Actions

Work Header

Like an Egg

Summary:

“If I came over to your place, what would happen?” Tommy forced himself to ask the question he wanted to ask. “What would you do to me?”

“I would crack you open like an egg, mate.”

“And what if, halfway through the cracking, I decided I’d rather remain whole?”

“Then I would stop immediately like the gentleman I am.”

“Gentleman, eh?”

Notes:

This is my first attempt at writing non-sexual kink, so please be gentle!

Reader discretion is advised. The physical stuff that goes on between these two isn't that heavy but the psychological stuff is perhaps a bit intense in places. All the usual disclaimers apply about how kink is not actually a recommended substitute for therapy.

Work Text:

Alfie ate like a bear that had just emerged from hibernation. Tommy watched him in careful fascination, keeping his face a blank mask. It was usual to seal any business deal with a drink, but Alfie scorned alcohol despite being a purveyor of it, and the two of them had made a habit of following business with a meal. Dinner, in this case, at a French restaurant called Boulestin’s.

As always, Tommy made sure his chair faced the door. He divided his attention between his veal cutlet and watercress salad, and Alfie’s ramblings. These ranged freely among roughly a dozen topics, each one of them unsuitable for dinner table conversation. Religion, politics, the awful trouble he’d been having with his eczema – there was no false propriety in Alfie.

When they were eating their two-tier lemon pudding, Alfie fixed Tommy with a gimlet eye and said “You alright today, mate? Only you seem jumpy, like one of them frisky horses what’s been shown the crop too many times.”

Denial would only be taken as proof that Alfie’s words had unsettled him, so he feigned a subtle confusion, then said flippantly, “Perhaps it’s the London air. Gives me an unpleasant choking sensation.”

During the brief walk back to his hotel, Tommy cursed himself vehemently. He’d been watching Alfie eat fillet of sole as if it might swim off his plate if he didn’t hurry, when a waiter had dropped a plate. The sharp sound had made him flinch, and for one brief moment he was disoriented – far away, in the mud and the darkness and the madness. He couldn’t afford to show that kind of weakness in front of Alfie, or anyone else for that matter.

***

“Storm’s coming,” Tommy said, over rich, bitter coffee at a small bistro.

It was – Tommy could feel the prickle of static electricity in the air, like a spark of life through heavy flesh – but Alfie was unimpressed by the observation.

“Is that what we’re reduced to, is it? Talking about the bleedin’ weather like an old married couple with nothing more to say to each other.”

Tommy took out his cigarettes and lit one, not offering them to Alfie as he knew the man only ever smoked a pipe.

“If you’ve a better topic of conversation, let’s hear it.”

“Alright then. When was the last time you had a good seeing to?”

“Last week,” said Tommy, exhaling smoke with the words and giving just a hint of a smirk. Not that a whore called for any smugness, but Alfie didn’t need to know she was paid. “How about you?”

“I don’t get seen to, mate,” said Alfie, leaning back in his seat and lacing his fingers contentedly over his full stomach. “I do the seeing.”

Interesting phrase. Alfie did, unfortunately, have a way of looking at Tommy that made him feel exposed.

“What’s your pleasure, then?” he continued. “Women or men?”

“What kind of a question is that?”

“Both, is it? Lovely.”

Tommy shook his head, feigning amusement, feeling shaken. He swore he could hear the first rumble of thunder overhead.

“I had a fella once,” said Alfie, nonchalant as ever. “We didn’t fuck, he got that from elsewhere. Mostly he just liked to be bossed around and have his arse smacked.

“If you’re trying to scandalise me, Alfie, you’ll have to do better than that.”

“Oh I can do better than that, when the occasion calls for it. Me fella used to say I’ve a knack for knowing what’s needed.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Tommy took a long drag from his cigarette. The coffee had been a mistake – his heart was already racing and the storm hadn’t even hit yet. Still, the only way to appear in control of a situation was to take control of it, so he fixed Alfie with a challenging stare.

“What do you think I need?”

“As of this moment, treacle, I’d say you need a good night’s sleep.”

