress her laughter. It made her brother smile too, even though he tried to hide it behind his hand.
Alfie. Alfie Solomons and Osward Mosley.
He could have come to this meeting, he could have laughed too, and he wouldn't have done any harm to this grieving father who hadn't taken the time to think before making accusations.
"Mr. Gold, I can assure you that my husband, the Wandering Jew, is in no way associated with the fascists."
"… Oh." was Aberama's reply, who then looked at his host with surprise and a touch of perplexity, because that simple sentence would have been enough to dispel all doubts. Thomas must have needed to amuse himself.
"However, Tommy, I heard you've had some meetings with this Sir Mosley. Well, Alfie heard it, and it's really upsetting him. I already have a baby in my belly, I don't need practice with an adult version. Tell me you're not doing business with him."
"Trust me, little sister. I think of you every time I have to talk to that individual."
Knowing her brother well, Y/N didn't press the issue, only getting up to kiss him on the cheek. He did his best not to smile, but she could see he was tired. Whatever was going on with this Mosley, it wasn't good.
Alfie didn't ask about the visitors who had dropped by during his absence, assuming she would tell him if it was important and when she was ready.
"My brother's a jerk."
"Ah. I didn't know that, treacle." he said, half-asleep trying to hear the baby move, his head resting on his wife's stomach.
"But he's a good guy at heart."
"I kind of suspected that, though he'd rip my eyes out if I dared say it in public."
He knew what she meant, what she was talking about, without saying a word. It was also a very simple code between Alfie and Y/N. They trusted each other completely, so there was no need to go into details unless the other was truly worried.
One small exception, of which she was unaware, was that this code no longer worked during her pregnancy, and Alfie called Thomas directly in case of any problem, so as not to stress her out.
If you’re still looking for inspiration, I’d absolutely love to read something about James needing to kill X for some reason, but finding it hard because X makes him feel something new (but with a better plot than this bad explanation haha <3)
This takes place at Nootka Sound, roughly a year after my main fanfiction, “The river that connects us” (you can read it here!).
There's no no need to have read it, but there are a few spoilers in here!
You do need to remember who Michael Godfrey/Godders is, from Taboo, but that's it! 🤓
My biggest apologies to @tickettride for being so monumentally late with this request, but I hope you'll still read it and enjoy! 🥺🌹
If you prefer AO3, you can read this story here!
His stone cold heart
Word count: 2800
Content: established relationship (James 🖤 Lorna), forbidden love, conflicted James, snappy James, James being James.
Dividers by @strangergraphics
Someone once said that a content man is a man you can trust.
See, a man who wants something or needs something or restlessly craves more, will be unpredictable. Unreliable.
Oliver Farley had seemed like a content man. A man who had settled in. A gentle and quiet loner in the woods with little interest in change or money, or exploring the world for that matter.
Then the rumours began, of poaching, opium and secret correspondence to China. Of a greedy man full of secrets and questionable acquaintances.
Atticus, of course, was sent to investigate. Not only did he find strange letters that looked to be written in code, addressed to and from Mr Farley, along with a great deal of money stashed away. Mr Farley also seemed to be selling information to rival merchants, including valuable trapping locations and dates for when James and his men were to go hunting.
Needless to say, James wasn’t pleased. For some time now, he had considered this man an ally. Possibly even a friend. He had allowed Mr Farley into his home, to see his family. To laugh with his wife and to hold his baby daughter.
He remembered how Lorna had hooked an arm around his as they stood on the front porch, watching Oliver Farley ride off after having dinner at theirs.
“Doesnt’ he remind you of Michael? Oh James he does, he really does. I miss him.”
James had nodded with a reminiscing hum, even smiling as he sent dear Godders a thought, knowing his old friend had found happiness in Boston.
Now the recollection seemed to mock him. It laughed and pointed at him like he was a big old fool for letting his guard down. For allowing himself to make friends, as Lorna had put it.
