“Sit down, Arthur, son, sit down,” Alfie exhorts Tommy’s older brother. He rests one big hand on the pommel of his cane, leaning back almost regally in the ladderbacked kitchen chair, comfortable and entirely at ease.
Arthur is not, of course, Alfie's son. Is only a year younger than Alfie, and a full-grown man. But it feels appropriate to call Arthur son nonetheless, it does. Because while there may only be a year between them, chronologically speaking, the intellectual difference... Well. It may as well be the f*cking Atlantic Ocean, mate, right? That vast, that unfathomable and deep.
Tommy's brother is a bit thick. Which is not his fault, honestly, right, because the Big Macher Upstairs grants everyone different gifts. Alfie just cannot personally, at this moment, discern what exactly Arthur's gifts are. Aside from an appetite for drug and drink which is nothing short of f*cking astonishing, and a propensity for very impressive fits of violence.
Also a sort of animal wariness, like some variety of feral creature that freezes at the sight of a human. Which is more or less what Arthur is doing at this very moment -- freezing and contemplating fleeing. Or possibly contemplating violence, it's difficult to tell. He stands stock-still in the doorway, caught off-guard, having come downstairs looking for a cup of tea and a biscuit, and finding Alfie instead.
“Go on, sit, sit, petal, make yourself at home,” Alfie urges Arthur, ignoring the fact that they are currently in the kitchen at Watery Lane, which is, in fact, Arthur’s actual home.
It's just the two of them. Tommy is busy. Polly -- who has begun to accept Alfie's sometimes-presence at Watery Lane for Tommy's sake, although she still privately thinks the entire marriage business is ludicrous -- is out at the market with Ada. Finn and John and Isaiah have sensibly cleared out and found work to do elsewhere, just in case the conversation takes a turn for the worse and things get murdery.
Arthur peers at Alfie, eyes narrowed, automatically suspicious. And who can blame him, right, being as he is shy of a few bricks after all, and possibly paranoid from an overzealous hoovering up of tokyo. And then there's the history, the whole unfortunate korban pesach business, as well.
Which, frankly, is why Alfie wanted to speak to Arthur in the first place. Arthur takes a long, careful look at Alfie, considering, and then sits -- narrow arse perched on the very edge of the chair, ready to jump up if necessary. To do what exactly, he isn't sure. He only knows that a little alarm bell in the back of his head goes off every time Alfie is nearby, suggesting that readiness is a very good thing. "Allright," he says, wary. "But I'm only doing this for Tommy."
"Of course, yeah, right, of course you are, treacle. I understand, right? Got your reasons, don't you?" Alfie leans across the table and pats Arthur's hand, as though patting a strange dog in the street, one who's a little timid and not very bright.
Alfie, although a man of honor, is not particularly given to a great deal of self-examination. Rarely questions his own decisions and actions once they’re over and done with, given as he is an educated and thoughtful man, nu? And thus rarely makes poor decisions in the first f*cking place.
But he has been feeling particularly thoughtful lately. And has found his mind drifting back, with some frequency, to some unfortunate past events. He has been feeling, for some time now, a wee bit guilty over the whole framing-Tommy's-brother-for-murder business, and the resultant time Arthur spent in the pokey on account of it.
A bit peculiar, right? Alfie’s not entirely sure why these sorts of thoughts keep happening. Perhaps it’s a sign from the Big Macher himself, this little prickle in the back of Alfie’s head. Or perhaps it’s just love. That’s the sort of thing love does, yeah? f*cks with your head a bit. Makes you soft, gives you warm feelings towards in-laws, blokes you wouldn’t ordinarily have pissed on if they were on fire.
It’s a bit like a twelve-pound sledgehammer, love is. Absolutely harmless, so long as it remains on the old workbench where it belongs. Or as long as you successfully dodge it. But if it connects? Well, you’re f*cking toast then, aren’t you, mate?
Which is why Alfie has studiously avoided it for most of his adult life, dodging its occasional swings. He has always preferred to simply do his business, get his end off, and go along on his way, untethered and still entirely sane, unaffected by its wiles. Love is an impediment for a man in Alfie's line of work, it is.
And yet now here he is, utterly f*cking besotted with Thomas f*cking Shelby, a direct hit from his own personal twelve-pound sledgehammer. Absolute toast, undeniable. It’s a bit ironic, right, having become the sort of soft man he used to mock, but what can you do? Perhaps it’s only natural, inevitable, since he and Tom are, after all, married now, man and ….well, man and man, Alfie supposes. Wed for all eternity, if not in the eyes of the law then at least in the eyes of God and the Rabbi. And in Alfie’s own personal eyes, which is frankly what matters, nu?
And a consequence of that is that Arthur – the lovely but brutal and slightly dim fellow who’s currently sitting across from him, hovering at the edge of his chair in case some unfortunate sh*t should jump off – is now his brother-in-law.
And family harmony is important. Particularly to Thomas. Important enough to motivate Alfie to sit down and make peace, smooth things over.
Or try to, anyway, if Arthur will have it. "What do you want?" Arthur asks, worried. The faster this conversation is over, the better, since the fewer minutes that tick past, the less opportunity there is for things to go awry. For anyone to get shot, or jailed, or openly mocked, or otherwise f*cked over.