A good night’s sleep, of course, was out of the question. If it weren’t for the storm, Tommy might have been kept awake wondering how Alfie knew. Had one of the men he’d been with – chosen for their rough, skilful hands and utmost discretion rather than any conventional beauty – let slip his name? Did it even matter to this particular business arrangement, since Alfie shared his proclivities? Or did he? He’d said he once had a man, but didn’t fuck him. What was that all about?

The storm rendered these questions quiet and small as Tommy lay face-down on his bed, repeating the words “Only thunder, only thunder, only thunder” over and over in his mind. He thanked God, or the spirits, or whoever was there to thank, that he’d made it back to the hotel before the storm was directly overhead, loud as German shells.

***

He dreamt of Alfie, except that Alfie was a bear. A huge beast, looming over him and placing a paw on his chest. The bear’s claws were wicked, but never pierced his skin. The pressure on his chest increased, shrinking his ribcage, making his heart too big for it.

He woke, breathless and sweating and relieved.

***

The next time they ate together was in Birmingham. The menu was uninspiring, so Tommy pressed a bank note into the waiter’s hand and said “For the chef. I’ll have rabbit, and if there’s no rabbit I’ll have pheasant.”

It wasn’t a particularly subtle manipulation. Give the impression of generosity by offering money, and the opportunity to fail once. That way, a double failure (no rabbit, no pheasant) became unthinkable. Tried and tested as it was, Alfie smirked indulgently as if it were a clever trick played by a street magician.

“Always the boss, eh? Even at dinner.”

“Sometimes a man just wants to eat something that has to be caught. Not left in a field to fatten.”

“Fair enough, yeah, fair enough. Meself I can’t stand rabbit, though. Why anyone would want to eat such a twitchy little pest is beyond me but you eat whatever you like mate. Put some meat on your bones.”

The waiter brought pheasant, cooked to perfection, with chestnut stuffing and white wine sauce. Alfie’s meal looked indifferent in comparison but he ate it with relish, as always. Tommy watched him eat, and didn’t bother to disguise the fact that he was watching.

After the meal, Alfie coked his head to the side and said “D’you fancy a walk?”

“A what?”

“A walk. Of the type that aids digestion and benefits one’s overall health. Do people not do that in Birmingham?”

“Course we do. It might rain, though.”

“Tommy, if the sky should threaten rain I have every confidence you will threaten it right back with enough subtle force to keep the rain at bay.”

Tommy knew when he was being flattered. This was not one of those occasions.

They walked along the cut – Tommy having carefully positioned himself so that Alfie was closest to the water’s edge. It was one of the nicer stretches that led out of the city, and soon became edged with yellow iris and meadowsweet. All the colours were muted in the darkness but the scents were perhaps sharper than they were during daylight hours. The two of them were completely alone but Tommy still strained his ears, listening for footsteps behind them. Every muscle inside him felt like a coiled spring.

As they passed beneath a bridge, Alfie stepped away from the water’s edge and took hold of Tommy’s arm. Tommy felt himself steered, rather than pushed, to the wall of brick that rose up and arched overhead. He took most of the collision in his shoulder, avoiding the disorientation of hitting his head. Whether he was about to be roughly kissed or have a knife held to his throat, he was prepared for it.

Alfie held a restraining arm diagonally against Tommy’s torso, the heel of his hand over Tommy’s rabbit-quick heart. His other hand was on Tommy’s face, cupping his cheek, almost tender.

“Tell me why you’re like this,” he said.

“Like what?”

“Always trying to control everything. Every little fuckin’ detail of your life and everyone else’s, tell me I’m wrong treacle.”

“You ought to understand,” Tommy replied, and though his breath was heavy, his voice was steady as ever. “It’s a necessary thing in our line of work.

“Liar.”

In response to this, Tommy turned his face into Alfie’s palm and licked it. He wanted Alfie to shut up and fuck him, and more than half of this desire comes from wanting an end to this ridiculous questioning. Alfie slapped Tommy lightly across the face with his spit-wet hand.

