ANTONY & CLEOPATRA → ALFIE SOLOMONS

"hello, again"

Alfie Solomons was a difficult man to kill, you soon realized.

The house in Margate was nice. It was grand and white against a sky of light, cloudless blue, a large tree standing tall and proud in the front yard.

Little Polly was cradled in your arms, her eyes wide and curious as she soaked in everything that was new to her, grubby little hands reaching out to grab at the lamps they passed by. It was a maid that was leading you through the house, up the grand staircase and down a wide hallway, furnished with paintings that looked more expensive than you cared to know.

"He's in there, miss."

You gave the young woman a nod, standing outside the closed door as the maid hurried away. Polly fussed, grabbing a handful of your hair. Terror wreaked havoc behind your ribs as you swallowed past the lump in your throat, holding your daughter close to stop your hands from shaking.

You counted to twenty in your head before placing a hand on the doorknob, twisting and pushing in slowly.

His back was turned to you, chair facing the open terrace. A pair of binoculars sat on the table beside him.

"Alfie." Polly squealed happily at the sound of her father's name, waving her fists in the air. "Can I look at you?"

Tommy had told you where he'd shot him. You knew there was a reason he was facing away from you—it was the same reason you asked for approval from your husband before approaching.

"Yes, please."

The sound of his voice nearly sent you to your knees. You practically wept where you stood—it had been two long months since you heard that voice.

You approached slowly, swallowing your gasps as you stopped in front of him. Even Polly quieted down, staring.

The scar that marred Alfie's face was hard to miss. It was angry red, scabbing at the edges. The scar lapped into his right eye, completely demolishing his cheek. His eyes were closed, hands clasped over his stomach, a blanket thrown over his body.

"Fucking gruesome, innit?"

You cleared your throat, taking a seat on the footrest next to Alfie's chair. "Nah," you said quietly, resting your chin on Polly's head. "It's a bit badass, actually."

Alfie's eyes opened, and you couldn't help but tear up, biting down hard on your lower lip as you met his eyes. The right was cloudy, and you were positive he'd lost his sight in it, but that didn't matter. It was still Alfie behind his eyes—your Alfie.

"Hello, love." He said quietly, as though it pained him to speak. "Your idiot brother is a terrible shot."

You nodded. "Absolutely horrid," you choked out, tears spilling. "Can't believe he won his medals, really. Couldn't even kill a man standing within ten feet. A fucking fool."

The two of you stared at each other for a small moment. Polly let out a sharp cry. Alfie reverted his attention to his daughter, face softening.

"Can I hold her?"

You laughed humourlessly through your tears. "What kind of stupid fucking question is that?" Alfie stared. "Here."

You passed off your daughter, crossing your arms over your chest. Polly stared at her father, fingers hovering over the wound marring his face. She retracted her hand, resting her head on her father's chest. Alfie's eyes shut again, letting out a shaky fuck. He lifted his arm, patting his knee.

"Come here, angel," Alfie said quietly. "Let me hold you, please."

You stood up, easing yourself onto his thigh, hand bracing against his chest. You peered into his eyes, not phased in the slightest.

"Can I—?" You swallowed thickly, your hand lifting to brush against his bare cheek. "Alfie, can I?"

"Please do."

Incredibly careful, you leaned down and pressed your lips to Alfie's tears mingling with his own as they inevitably spilled, your body pressing as much as it could against him.

Between you, your daughter squirmed, and you pulled away with a little laugh, hand dropping from Alfie's face to stroke her curls.

"She looks so much like you, Alf," you whispered, resting your forehead against his. "You missed so much in two months; her eyes, they're all yours."

Alfie blinked, batting his lashes. "Well, I'm glad they went somewhere; otherwise it'd be a waste."

Polly stuck her thumb into her mouth, rubbing her cheek against the wool of Alfie's blanket.

"I have a feeling she inherited your sharp tongue," you said quietly, lifting your head. "She isn't talking yet, but the noises she makes are loud. You know exactly how she's feeling whenever she opens her mouth."

"Hm," Alfie hummed, resting his head back against his chair. "We did good here, didn't we?"

You flattened your palm against baby Polly's back. "I think so."

Alfie peeked open his eyes, giving you a small grin. "Let's keep doing good, yeah?"

You settled down, tucking your face in your husband's neck and inhaling deeply, counting to ten in your head before exhaling.

"Yes, let's."

(FIN.)