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macfrog · 7 months

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if i had a gun cowboy like me chapter 12.5 (joel's pov)

long-awaited, pain-packed, and sealed with a bow by yours truly. i love y'all. thank you for being so patient and kind with me on this one. this chapter is joel's experience of the end of illicit affairs and all of hits different. you might wanna check those chapters out before you indulge in the angst-fest that is this one. hope you enjoy 🧡

pairing: dbf!joel x fem!reader

summary: walk a mile in joel miller's shoes. see if you'd do anything different

warnings: more heartache, more angst, lois, alcohol + drug consumption, mention of reader being roofied, very brief mention of joel punching knox, age gap (reader is 23, joel is 48), cursing

word count: 9.8k

terrible news! there is no more taglist! make sure you're following @macfroglets w notifs on if you wanna be buzzed when i post 🤍

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“Right. Sorry. It’s just…we kinda have a…situation, here.” It’s you. He fucking knows it’s you. His heart begins to hammer. He doesn’t give a fuck whether she puts two and two together or not when he asks – “Where is she?” “We’re still at Frank’s,” Anna says, sniffing. He can hear the booming bassline of music, muffled; the sharper chatter of voices. She’s on the street. In his head, he can see her shoulders hunched; her bare arms wrapped around her body for warmth. She goes to say it again. “We’re still at –” “’n where is she?” Joel cuts, and she finally cracks.

You’re still fast asleep when he lifts his head.

You’ve had this argument plenty before. I do not snore. Yes, baby, you do. I’ve heard you. I don’t! It’s alright, it’s okay that you do. It’s a cute snore. Joel, I don’t fucking –

Right now, he’s pretty certain you’re snoring. He just wishes you were awake to hear yourself.

He thinks about pulling his phone, taking a video so that once you’re up, you can hear the little bursts of air, the tiny rasps from your nostrils as you snooze. But if he ever did record anything like that – just like the Hillcrest pictures, until you’d found them last night – he’d keep it for himself. Wouldn’t offer it up so easily.

Just something for him to have, for all the time he spends without you.

Your hair’s still all over the place. Tangled in Joel’s right arm, still smelling of chlorine and sex. Your head rests softly on the crook of his elbow like it’s a pillow; your lips and eyes are puffy, tired. You have this ridiculously strong vice grip on his left arm; during the night he felt you wrap your wrists around it and pull it into your chest, tucking it gently under your chin until your entire upper half was drowned in his.

His chest snug against your back, his arms encasing you safely, and his hips…his hips lined with yours. His now semi-hard cock buried between your legs – he’d slept inside you last night, and it was like, after forty-eight years, someone finally took him by the shoulders and said: This is how you do it. This is how you rest.

He was out as soon as his head hit the pillow, soon as his eyes fell shut. He stirred only to feel you maneuvering his arm, and then fell straight back asleep.

He felt comfortable. He felt safe. Big, old, tough guy Joel Miller. Never let anybody in since Sarah’s mom left. Alone for almost seventeen years, and fine with it. His cheeks heat at the idea of needing – of wanting to feel that. Safe. But then you came along, and he realized he’d been waiting his whole life to feel it. Didn’t even notice he’d been missing it.

That’s how these things go, right? Can’t miss what you don’t have, and all that.

But now he has it. Now he has you.

And you make him feel things he’s never felt before, or if he has, it was so fucking long ago that he’s forgotten. You drive him fucking insane. Keep him up at night, wondering what the hell he’s gotten himself into. Make him do stuff that his reflection glares at him over. Are you being serious right now? Make him…different. New.

The night before last, when he’d picked you up from Frank’s after rodeo night, he promised to make you a big breakfast in the morning. Compensation for not swinging by McDonald’s on the way home. But then your dad called, and you had to take off before Joel had even properly woken up.

When he eventually rose from the bed, he went straight to the store. Stocked up on eggs, flour, sugar, bananas. He’d printed a recipe from his computer while you were gone. Marked the items off as he meandered through the store. Stood for ten minutes deliberating over which gluten-free flour would be best, before an assistant asked if he needed any help.

I’m good, he muttered, and then, as the kid wandered off, cleared his throat and said, Actually –

Greg – the kid assistant in question – had suggested the red bag. Said it’s corn flour, instead of wheat. Joel can’t pronounce the brand name. He just knows it’s tucked behind a box of cereal in the cupboard downstairs – he hid it there so you wouldn’t find it and snuff out his plan.