A knot of spite and contradictions sat between his brows as he readied his horse. He wondered if fatherhood had made him go soft, go weak, rather than more careful with whom to trust.
James grit his teeth and tightened the last saddle strap. Trusting Mr Farley could have cost him everything.
Why then, did the thought of killing him feel wrong?
Heavy hooves dragged through untouched snow and left a powdery trail along the forest path. James was in no hurry.
Gentle snowflakes fell on his coat and sunlight sifted through the woods, teasing nature with its warmth. Among the bristly evergreens were barren trees, spreading their arms in defeat like they’d had enough of this year, forced to stand there shivering until spring brought them back to life again.
Drifting on and off the forest path was James' black shepherd dog, Styx. She moved with her nose down, head up, sniffing, scouting, ready to alert and always returning to her master. Much like James she could go from curious to suspicious in a heartbeat, and she shared his excellent intuition with people, which of course made her a valuable companion. It did however make it more difficult to deal with Mr Farley, as Styx had loved him from the start.
They were coming up on his cabin now, close enough to smell the smoke rising from the chimney. James decided to keep Styx at a distance. He told her to stay at the edge of the forest before riding closer and tying up his horse not far from the front door.
No one had noticed his arrival, so he knocked. Three raps, closed fist, rattling the door planks.
Moments later, Oliver Farley appeared, face flushed and hair greasy with sweat. He did his best to tuck his shirt in his trousers, failing miserably and wafting a dirty trail of cock in James’ direction.
“Mr Delaney, good morning!”
He was breathing hard but forced a smile as he wriggled an arm through his braces and made it snap across his shoulder.
James barely blinked, unfazed by what the man was clearly up to.
“Good morning,” he said, his eye contact all stiff and indifferent. “I need to have a word with you.”
Mr Farley ran a hand through his sweaty hair, nodded and stepped outside to close the door behind him.
“Inside,” James added.
He aimed his gaze over the man’s shoulder and into the cabin, at which Mr Farley held the door open and James took a stride across the threshold.
The small room was pleasantly decorated for the season, with fir garlands, dried flowers and candles arranged to cast a peaceful light throughout the living space. Not that James cared for such a thing but it was unusual, unexpected… and welcoming. It threw him off somehow, that the place felt lived in and cared for. Much like Lorna kept it at home.
“Coffee?” Oliver offered.
“Brandy.”
James walked towards the hearth and the kitchen table, removing his hat and gloves like he knew he’d be a while.
Apart from the seasonal decorations, he took note of two satchel bags and a travel coffer sitting under the ladder to the sleeping loft.
He narrowed his eyes into the fire, warmed his hands and listened to Mr Farley pour him a drink. Soon the man appeared by his side.
“Are you going somewhere, Mr Farley?” James asked as he was passed a glass, and the way he kept his eyes on the flames amplified his suspicious tone.
Mr Farley glanced at the packed bags.
“Yes, for Christmas,” he said with another forced smile. “To see my parents.”
“Mmm,” James nodded, cradling his glass and taking in the room like it was a shame to leave such a lovely home empty this time of year.
He sipped his drink, deliberately slow at first, only to down the last of it with purpose. He hissed through the heat of the brandy and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then pretended to have a last little look around the room.
Suddenly he turned to look straight at Mr Farley.
“Your parents are dead.”
There was a creaking sound from upstairs, followed by the sound of light steps. James didn’t flinch, but his eyes rose to the ceiling and lingered there like his stony stare could pull whatever was up there through the floorboards.
Mr Farley immediately tried to offer an explanation.
“That’s my dog, she -” he fumbled and shuffled along the back of a chair, like it offered some sort of protection “- she insists on sleeping on my bed.”
James lowered his gaze and blinked twice as he locked eyes with Mr Farley.
”Perhaps your dog should be outside, protecting its master? Hm?”
The look he gave was cold and intimidating but there was something disturbingly playful to his voice.
“Oh but no one ever comes here.”
“Mmm,” James nodded, pretending to listen to his lies. “Apart from whores and lovers.”
