"Whoever conceals his transgressions will not prosper, but he who confesses and forsakes them will obtain mercy." -Proverbs 28:13
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In the days since Tommy had bestowed the ring upon her, Trixie had grown more or less fascinated with the gesture. He was cold as ever towards her, but it felt different. Less and less, he made snide comments about her being a woman, her status as an outsider, her presence at family meetings. Instead, he pretended she didn't exist. Trixie couldn't figure out if it was better or worse.
Since Arthur's interrogation, Polly insisted that Trixie remain close by Tommy's side. He walked her to work, a tight smile on his face, and then home after the fact, looking equally miserable. As far as routines went, at least Trixie was somewhat comforted to have someone walking with her at night—a woman alone in Birmingham was fair game, but a woman with a Shelby by her side was not to be trifled with.
On this particular night, Trixie was double-checking the locks on the money boxes when Tommy all but tossed her coat at her and simply ordered, "Garrison." She shrugged the jacket on, reaching for her gloves and purse and stumbling over herself to catch up. Her hands shot out instinctively, landing firmly on Tommy's bicep as she caught herself.
At the contact, he yanked his arm away from her, a hand going to the gun she knew he kept inside his coat. Trixie stood up straight and leaned back, putting her hands out in front of her. Tommy was annoying, yes, but reaching for his gun—that was irrational. Thomas Shelby was anything but.
"I tripped," she explained, forcing her voice to stay even.
He seemed alarmed even by his own movements, putting his hands up to match her. "Sorry," he said after a moment, one hand going to push his hair back and the other straightening his coat. "I'm sorry."
This was the worst, actually. Trixie had never considered the possibility that Tommy would ever be nice to her, but it left her feeling awkward and at a loss for how to react. Apologizing wasn't in his nature. Just like it wasn't in hers.
"Why are we going to the Garrison?" she asked, trying to push them back into familiar territory. Strategy. Routine.
Tommy pulled his cap from his coat pocket and flipped it on over his head. "Need a drink."
"Well why am I going?" she amended. "Men don't take their women to the bar."
He rolled his eyes. "Because it would be improper for me to send you home alone, and I don't want to walk all the way back to your apartment and back."