“That were fuckin’ vulgar.”

“Perhaps I’m a vulgar person.”

Alfie made a noise of dissatisfaction and pulled Tommy away from the wall, dragging him over the towpath. In an instant, Tommy was being held by the lapels of his coat with his heels right at the edge of the cut. Nothing but good stitching was stopping him falling back into the dark water, so he grabbed the back of Alfie’s neck in one hand, his shoulder in the other. If he fell, he would take Alfie with him. They could sink together.

“Blimey, what a fuckin’ predicament,” Alfie muttered. “How deep is this water d’you reckon? Not that it matters, really, I had a cousin once who drowned in a particularly large puddle. Answer my first question, if you please, Tommy, that being – why are you fucking like this?”

“Can’t give you answers I don’t have. It’s the way I am.”

Alfie pulled Tommy back from the edge of the cut and, quite unexpectedly, into an embrace. His body was broad and warm, and Tommy fought the pointless urge to struggle. His heartbeat was quick and hard, and he was absurdly worried that Alfie would notice.

“You should come and visit me in Camden,” Alfie said, in a voice that was closer to command than suggestion. Tommy felt something deep in his bones respond to it, and he let his body go pliant in Alfie’s arms.

“For what?” he murmured. “Sex?”

“Nah, not on the table mate, and don’t expect an apology cos I got far more interesting things to offer.”

Alfie pulled away and said, brightly, “Right then, onwards? Or back the way we came?”

***

Tommy chose his women indiscriminately. They were all beautiful, but in vastly different ways; some of them fair as snow, others dark as midnight, some slender as reeds and others plump as peaches.  With men, however, there was a certain type, and a certain way he liked to be taken. The slim-hipped lads who occasionally asked him for a light in dark alleys were only ever met with one answer.

“Where’s your uncle, lad? The big, rough-looking fella.”

Occasional protests. Claims that they were plenty big, and could be rough too if any gentleman so desired it. But sooner or later, Tommy would get what he wanted. Someone who looked and felt like danger.

Perhaps it was strange, this seeking out of danger, as if he hadn’t had enough of it in his life. But Tommy had a half-formed idea that if he could welcome danger into his life – into his bed – he could master it. One blessed day, all his fear would burn away like morning mist.

***

It was late, and Tommy was sleepless. His body was more than tired enough, but the nightmares had been particularly bad lately and it made surrendering to sleep all the harder. He rose, and went to his office because that was where his work and his whisky were to be found. After pouring himself a generous measure, he sat at his desk and glanced at the telephone. He ought to work, but didn’t. Instead, he leant back in his seat and watched the telephone as if it were doing something interesting while he sipped the entirety of his whisky. Then, finally, he picked up the receiver.

He had to wait a long time, and when he was finally rewarded with Alfie’s voice it was thick with sleep.

“Woz happened?”

“Nothing, Alfie.”

“Why the fuck are you calling me then, at this ungodly hour?”

“I wanted to see if you’d answer.”

A pause, and then a mumbled “Fuuuuuck, this is what I get for answering me own phone.” That made Tommy smile broadly.

He felt close to wicked, not least because he was wearing nothing but his underwear. He had never before spoken to Alfie without the armour of a well-tailored suit. Now, even though Alfie couldn’t see him, he felt vulnerable in a way that excited him.

“Right then, Tommy, I’m gonna be incredibly fuckin’ generous and extend an opportunity for you to apologise for your inconsiderate behaviour.”

“Thank you for the opportunity but I shall respectfully decline.”

“Yeah, ‘course you will. ‘Cause you never apologise, do you? Never apologise, never stop, never fuckin’ relax.”

The two of them were silent for a long moment. Tommy began to feel irritated at the distance between them, and to want the weight of Alfie’s eyes on him.

“If I came over to your place, what would happen?” He forced himself to ask the question he wanted to ask. “What would you do to me?”

“I would crack you open like an egg, mate.”

“And what if, halfway through the cracking, I decided I’d rather remain whole?”