His plan, which he now has to put into action. Without waking you. He’d lie here forever just staring at you, if he hadn’t sworn to himself to make good on his promise and cook you some damn pancakes.

So he slowly pulls his left hand from between yours, loosening your death grip, and steals it back across your waist. He does the same for his right arm – more careful, though, so he doesn’t tug on your hair. Like some kind of wild cat creeping through the jungle, every moment calculated and careful.

He bunches the comforter up a little at your back, so that if you do stir, it might feel like he’s still there. Still a weight, curving around you. He takes a good five minutes just to travel the length of the room – the lightest he’s ever walked, dodging the spots on the carpet that he knows make the floorboards squeal.

When the door gently clicks back into place, he heads downstairs. Cracks out his frying pan – non-stick, obviously – and all his ingredients, pulls the printed recipe from its hiding place between two cookbooks and lays it out on the counter, flattening the creases and unfolding the corners. And gets to it.

His first egg cracks messily over the lip of the bowl. The yolk runs down the outside, and he curses before swiping it back up with his index finger. The second egg empties fully inside the bowl, but drags with it tiny fragments of shell. Joel spends five minutes focusing on picking every single piece out of the mixture. He crouches to make sure he’s poured the exact amount of milk, eyes level with the top of the liquid, and he double checks every step before he follows it.

This has to be perfect. Has to be. For you.

The entire time, all he can think about is you asking to sleep with his body inside yours. Wanting him closer than you’d ever wanted him before, as close as he could physically be. Your sleepy voice circles between his ears on loop – want somethin’ else. That safe feeling creeps up on him all over again.

He knows he shouldn’t. He can’t. He’s spent the last month purposefully pushing those feelings down, dampening them anytime they rose to the surface. Only allowing himself to feel them, to acknowledge them, when you’re around. Because he can’t fucking help but acknowledge them when you’re here – they stare him straight in the face.

So he’d been making peace with letting the floodgates open just a little bit at a time – one quick rush whenever you’d give him one of your meaningful glances, when your hot skin would brush against his, when your mouth would fall open at the feeling of his first deep thrust inside you.

And then he’d bolt them back up.

Except that, now…he’s not sure the dam can hold much longer. There are cracks he’s not repairing quickly enough. Unintended consequences hammering against the other side of the stone in the form of angry white waves.

He’s staring at the beige circle of batter in the pan, swept off with the waves into someplace far from his kitchen, when the sound of your voice draws him back.

“Joel? You down there?”

The floorboards at the top of his stairs creak. You’re leaning over the banister.

“Yeah, darlin’, I’m here.” He slips halfway out of the kitchen door, closing it over his body in hopes you won’t smell the pancakes. You ask what he’s doing, and he says, “Just makin’ a coffee. You want anything brought up?”

“I’m good,” you reply. “’m gonna take a shower.”

“Alright, baby. There’s probably some stuff in Sarah’s bathroom you can use.”

He listens closely as your footsteps recede, waiting to hear the hum of his shower before he relaxes again, flipping the pancake over. It sizzles away as he runs one thick finger along the inside of the bowl and tastes his handiwork. Pretty damn good, he thinks. He’s sucking his finger clean when his cell goes.

Joel swipes to answer, and before he can utter a Hello?, your dad’s voice is screaming down the line to him.

“Mornin’, pal! You in? You up?”

He figures this is the infamous speakerphone you rambled for ten minutes about last night. Like a fucking foghorn, man. I’m deaf in this ear now.

He doesn’t wait for Joel to respond. “I was just passin’ by, remembered you got that leakin’ pipe, or whatever it is. Under your sink, right? You good for me to drop in ‘n take a look?”

“Uh – uh, I’m –” Joel stammers his way through a sentence he doesn’t know the ending of, slotting the phone between his cheek and his shoulder and giving the pan a rattle against the stovetop. He slips the spatula under the mixture, and when he flips it over, the pancake is charcoal black. “Fuck.”

“What’s that?” you dad roars, deafening in Joel’s ear. Fuckin’ speakerphone.

“Nothin’, it’s…” He sighs, accepting his new-found position: backed into a fucking corner. What’s new these days?

“Yeah, I’m up. See you in a bit.”