“Well, that’s… There’s none of that I’m afraid.”
“No?” James prodded, amused by how Mr Farley was quite literally backing into a closed corner. “Yet your cabin smells like a whorehouse. Hm?” Something wicked gleamed in his eyes and it darkened his voice. “Tell her to come downstairs.”
Oliver scratched his head, twisting his face in pretend confusion.
“My dog?”
In a split-second, James had drawn his pistol and pointed it at Mr Farley. Depthless eyes drilled deep into the skull of the man he had come to kill, much like the barrel itself, and James spoke in a voice that left no room for patience or playfulness. The talking was done.
“For someone who’s been lying to me for a very long time, you are a very bad liar, Mr Farley.”
From upstairs came a startled “Ollie!” then a man appeared, half sitting, half sliding down the steep steps to the loft. He was tall, bare chested and pale. A lanky, dishevelled looking man but with something noble and focused in his eyes.
James felt his brows shoot together in disbelief and he drew a breath so high in his chest it seemed to settle and solidify in his shoulders.
How did I not know?
His gun arm had gone stiff mid air, all forgotten and stuck in the moment, as he damned himself for misreading this man, clearly, in so many ways.
“Please, Mr Delaney… I can explain.”
“Yees,” James rasped, but of course he only cared for the betrayal of his business. “Yes, you will. You will explain to me why there are poachers on my land and letters full of secrets.”
The bare chested man had taken a slow step towards the line of the gun, hand raised towards James.
“Sir, I beg of you to reconsider.”
“Right.” James steered the pistol towards him instead. “So this is the man to be blamed, Mr Farley?”
“No! He -”
“- yes! Yes I am. It was my idea, I arranged it all.” He glanced at Oliver. “For us.”
“Hmmm,” James mused, half impressed by the honesty of this man, half considering killing him. “You mean for this lover of yours who clearly seems to think you are a dog?”
There were no sounds in the room except for the two men breathing. Nervous looks and confused blinking.
The absurdity of that sentence and the awkward, vulnerable truth that their relationship was out in the open, left the men speechless.
Until now, no one had known about them. No one had ever seen them together or addressed them as lovers, and no one, most certainly, had ever joked about the way they were trying to hide it.
James lowered his pistol with an indifferent noise, placed it on the kitchen table and shuffled two steps to pull out a chair. He grabbed the bottle of brandy that sat on a side table and lowered himself onto the seat, with a bit of ache and effort by the sound of it.
“Who you fuck, Mr Farley, is of no consequence to me.”
He pulled the cork, sniffed the brandy and poured himself a drink. With a lazy spread of his hand he motioned for the men to join him, like he was having guests at his own kitchen table. The men however, remained standing.
“But I will kill you - yes?” James said, looking up at them, eyebrows raised to make himself clear. “Both of you,” he nodded. “For compromising my business.”
Mr Farley swallowed hard and cleared his throat.
“Mr Delaney, we -”
James reached for the pistol again, all suave and composed, and cocked it across the table.
This time the men sat down. Slowly.
As they did, James noticed a shift in their arms, a small movement where they might’ve passed something between them. Instinctively he thought they were hiding a weapon below the table or giving each other a sign to fight back.
He inhaled through his nose, ready to pull the trigger.
Then the lovers shared a smile, a subtle exchange of trust and reassurance, that made James realise they were only holding hands.
This brought him back to his candle lit desk and the last time he wrote a letter to Michael. Pistol still raised, James blinked and drifted off as he recalled his own opening sentence:
Dear Godders, to hear you have found a companion, of whom you speak with such joy and commitment, warms my stone cold heart.
The things he thought he knew about Mr Farley, began to make sense. The man who lived alone in the woods, supposedly content but clearly tortured by secrets. The rumours of opium use. The cryptic letters. The money stashed away and the packed bags.
James lowered his gun, his expression empty but slipping into some sort of relief. A sigh. He looked off towards the window, far out there, away from the men and the thought of killing them, and he wondered if Godders would ever forgive him if he went ahead and shot these men.