“Then I would stop immediately like the gentleman I am.”

“Gentleman, eh?”

“Too fuckin’ right.”

***

Tommy arrived at the bakery shortly after dark, which was fairly late due to the time of year. He inhaled the scent of the place and tried to decipher what it reminded him of. After several deep, almost greedy breaths, he realised it smelled like a rum baba – one of those little yeasty cakes, soaked in rum syrup, and filled with whipped cream if you were lucky.

He was nervous to the point of actual fear, but this only urged his feet forwards. Soon, he would do battle with his fear and emerge victorious once again.

Ollie – the tall, curly-haired kid – let him in, but instead of leading the way he simply nodded at Tommy, took off his apron and walked out of the door. Unsettling. Tommy told himself there was no way Ollie could have any idea of what he was there for. How could he, when Tommy himself barely knew?

Unaccompanied, he strode past distillery equipment that looked like it belonged in a mad scientist’s laboratory. The place was well-lit but seemed to be entirely deserted, which was a first. Tommy had visited at odd hours before and always found it a hive of activity.

When Tommy was twenty paces away from Alfie’s office door, the man himself emerged from it. Big as a bull, almost clumsy in his movements. Tommy stopped in his tracks and stood perfectly still. Not by choice, which was alarming. Alfie closed the remaining distance between them and they shook hands, as if this were any other meeting.

“D’you need a drink or anything first?” Alfie offered.

Tommy shook his head. The fear was hitting him hard, and so was the hunger. He wanted to get started.

“Right, well, personally, I like to keep things simple. If you want me to stop, say stop. If you can’t speak for whatever reason, say, if I feel like gagging you or if you lose the fickle power of speech, I’ll always ask do you want this and do you like that and you can nod or shake your pretty little head as it pleases you. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Right. Important question, then – how many clothes do you want to be wearing for this?”

Tommy felt heat flood his cheeks, no doubt partly due to the heat of the “bakery”. He looked at Alfie, in a waistcoat and shirtsleeves, and removed his own jacket but nothing else. It seemed prudent to keep his shoes on, in case this went spectacularly wrong and he needed a quick getaway.

Alfie took the jacket, looking faintly amused, and said, “Wait there.”

Tommy waited, while Alfie disappeared back into his office and emerged with a length of black cord. “Hands together,” he said, in a tone so casual it was almost cheery. Tommy bunched his hands into fists and pressed them together for Alfie to bind his wrists, but Alfie only gave him a look of profound disappointment.

“What the fuck is that? Put your palms together, right, like you’re praying to whatever heathen god you pray to, and spread your fucking fingers.”

Tommy did as commanded, and Alfie began to wind the cord around his wrists and over his hands, threading it between his fingers. It was soft as Chinese silk against his skin, and Tommy found himself wondering if it was Chinese silk, and how much it had cost. Then Alfie began talking again, and showed him that his mind was not permitted to wonder.

“You ever heard of a pirate called Ned Low?”

“Can’t say I have. I grew up with Blackbeard stories – my aunt has a fondness for him.”

“Well, this Ned Low, right, he was probably the most vicious bastard to ever sail the seven seas. He liked to torture his captors, and one particular speciality was tying a man’s hands like this, rope between the fingers, and then setting the rope on fire so his hands burnt down to the bone.”

A shiver coursed through Tommy’s body, lightning quick. He’d been a fool to think of Alfie as a beast. The man’s body did a fair impression of beastliness – that size, that hair on his face and his forearms – but his mind was anything was simple. It was a dark and glittering thing, and an utter mystery.

“Right, now. In we go.”

In they went, to Alfie’s office. Alfie held on to the length of cord that dangled from Tommy’s wrists, and led him by it like he was a dog or a captive. The space was larger than Tommy remembered, with a modest fireplace built into the left wall and a large sofa against the right wall, upholstered in moss-green fabric. More out of habit than fear, he looked around himself for weapons and saw only the fireplace poker lying in front of the grate, perhaps unused for several months.