He hangs up the phone midway through an Alright, buddy from your dad, and whacks the chargrilled pancake on top of the pile. His phone surfs across the counter in a blur of blind panic, before Joel’s taking the stairs two at a time to get to you.

The door’s ajar. He can hear you quietly singing to yourself. Same song you’re always fucking singing, always trying to coax Joel into singing along with you. You’re humming the guitar solo when he whips the door open.

“Hey, hey,” he’s panting, taking your towel in one hand and reaching for the shower door with the other, a blur of movement before his eyes like he’s not in control of his own body. “Out.”

“Huh?” you reply, blinded by the soap suds running down your forehead and into your eyes.

“Baby,” Joel whispers, desperate, “you gotta get out. He’s here. Your damn dad’s here.”

He drags you over to the first place he spots: his closet. He knows it’s no fucking good, but he can hear your dad’s car squealing to a halt in his drive, and he’s in a blink panic wondering what artefacts, what evidence of your being here lie dotted around his house. Your bikini’s hanging up out back, there’s probably a hoodie still strewn over the back of his couch.

He doesn’t have time to think, though, because in the midst of his mental scan of every room whilst explaining to you what’s going on, your dad’s heavy boots just thudded onto his doormat.

“Miller?” he calls up the stairs. And Joel closes the closet over.

----------

He stands by the front door watching your dad’s car purr off down the street, waiting until it turns left and disappears behind the Dawsons’ back fence to shut the door. When he turns back into his hallway, the house is uncomfortably silent. You’re still up in his room.

The weight of your phone pulls at the waistband of his jeans. He slips his hand into his back pocket, fishes it out, and takes one step toward the stairs. The screen lights in his palm.

There’s a cluster of notifications from some film class group chat, a couple Snapchats from Sarah. A reminder to take your birth control from some pink-icon app, and then –

I’m heading over to Joel’s to check something out for him. Wanna meet me there?

He stares at it until the text burns into his eyes. Blinks, and it’s seared into his lids. His breath leaves his chest in a heavy, burdened sigh. It trembles as it pushes from his lungs. He feels something burning under his skin. All over.

He’s angry. And he’s trying to keep it contained.

Keep it where it lies, keep it beneath the surface. Stop it from pooling right behind his lips, collecting in the light of his eyes. Keep it from revealing itself. But when his foot lifts to the first step, it’s like a deadweight in the air.

He’s angry. But he’s fucking exhausted.

The bedroom is empty when Joel pushes the door open. You’re still hidden in the closet. You don’t look up at him when he pulls on the shuttered door, letting light flood across your hands, still covering your face. There are flicks of dripping wet hair peeking out from under the towel on your head.

He wants to put his arms around you. Wants to kiss you all over. Tell you, It’s okay, it’s alright. He didn’t see nothin’.

But he can’t. Because neither of those things are true.

Your dad saw the cowgirl hat. Hell of a lot like a hat my daughter has. It sent a sharpened bolt of panic through Joel’s body the second the words came tumbling out. He might’ve seen your bag lying at the bottom of the stairs. Might’ve passed your car on his drive here. There are so many loose fucking ends.

And more than that – harder to accept: maybe this isn’t okay anymore. Maybe it hasn’t been the entire time. And maybe, despite all his good efforts and the fucking way you make him feel, despite it being weeks now of tiptoeing and lying and covering your tracks – maybe you finally crossed a line.

He can’t look at you a second longer. His heart’s in his throat. If he opens his mouth to speak, he’ll probably choke. Break down. So he walks away.

You follow him downstairs a few minutes later, fully dressed and silent. Your touch sweeps across his shoulder blades, and it takes everything in him not to turn to you then and there. Come here, kiss me. Pretend none of it’s happening, just for a moment.

He sets your plate down in front of you. He’s taken the burnt pancake. He follows a pattern: cuts into the food, glances out to the backyard, and back to the plate. It’s the only thing keeping the words from rolling out onto the table in front of him. The only thing stopping him from –

You kick his leg. So gently, he barely feels it.

“You gonna eat?” he asks in response, chewing on the smoky flavor of burnt batter. Your hands hesitate, and he feels his own flinch as if to take them, rub them, squeeze them. And then he watches as you drag your knife through your own breakfast.

He wants you to yell at him. He wants to give meaning to the guilt he feels. He knows what’s coming, and he isn’t so sure that you do.