As if Mr Farley’s lover could tell James was reconsidering, or like he suspected this was his last chance to share their side of the story, he spoke up.
“All we wanted was a way out of here.”
James made an indifferent noise and kept his gaze out the window, thinking, blinking, smacking his lips like he wasn’t listening.
The brave lover continued, and this time he brought their hands up on the table.
“Have you never wanted another life?” he said. “A new start? Perhaps with someone you loved?”
James was drawn to their joint hands, his brows tightening and his eyes blinking softly, like what he saw was uneasy but familiar. Relatable. It was a moment of recognition, painful recognition, that brought on another memory. Another letter.
He thought of what he once wrote to Zilpha back in London, when he hoped she would leave her husband and come with him to the New World.
I have sailed to places where there is no damnation.
Sitting in front of these men, James knew there were ways they could be together. Places where no one would care and where there was no such thing as forbidden love. This was the life he had wished for Godders, and now he had the chance to offer something similar to Oliver Farley - or to take it away from him entirely.
James downed his drink, sucked air between his teeth and ran a hand down his face as if to clear his mind.
“Tell you what,” he said, avoiding eye contact. Suddenly it felt too personal. Perhaps he feared he might change his mind if he faced them. “I will arrange a position for you, on one of my ships. To Canton.”
The men almost rose in their seats with a breath of anticipation.
“But you,” James emphasised before they could get ahead themselves, “you will bring me, enough furs to make up for what was lost.” And now he narrowed his eyes on Mr Farley, lowering his voice. “For the pelts you sold, belong to the village. And my family.”
It was a raw, ominous reminder of how they should feel ashamed, offering goods to greedy merchants instead of supplying their own village with food and warmth for the winter.
James continued.
“I also need you to tell your friends, that if they return, my men will hunt them down. With dogs.” He looked between the men, nodding to make sure they were following. “And when all that remains of their poor, mangled bodies, are bones… I will see to it myself that those bones will burn. Mm-hm?” A last back and forth nod between the two. “On village bonfires.”
Mr Farley mumbled something and James gruffed back at him with pinched brows.
”What’s that?”
“I said those men are not my friends.”
“And we would gladly give you their names,” the lover quickly added, as if to excuse Oliver’s tone.
“Hmmm,” James rumbled, a deep deliberating noise, accompanied by more nodding. Then came a grunt and a shrug, half accepting, half indifferent as if to say “alright - that will do” followed by a final nod.
James reached for the pistol, put it in his coat pocket and pushed his chair out, drink in hand.
“Now, if you don’t mind, I need a moment by the fire, to get warm.” He snatched the brandy bottle. “Then you two can get on with it.”
Ten minutes later, Mr Farley followed James outside. Oliver had wrapped himself in a scarf, much like Lorna would when she waved James off in the mornings.
Mr Farley looked up towards the snow covered trees.
“I heard there’s snow in China too.”
“Mm-hm,” James answered, putting on his gloves.
“Mr Delaney, are you… You’re not gonna tell the others, are you? About me.”
James gave a sharp whistle for Styx. The big black dog appeared and ran straight for Mr Farley, only to wag her whole backside in excitement, smiling up at Oliver all smitten and sweet.
“No.” James said, stretching and curling his fingers through the creaky leather. “I will keep your secret.” He stroked his horse on the neck before undoing the reins. “But in return, you will write to me when you get to China.”
Mr Farley furrowed his brows, clearly confused.
What James said next made no sense to him, at least not for now.
“I have a use for you.”
James sat up, adjusted his feet in the stirrups and his grip on the reins. Out of habit he had a quick look around, as though to make sure the coast was clear.
“And Mr Farley,” he added. “I strongly suggest you get yourself a dog.”
It sounded a bit like an order, but something in James’ eyes carried consideration. A recommendation. A wish for the men to stay safe, wherever they ended up.
Then he nodded, a gentleman’s nod, a respectful farewell, to seal their deal and honour their secret.
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