“I can see your eyes darting about like little fish,” said Alfie. “Stop it and look at me.”

Tommy stopped, and looked.

“Good boy. Now, down on your knees.”

Tommy did as commanded. With the other men, such a command meant only one thing, but Alfie seemed physically unaffected by the situation (it would have been easy enough to see if this weren’t the case, since his crotch was now in Tommy’s eyeline) and only looked at Tommy as if he were a curio.

“Well well, aren’t you a pretty picture down there? I can’t spend more than a few seconds in that position meself, I’ve got housemaid’s knee. So you see, Tommy, we all do what we’re built for, don’t we?”

Alfie turned away from Tommy and went to his desk, opening a drawer and retrieving a strip of royal blue fabric. So, he was about to be blindfolded.

“What else have you got in there?” Tommy asked, gratified to find that his voice didn’t shake.

“You’re losing your touch treacle. D’you remember the first time you was ever in here, yeah? You told me… what, exactly?

“That I knew you kept a gun in the drawer.”

“Well-remembered. What else d’you remember?”

As Alfie stood behind him and pulled the fabric taut over his eyes, eclipsing everything, Tommy thought of that first meeting. He’d been a mess – skull cracked, nose bleeding – and Alfie had perhaps seen too much of him.

“My nose bled, and you threw a handkerchief at me.”

“On the table, mate, not at you. I generously offered you a proper snot rag to clean up with but you preferred your own fucking fingers, didn’t you?”

Alfie tied a tight knot at the back of Tommy’s head, and moved his hand down to cup his jaw. As he spoke, Tommy felt the rough pad of a thumb move over his lower lip and seriously considered biting it.

“A gun… and a handkerchief. Tell me, Tommy, which of those would you rather have in your mouth?”

Tommy’s stomach swooped but he didn’t miss a beat. “Depends whether the gun’s loaded and whether the handkerchief’s clean.”

Alfie was silent for a brief moment – one hand still cupping Tommy’s jaw, the other combing through his hair. Tommy, his blood singing, wondered if denial was going to be a part of this. Alfie had made it clear that they weren’t going to fuck, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t tease.

“You’re fuckin’ special, you are,” he muttered, sounding almost as if he were speaking to himself. “I knew right away you was a keeper. I ought to keep you locked up in this room until I get bored of you, which I suspect would take a fuckin’ long time.”

Then Alfie’s hands were gone and Tommy strained his ears, trying to track his footsteps across the small room. There was a metallic scraping sound, harsh and unsettling, and then a sudden rattle and clang. The fireplace poker – Alfie had run it quickly across the grate.

Fire’s out, he told himself. Poker’s cold.

He was not about to be burnt, which was a good thing because he already felt slightly on fire. All the same, there was a lot you could do with a fireplace poker, especially if you had a mind as unhinged as Alfie’s. Tommy thought of their first meeting once again, and what Alfie had claimed to have done to an Italian soldier. He was out of his depth. Good. That was where he needed to be.

Cold metal against his cheek. Tommy flinched away from the poker but only for a moment. He settled himself, breathing hard, and felt the poker travel across his skin, leaving a trail of cold like a mountain spring. The cold was a welcome thing, since Tommy’s skin felt overheated now in the warm room. His palms, pressed together, were hot and slick with sweat. Alfie guided the poker down Tommy’s neck, somehow finding the beat of his pulse and pressing it in a way that made a small sound escape Tommy’s mouth.

“Quiet,” said Alfie, and brought the poker to Tommy’s mouth, holding it horizontal against his lips. Tommy understood, and took the metal between his teeth. It tasted of smoky air and coins, and Tommy realised two things at once. The first was that his other senses seemed to be slightly heightened due to his lack of vision. The second was that he could no longer speak, and therefore could no longer tell Alfie if he wanted to stop. He made no move to eject the metal from his mouth but kept it clamped between his teeth, breathing like a racehorse.

Alfie tutted, and the sound came from behind him now. “Look at you, champing at the bit. You don’t understand, do you?”