"I come in peace, Arthur," Alfie tells him, hazel-green eyes round and sincere. He wisely steers clear of the word shalom, which is a bit of a button-pusher for Arthur, given their history. Instead, he holds his arms wide in a gesture intended to convey harmlessness (utter horsesh*t) and brotherly affection (slightly true even if mostly under duress). "I do, I do. I come to mend fences, right?" he assures Arthur.
Who blinks at him, clearly turning this unexpected olive branch around in his head. Which takes a little bit of time, right, given the aforementioned dimness. Alfie waits patiently as thoughts gel, sluggishly and almost visibly, behind Arthur's freckled brow. "Why?" Arthur asks eventually, watery blue eyes narrowed.
Alfie is honestly somewhat gobsmacked at the sheer amount of cogitation it has taken for Arthur to produce a single three-letter utterance. It's f*cking impressive, it is, in an arse-backwards sort of way. "Well," he begins. “Family harmony -- it's very important, yeah? And we are family now, since Thomas and meself are blissfully wed --"
“Not legally –” Arthur interjects.
“Alright, fine, whatever," Alfie continues, unperturbed. "But in God’s eyes and mine and Tommy's, nu? Which makes you and I, right, brothers-in-law."
"Not really," Arthur tries again, brow furrowed -- feeling vaguely as though he's already losing an argument he didn't know he was having.
"Close enough though, nu? Just a f*cking technicality, an unjust peculiarity of f*cking Crown law. We're an oppressed people, feygeles are, right? Just like the Jews. And the Gyppos as well," Alfie points out, because it is in fact a bit of common ground, yeah? Of course it f*cking is, one even thick Arthur can surely twig to. "So my f*cking point is -- we're family now. And I have come to render a heartfelt f*cking apology for any grievances and unpleasantness between us in the past. For the whole nasty business with Billy Kitchens, and for paying that Scotsman to saw your head off and chuck you into the Thames, and -- "
:"Wait -- " Arthur blinks, alarmed and confused. "What Scotsman? When did you pay -- "
"That's not important right now, petal. Do try to keep up, yeah?" Alfie says patiently, hands folded over his middle. "Anyhow -- the point is, I am genuinely f*cking sorry for any offenses what I might have committed against your person, even if they are in the distant f*cking past and weren't entirely my fault," he continues, looking as penitent as he can manage, which is not very. "I humbly f*ckin' apologize, and I am asking, right, for your forgiveness, in the name of family harmony. For Thomas," he adds meaningfully, giving Arthur the old cow-eyes.
It's a last bit of insurance. Arthur has just as much difficulty denying Tommy anything he asks for as Alfie does, right, albeit for entirely different reasons. And Alfie knows it.
Arthur chews on that for a long moment again, fingers twitching, clearly struggling. And Alfie waits, surreptitiously scanning the kitchen out of the corner of his eye for any crystal ashtrays or other items easy to snatch up and heavy enough to cave a skull in, just in case. In the end, Arthur grudgingly extends a bony, freckled hand. "I accept your apology," he says tightly. And only flinches a tiny bit when Alfie, pleased, grasps it for a brisk, friendly shake.
"Lovely. f*cking aces, Arthur, good man. Knew you had it in you, as a good and upstanding Jesus-fancier, yeah?" Alfie resists the itch to comment on the folly of Arthur's chosen faith; doing so will not help his cause at this particular moment. "Alright then," he says, sitting back, hands returning to the pommel of his cane. "Tommy will be very pleased, yeah? Very f*cking important that we get along, right, since we'll be spending a lot more time together soon, you and me," he adds, with a fond pat to Arthur's hand where it lies on the table.
Arthur doesn’t catch the last bit immediately, too busy shying away from the pat and bracing himself for action, should it become necessary. It registers a moment later; his brow wrinkles. “Wait now -- what the f*ck does that mean?” he asks.
“Ach – Thomas didn’t tell you?” Alfie blinks, surprised, sitting back. And then beams, absolutely chuffed to be the one to deliver the good tidings. “Well! Good news, mate – I’m moving in! Too f*cking long a drive, innit, three hours back and forth between Camden Town and Birmingham. Disrupts the old domestic bliss. Must find a way to fix that. And Thomas – well, f*cking hell, you know Thomas, he ain’t leaving Small Heath for good unless it’s in a pine box. So...." He trails off, with an eloquent shrug, signifying so that's that then.
Arthur chews this news over for a moment, a host of expressions flitting across his face, lips pinched into a grim line and hands fisted on his thighs. He’s already been warned by Tommy – do not kill or grievously harm Alfie – but he has his limits. Finally, he settles himself enough to speak without shouting. “I accept your apology, and I understand you will be – around – more. Here. But if I have to live under the same roof with yiz, I will end up cutting your f*cking throat one day," Arthur says in utter earnest, eyes pleading, a note of entreaty in his voice. "No offense, Alfie, but I’m just saying, I ain't gonna be able to help it.”
Alfie blinks. He's seen what Arthur is capable of, and has no desire to experience it personally. "Well then!" he says, in a tone perhaps more chipper than the occasion warrants. "I'll just trot on then for now, shall I? About time I took Cyril out for his afternoon constitutional." And whistling for the dog, he rises from the chair with a hand braced on his cane, and heads down the stairs, Cyril trotting obediently behind.