This is…impossible. It has been, from the start. Always sneaking off, coming up with excuses. So many fucking excuses, he can’t even keep them straight in his head anymore. She’s here, droppin’ my flannel off. Now we’re upstairs, I’m showin’ her my guitar. Need her to help with decorations. Your TV’s broken, did you know that? Don’t mind us, just sat in this private corner of my backyard, out of view of fucking everyone. I’ll pick her up from her rodeo night, take her home. She’s at Anna’s all day today, right?

And your dad – kind and naïve, or maybe just so fucking gullible that every single one lands like the flour did in the egg mixture. Just gracefully floats down into his brain, absorbs itself and folds perfectly into place.

So, yell at him. Get mad. Make him feel like the fucking asshole he knows he is. Leading you on, and letting you get close to him, and then when it gets too hard – pushing you away. Doesn’t matter if that’s what he did or not; doesn’t matter whether he did or didn’t mean it. He wants you to be mad at him. To justify what he’s about to do.

He slides you your phone. Motions for you to read it.

“Fuck…” you whisper, and then he thinks you get it.

But then you say, “…he didn’t see me, though. Right?” and his heart sinks.

No. He didn’t see you. But he saw so many little pieces of you, that Joel finds it impossible to consider that he isn’t already seeing the entire picture. He’s picturing your dad at home in the living room, one hand on his hip, the other running through his hair, adding two and two and two and two and –

You’re bickering. Actually arguing. He doesn’t know how to navigate it, save for letting the frustration take the wheel and drive the point home: you came too close to being caught.

You’re smarter than this, he knows you are. He knows that you can see plain as day, everything that he can. The bag, the hat, the fucking home-cooked breakfast sat on his kitchen counter. He’s watching you argue your point, hands dancing in the air animatedly, eyebrows lifting, eyes widening. Hear me out. Listen to me. Hear me out.

“I didn’t fucking mean to let him see the b–”

“That’s not the point,” Joel says, before he has time to stop himself.

“Then what’s your point?”

He feels his voice carry off into the air with the images racing around his head. Hank’s shadow under the door. The roar of voices downstairs as you climaxed. Your body pinned under Joel’s on your couch. The way the morning light screamed into the house as your front door burst open.

He doesn’t sound like he has much of a point, even to himself. He’s in it just as much as you are. He’s lied and he’s hidden just as much as you have, and made mistakes that are…worse, as far as he’s concerned.

And the worst one of all sits directly opposite him. Head low, eyes boring into the wood of his kitchen table. He can see the tears swelling across your waterline. Can feel the heat from here as it spreads across your face. Anger thrums through his chest again, and his teeth grit.

He murmurs, pushing himself up from the table and away from you. Tells you there’s some stuff he needs to see to. You’re mad about it, like he knew you would be. Like you should be. He promises he’ll be back in a couple hours; promises you’ll talk when he gets home.

And then he leaves.

----------

Clark’s is on the other side of town. It takes him nearly forty minutes to get there, and more than half of that time is spent staring at the tail lights of a Honda in front of him. Some accident up ahead. His eyes bore into the burning red strip of brake light until it’s singed into them, a blur of blue when he finally rips his glare away and stares up at the white sky.

He thinks about calling you. Saying, Hey, I’m stuck in traffic, talk to me, but he doesn’t. He just…doesn’t.

Instead, he wonders what you’re doing. Whether or not you’re still at his place. He wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t. But if you are – and he hopes you are – what are you doing?

He thinks: She’s on the couch. Bundled in blankets. Grey’s is on TV. She’s rewatchin’ her favorite episodes.

Least, that’s what he wants you to be doing. Wants you to be making yourself feel better, because he knows he was a complete ass earlier. You didn’t deserve any of it. Nothing that he didn’t deserve himself, just as much, anyway.

He thinks about coming home, and you hitting pause, pushing yourself off the couch and sauntering around to him. Wrapping him in the blanket until your bodies are pressed together under the woven red, and kissing him. Kiss me kiss me kiss me.

And the thought of you, standing on your tiptoes to press your soft lips to his, your fingers sifting through his hair, is like a cold pack on a searing wound. Dulls his anger, even if it’s just for a second.

His wide tires crawl silently across the smooth lot of the plant hire, parking right in front of the wire fence. The truck door slams shut when he gets out. He doesn’t mean it. Maybe he does. But he does it without thinking, and with a hot head, a temper sharper than nails, he strides over to the glass-paneled door and swings it open.