A gentle tap on his cheek. Tommy opened his jaw and the poker was removed from his mouth. A second later it hit the floor, and Tommy’s nerves screamed at the sound, though he managed to remain silent. Before he had time to recover from that shock, Alfie had grabbed a fistful of hair and wrenched Tommy’s head back. He felt the warmth of Alfie’s body behind him for a fraction of a second, and then he was dragged to the floor by the collar of his shirt.

It was only here that he lost his grip. In the darkness, he could hear the noises that had kept him awake all those years. He tried opening his eyes, but the blindfold was tight and he could see nothing but dark blue, like a night sky.

Then Alfie stepped on his face. A heavy boot, pushing down on his cheek, turning his face sideways. He was far, far beyond worrying if the boot was reasonably clean. He was being buried. There was someone waiting for him in the dirt. Someone angry.

“Do you understand now, Tommy? Have you got it through that fragile little skull of yours?”

A low, moaning sound. Tommy wasn’t sure if it came from his own mouth or the thing in the dirt and darkness. Sweat oozed from his hands like blood.

“In this room, you have absolutely no control over anything.”

The boot left his face.

“And only good things are going to happen to you.”

Then it actually happened. Just as Alfie had promised, Tommy cracked open like an egg. He felt himself begin to cry, sobs contorting his face and pulsing through his body. Alfie was beside him on the floor in an instant, pulling the blindfold off. Tommy still couldn’t see much on account of all the tears, but he had a vague impression of Alfie’s face above him, and then there was a hand on his cheek.

“That’s it mate, get it all out. That’s it.”

Tommy didn’t know why he was crying, and then he did. It was the first time since those forever-ago days before the war that he felt safe. Truly safe. Like he had the sheltering hand of some ancient god above his head.

While Tommy cried, Alfie untied his hands and massaged his wrists soothingly, though the silken rope hadn’t left him sore at all. When the worst of the storm had subsided, Alfie took a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and wiped the tears from Tommy’s face and the snot from his upper lip. He picked Tommy up, not as if he were a child or a slender young lady, but with so much groaning and complaining that Tommy actually laughed in a brief and sweet burst of hysteria. He deposited Tommy on the sofa, sat heavily on the floor beside him, and said,

“How do you like to be touched?”

“Hm?”

“Don’t go asking for a swift one off the wrist. I mean touch.”

Tommy could think of a hundred different ways he wanted Alfie to touch him. He wanted to be held again, and he wanted Alfie’s callused fingertips against his face. He wanted a steadying hand at the back of the neck, and he wanted to be held down and he wanted to be kissed.

“My back. Can you…”

Words failing him, Tommy lifted his hand in a vague stroking motion. The crow’s feet around Alfie’s eyes deepened, and he nodded.

Tommy took his waistcoat and shirt off for this part. His fingers were clumsy, but no matter – Alfie helped him with the buttons, then slipped the shirt off his shoulders as if he were a nervous bride requiring assistance on her wedding night. As he lay face down on the sofa, however, he felt utterly nerveless. Warm and liquid with Alfie’s hands on his skin, beginning at his shoulders and rubbing tight little circles against him. His hands swept down. Heels pressed in like he was kneading dough. As he roamed over Tommy’s sides, his fingers fit perfectly in the spaces between Tommy’s ribs.

Tommy woke, some time later, with a soft woollen blanket over him. Pushing himself upright and blinking the sleep from his eyes, he saw Alfie sat at his desk, writing something in a slow, fluid scrawl.

“How long was I asleep?”

“’Bout an hour. How you feeling?”

“Refreshed.”

This was not at all the right word, but Alfie seemed happy enough with it.

“Right then. Put your clothes on, love, and I’ll get you a taxi.”

***

Outside, he made the taxi driver wait while he smoked a cigarette. There had been no tender farewell from Alfie, and part of Tommy longed to step back inside and ask for a kiss, just for the painful pleasure of being denied it. There was no question of this – whatever this was – happening again. Being unmade and made anew was something that could only happen once.

Surely.

Probably.

Perhaps.