Chapter Text
𝐈𝐭'𝐬 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧'𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐭, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠. December 22nd, the last day before they close up the shop for holiday, John storms in and throws his hat down on the table. "What do women even like?" he grumbles.
"Jewelry," Arthur supplies. "And sex."
"I've tried both of those," John complains. "She won't take jewelry that's not blessed by her family, and if I have it blessed by her family, they'll tell her, and then she'll get mad that the surprise's been spoiled." He looks up at where Tommy's mulling over some betting licenses, working on the London plan. "Tommy, what did you get for Beatrice, eh? I'll get Esme the same, and they can match."
"Get her a gun," Arthur suggests, laughing and rubbing at his mustache with his thumb.
John socks him in the shoulder. "Trixie might know how to handle that, but Esme'll just shoot me in the bloody balls if she gets her hands on a firearm. I think she's pregnant again, you know? She's got cravings for fruitcake for every fucking meal."
"So get her fruitcake," says Tommy, to distract from the fact that he hasn't actually gotten Beatrice a gift, because he doesn't know what she'll like. He's given her jewelry, before, and she's always been nice about it—wearing it a few times to make a point of her gratitude, but he knows she doesn't really care. Gun's not a bad idea, though—he rarely pays compliments to his older brother, and never in matters of Beatrice, but it almost makes sense.
"Fruitcake's cheap, she'll call me cheap," John complains. "I'm supposed to get her something that'll—that'll last."
Tommy doesn't care much about what Esme gets for Christmas, so he tries to go back to the London plans, but can't focus. Is it bad that he hasn't gotten a gift yet? It didn't slip his mind, exactly—he didn't get this far by being forgetful—but it hadn't been a top priority with their expansion beginning with the New Year.
She's already gotten him something; the wrapped parcel is on the mantle in his house, with a tag that reads Beloved Thomas — Yours, Beatrice and a red velvet ribbon. He thinks it's a pocketwatch, judging by the size and weight of the box, but he can't be sure.
There's enough time to get her a gun, he thinks. Barely. She's got a Smith & Wesson Model 10 now, and she uses it well, but it jams at inopportune moments from time to time, and well—he can't have her dying, now can he?
Tommy collects the papers and returns them to his portfolio, tucking it into his briefcase on his way out the door.
══ °• ♔ •° ══
𝑩𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒔 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅, Birmingham is in the middle of a snowstorm unlike anything Tommy's ever seen. He's suddenly glad that Beatrice was delayed in coming over the night previous, or else they may have finished dinner early enough for her to return home, leaving her to trudge across the city to see him today. "Good morning," he says, his voice still rough.
He rarely sleeps, but if he does, it's when she's there with him. Miraculously, he spent a good portion of the night in slumber so deep that she was able to rise without stirring him.
Beatrice is standing at the window. "Hell's frozen over," she remarks.
"Is that a fact?"
"It is a fact," she confirms. "And a funny one, at that."
He doesn't think much about how cold the room is until he's reached her and notices the goosebumps running up her arms. "Any other facts?"
"Baby Jesus was born today," she answers, turning to face him, lips quirking up slightly. "Hell's frozen over, and Christ the Savior is born. All at once." Beatrice reaches up and musses his hair a bit. "We have to meet Polly for Church soon."
"It isn't Sunday," he disagrees, moving to the dresser and pulling a shirt and trousers from the drawer. "No Church if it's not Sunday."
She rolls her eyes, but he doesn't stop buttoning up the shirt. After a moment, she collapses back onto the bed. "We could always say the car wouldn't start," she suggests. "The snow fucked up the engine, or something like that. And we couldn't walk because..."
"Because it's snowing," Tommy finishes. "And you've a cough, anyway, which would make it reckless to bring you outside."
Beatrice sits back up, faking a delicate cough. "No wonder we used to hate each other," she muses. "We're both incorrigible liars."
"Just liars?" he asks, shrugging his vest over his shoulders.
She gives him a wicked smile, but doesn't answer the question. "Do you want coffee? I hear it's good for a sore throat."
"Yeah," he says, though he never drinks it. She's got a habit of making too much, anyway, and then she feels guilty for throwing the rest of the pot out, so he does it for her most days.
When they're settled on the couch, he hands her a poorly wrapped box, and she passes him the parcel from the mantle. "The woman at the shop wrapped it," she says, before he can interject. "Obviously. You've seen my stapling work."
"Uneven?" he guesses.
She rolls her eyes again. "You didn't need to say it, I think we all knew what I was talking about."
"Right," he says, dubious.
He was right about her package being a pocketwatch. It's an Elgin model, brass, with a polished watch face that's already been set to be lined up with the rest of the clocks in the house. She looks pleased with herself when he replaces the watch in his pocket with the new one and presses a gentle kiss on her temple.
"It's heavy," she remarks of the box in her lap. "I'd guess books, but the weight is off."
"Not books," he confirms. She lifts it to her ear and shakes it a little. "Go on," Tommy insists. "Open it."
Beatrice raises an eyebrow, but does it anyway, tearing the paper from the box. Removing the lid, she peers over the brim and says, "Oh." She plucks up the gun delicately, and runs her thumb over the carved handle. "Is this a message?"
"Yes," Tommy says, dead serious. "You're to shoot Arthur next time he starts singing at the Garrison."
"Yes sir," she says, saluting. "Actually, though. Are you asking me to do something?"
"I'm asking you not to die, Beatrice." She frowns; inspects the barrel. "Your gun is old. It jams. You got—"
"I know," she interrupts, hand going to the scar on her shoulder where the bullet exited. After a moment, she seems to come around, and runs her thumb along the carvings with more fascination than reluctance. "It's beautiful, Tom. Thank you."
She takes his hand and kisses his knuckles, and doesn't even complain that he's cold—which he knows he is, and which he knows she's annoyed by. "By accepting that, you know you're promising to shoot Arthur for the singing?"
Beatrice spins the chamber. "Of course," she says, smiling at the click of the revolver. "But you know I would've done that for free, right?"
══ °• ♔ •° ══