She’s sat behind the desk, same as always. Dark, deep auburn hair, groomed and set to perfection so that when she looks up, it doesn’t move an inch. Curls around the sweetheart shape of her face, smooth and shining. Her blue eyes twinkle in the glaring light from outside, and she stands.

She tugs lightly on the hem of her white blouse. You’d probably elbow him and say, That’s cream, not white. She smiles at him and it doesn’t look a thing like your smile. He doesn’t remember the last time he saw your smile. Fuck, he thinks, when did I last make her smile?

And he’s still wondering, when Lois says, “Hey, stranger,” and puts a gentle, pale, red-nailed hand down on the desk. “Long time, no see.”

“Yeah,” Joel grumbles, clearing his throat and glancing at the man in a pair of thick, steel-toe boots, sat in a waiting area to his left. He thinks it’s probably polite to ask how she is. It’s been seven weeks since he blew off her hint for a date.

“Good, thanks,” she replies, cheeks swelling even more. They’re lightly shaded crimson, a soft shimmer to them against her snowy skin, dappled with light freckles. “You?”

He nods once. “Good,” he echoes, not sure what else to say. He’s lying, and she doesn’t seem to figure him out the way you would.

No. Instead, Lois steps back, straightens up, and twirls the pen in her fingers. “What can I do ya for?”

“Got some equipment I’m after,” he mutters, hand slipping into his back pocket for his phone. Lois’s eyes flit up and down his body as he taps his passcode in with his thumb.

She asks him something, but it sounds like she’s speaking through a closed door. He’s elsewhere.

The phone unlocks, screen lifting to reveal the last open app: his camera roll. His thumbs hover over the screen, tracing where yours would’ve tapped last night.

The video’s muted, she won’t hear it even if he let it play, but he swipes away the second he recognizes the tangled mess of your hair, his fist locked tight in it. His own hair, salt and pepper buried deep in the crook of your neck.

Something in his chest aches. Pulls tight, hurts his heart. He takes a deep breath and scares the feeling away. He’s staring at his camera roll. Staring at twelve little square thumbnails – couple of them work stuff, couple of them lists of supplies he has to remember to pick up – and then. Then.

You. At the Hillcrest. Dimples in your cheeks. That’s what made him take his phone out. The soft dips in your skin that appear anytime you smile, laugh, sometimes even just when you talk. He’d first noticed them when you had a mouth full of pizza, chatting animatedly about Meredith and Derek, and he’s noticed them every time since.

He’d seen them, as you posed with Sarah for a selfie at lunch. And his hand had slipped into his pocket before his brain even had the chance to finish the thought.

His quiet way of marking how he felt in that moment. How his chest seemed to fill as if with air, or something thicker. Sweeter. Like it was trying to push words up, a comment to tell you how beautiful you looked. Trying to make him move, run his thumb light as air across that tiny valley in your cheek and look at you with eyes that translated the words hammering behind his eyes.

But you had company. And all he managed to do was take two fucking photos.

Lois talks again, and this time, there’s no closed door.

“Huh?” Joel’s head snaps up, takes a few seconds to focus on the red hair in front of him. “Sorry, Lois, sorry.”

“’s alright. You okay?” She’s smiling so warmly, so sincerely. And there are no dimples in her cheeks.

“Yeah,” he clears his throat, “just checkin’ for the address.”

She holds out a pad, a stack of hire agreement forms hovering between her body and his, but he’s not looking. He’s still scrolling through his phone, thumbs searching your dad’s text thread for the information. Lois lowers the pad to the counter, places the pen on top. Fiddles with it until it’s lined up with the top of the form perfectly.

Then Joel looks up, and she smiles again.

“Not for you, then?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “Just the messenger.”

“Got it. Well, you know what you’re doing. Let me know if you need anything.”

Lois takes a step back, eyes still on Joel, who smiles politely, then swipes the form from the desk and takes a seat between Steel-Toe Boots and some tall, leafy plant that he has to bat away when he sits down. He’s copying the site address, phone resting on his thigh, when the receptionist speaks again.

“How’s Sarah doin’? She home yet?”

“Yeah,” Joel replies, “been home a couple weeks now. She’s been in Nashville this weekend.”

Lois lifts her head, blinking slowly. “Nashville. Nice. So, you’ve had a weekend to yourself.”

He scoffs. “Yeah,” he croaks.

“And what does Joel Miller get up to when he has an empty house for a few days?”

His fingers squeeze around the pen, pushing deeper into the paper. His expression hardens. “Nothing excitin’ enough to share. Sat by the pool yesterday. Was nice out.”

She agrees. “Sure was. You have company?”

Joel shakes his head once. Blinks the image of you and your red bikini from his vision. Focuses on dragging the pen one digit at a time across the line labeled Phone Number. If he cared enough, he’d give the obvious hint a couple seconds’ consideration, even just to protect Lois’s pride a little.

But he doesn’t care. And right now, he ain’t interested in protecting anyone but you.

“Nope. Just me ‘n a few beers.”

“Better off that way,” a hoarse, forty-cigs-a-day voice rasps from his right. “Less fuckin’ problems.”

Joel’s jaw rotates a degree towards the work boots; notices the folds of dry, leathery skin piled atop the raised gray eyebrows of their owner, and then turns back silently.

Lois clears her throat awkwardly. “Well, I spent the day with my book. I’m readin’ a Colleen Hoover. Adam’s at camp, so – quiet house for me, too.”

Joel finds himself nodding. Autopilot. He’s pretending he’s listening.

You’re still in his sight, wandering over from the sliding kitchen doors, a bottle in each hand. He can hardly see you when he looks up, the sun’s so bright. You hold a beer out, condensation dripping down your fingers towards Joel’s when he takes it, and then you slump down in the sun lounger next to his.

His arm reaches across, and your small fingers wrap and then unwrap around his, running across his knuckles, nails lightly scratching his worked hands. And he’s smiling, and he doesn’t even notice it until his eyes meet yours and you laugh, and he asks, What? through a chuckle, and you say, Nothin’, you just look happy.

Your dimpled blush blurs back into checkboxes and scrawled handwriting. You’re gone again. He’s in a white office, and the gentle lapping of the water on the pool’s edge fades into the headache noise of a fan humming, and he feels the warmth of your gaze on his skin turn into the cold, harsh spotlight glare of Lois’s eyes on him.

He looks up. She’s still smiling. At this point, he finds it fucking unnerving.

He rises from his chair, swings a wandering leaf from that ugly green plant out of his way and paces back over to the desk, sliding the pad back across to her. Their hands brush as she takes it from his grip, and he pulls his wrist close to his body. Lois doesn’t seem to notice.

She’s running the pen down the form, checking everything he’s filled in. Her tongue moves around the inside of her cheek, sucking on a hard candy. “Delivery on Friday?” she double checks, and Joel nods. “Alright,” she says, tearing away his copy, “we’ll call ya.”

“’ppreciate it,” he mumbles, folding the paper into his back pocket.

She turns, reaching to slip the form into a blue tray, and Joel pauses. Thinks to say something – he hopes Adam has a fun time at camp, or that Lois enjoys the rest of her quiet week. But then he sees you sat opposite him, staring fixedly at the plate before you, tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. He feels your hand laced in his, hears your laugh still ringing in his ears.

He misses you. He should never have left you. You matter more to him than some equipment for a site. Matter more to him than anything. He should’ve never fucking left.

Joel nods. Reaches for the handle of the door. Glances back to Lois. “There a florist anywhere near here?”

----------

He pulls the truck in alongside the florist. Teal window frames, a little pink door. He can hear you now. How fucking cute is that store? Give me your phone, I gotta get a picture. Mine’s is in my bag in the back. Look, the traffic’s movin’, Joel, give me your phone – quick!

His fingers hook around the silver door handle. He pats his jeans once – wallet’s right there – and goes to pull, when his cell vibrates from the center console. He can see himself in the glass screen, your dad’s name written across the reflection of his forehead.

He bites down on his lip. Hard. Glances up to the road ahead. Blinks. And decides to answer.

“Joel,” your dad chirps down the line. “Sorry, buddy, you’ll be sick a’ the sight ‘n sound of me today.”

Joel manages a convincing laugh. “What’s up?”

“Just makin’ sure you’re rememberin’ to put Friday’s date down for delivery on that order. We’re gonna need the stuff over the weekend, so.”

“Yep. Just been to do it right now. Friday’s date, Harvey’s site, your card details ‘n everything.”

“’attaboy. Good job. You’re all grown up.”

“Funny.”

“Thanks, pal. I appreciate it. There wasn’t no chance I was gettin’ time to do it myself,” he lowers his voice, “I’m still stuck here with Kelman.”

Joel’s fingers trace around his steering wheel. “Oh, yeah? He keepin’ you busy?”

“You bet. Had to haggle with ‘im just to get a lunch break. Speakin’ of – I swung by the house and that daughter of mine wasn’t home. Haven’t seen or heard from her since yesterday mornin’. I’m just checkin’ she ain’t stop by to see Sarah or som’?”

His fingers lock tight around the leather. “Sarah’s still in Nashville, she gets in tonight. Couldn’t tell you where yours is. I’m not home yet, so.”

It’s a half-truth. He could wager a pretty good guess, but he can’t be certain, can he?

Your dad chuckles down the line. “She spent the night at Anna’s. My house must be like prison to her – she’s never around anymore. I’ll hear from her soon, I’m sure. Alright. Thanks, again, Joel.”

He drops the phone back into the cupholder with a sigh, leaning back against the headrest to stare at the roof of the truck. He’s still picturing you in his living room, head turning to the street at every sound of a car door, or tires rolling by. And then the image is marred by your dad, peering in the window back at you, catching you wrapped up in a situation you shouldn’t be in.

He doesn’t want your dad to find out. For obvious reasons. Because it would mean the collapse of their friendship, the collapse of the world they built between them – for you, for Sarah, for themselves. Comfortability, and normalcy, and routine and order all thrown to the wind on account of some month-long fling.

But more important than all of that: it would mean dragging you into all of that, too. Fucking up your relationship with your dad. Making things weird between you and Sarah. Ruining whatever’s left of what you and Joel had, before you both took it too far.

And if he doesn’t want all that – if he doesn’t want your dad finding out – then something has to change. Something’s gotta stop.

His fingers wrap tight around the key and turn, and the truck jumps to life. He turns away from the teal-colored florist as he pulls off.

----------

You take it about as well as he reckoned you might. About as well as you should, given the circumstances. He isn’t surprised, and he doesn’t blame you. He’s probably on your side, when you argue back with him.

“You’re not serious, right? Joel. You’re not –”

“Kid, I…”

“No. What? Because of a fucking bag?”

He lifts his gaze and pleads with you. “Because of the lying.”

You’re right, with your response: it’s never been an issue until now. He’s been more than fucking happy to sneak off, take you as his own, and then return with a satisfied grin and a mouth full of excuses to feed your company. He almost agrees.

It’s just: this time, your dad’s at your heels like a bloodhound. A little less sharp, maybe. Blind as a fucking bat, sure. But he can smell something’s up. And he’s circling it, nose to the ground, drawing nearer and nearer to the pair of you with each step.

You ask if he wants to tell the truth. That thought scares him just as much. Knocks him back a few steps. No, he doesn’t want to come clean.

The words fly back and forth like a tennis match. Too fast for him to keep control of what he’s saying and how you’re hearing it. He wants to break it off – is there anything to break off? – but he doesn’t want to lose you – how can you lose something you never had? – and then: did he ever have you in the first place?

You’re standing over him, between his knees. “End it,” you tell him. “I’ll go.”

There’s a casualness in the loose shrug of your shoulders that scares him more than the prospect of you actually leaving. How easy it looks like it could be, for you to just wander out. Sling your bag over your shoulder and revert back to the start of the summer, when he was just a ride home after a rainy day at work.

Forget how to touch him the way he’s certain only you can, forget the secret language between you, forget every stolen glance and whispered word and every thought that ever translated from your brain to his as easy as they would pass between your lips.

“You don’t mean nothin’ to me? That what you think?” He’s laughing. Disbelief, fear, shock. Whichever one it is, it pulls across his cheeks painfully. Somehow, you’ve ended up at the foot of his bed.

“Well, what else am I supposed to take from this, asshole? That you’re fuckin’ in love with me?”

It’s cold water over an already-dying fire. The words smother into ash on his tongue. No more come to the front. He just stares at you. His phone starts to chitter out into the silence between you.

You take a step forward. Your voice is low. “You don’t get to do this, you know. You don’t get to pull me in and then drop me…once you’re done with me.”

“Don’t.”

It’s not much, but it soars from the pit of his stomach, through his throat and past his lips like a final arrow. All he can muster up.

“Don’t.”

There’s a weight where the words originate from. Something deep in his gut, an ache pulling its way upward, swelling across his chest. His ears are screaming.

Of all the things you might think – he’s an asshole, he’s a liar, he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing – the worst one would be that he spent this entire time leading you on. Making you feel special. Making you think you were something to him.

You are something to him. You’re – you’re fucking everything to him. It’s why he’s doing this, right? Going against every instinct, every gut feeling. To protect you. To do what’s right by you. He’s not fucking done with you. He wonders if he’ll ever go another day in his life without thinking about you.

“I can’t read your mind anymore…” you whisper, and his lungs steal a breath. His lack of response flattens your expression.

Joel might not be done, but you are.

He can feel you slipping from his grasp like sand through his knuckles. Each grain rocking itself loose, choosing to throw itself to the depths below rather than spend another second wrapped in his clutch.

He’s trying so desperately to hold onto you. Listen to me, he thinks, and he knows you can’t hear him anymore. Because now you’re really going – you’re tripping out of his room. Your heel catches on the threshold, like one last-ditch attempt from fate to pull you back into him, but you stop yourself and spin, fleeing down the hallway.

He takes a loose grasp of your wrist, fingers barely meeting on the other side of your skin before you tear it away from him like he’s scalded you. The look on your face makes him think for a moment that he might actually have done it – burned you. Pained you. Raised the skin below your gentle palm in a furious, red glow.

He’s swapping words out like they’re tools, each one immediately breaking and being flung back into the box. He’s trying any combination, any useless, futile order of words to make you stop in your tracks. You know how much I care about you, ‘s why I’m doin’ it, baby, come back, we can talk about this.

And he opens his mouth to give voice to the only words he knows would stop you – the reason why he’s doing it in the first place, the only thought he’s had anytime he’s looked at you for the last couple weeks. He opens his mouth to say it, or say something like it, when the machine silences the ringtone and the pair of you, too.

Her voice is like ice down the back of his shirt. He stares at the machine, red light blinking like a rag to a bull. He could walk over to it and smash the ever-loving fuck out of it with his fists until it’s dust on his coffee table. Until it shuts the fuck up, stops interfering with his fucking business.

And then he thinks about Lois, and her cream blouse, and her red nails, and her big, blue eyes, and her soft drawl and everything about her that is so entirely opposite to everything about you.

And how much – despite how nice and friendly, or funny and good-natured she is – how much he hates her right now, and how much he fucking loves you.

But you’re gone, now. Washed away by the tide. No more sand in Joel’s palm.

He tries to stop it. Tries to wind back a little, tries to make the sea cough up what it just stole from him. Give her back, you fuck. His eyes are stinging like salt water. Why are they stinging? There’s a roaring in his ears – the waves laughing in his face. Sickly and deafening.

He’s doing his best to keep a hold on his trembling voice. He knows he sounds pathetic. But yours is louder, stronger, steadier. And when you talk, it’s with an air of finality. Like you’re turning over the horizon. The last time he’ll ever see you again.

“I’ll see you ‘round, Joel.”

----------

He doesn’t call or text you that night. He doesn’t know what he’d say. Doesn’t even know where he’d begin. You’re mad, and Joel figures you got every right to be. This entire thing – today, this weekend, the whole month you’ve been together – is one big fucking mess.

He spends the afternoon hunched over his kitchen table, trying to distract himself with work. Twirling a pencil between his fingers, reading three, four, sometimes five times over the same building plans before deciding that the words and numbers won’t fucking sink in. He leaves them strewn across the table, wanders aimlessly upstairs and takes a cold shower.

Sarah’s flight gets in at 8PM. Joel’s sat curbside, truck engine humming, scanning every single figure that walks out of the airport building. When he spots the gray hoodie, the brown hair tied back with a pink scrunchie, the much-too-big-for-four-days-away suitcase rolling at her heels, he gets out.

She hugs her friends, they nod in passing greeting to him, and she skips over.

“Hey,” he breathes as she wraps her arms around his waist. “How was your flight? Saw you comin’ in.”

She shrugs in response. “I’m hungry. Wanna go get McDonald’s?”

Joel grumbles, slotting her case in the back of the truck. “You don’t wanna get home? Take a shower first? You smell like plane.”

“Ha! No.”

She opens the passenger side door and hoists her foot up on the seat, retying her sneaker. Joel’s already in and buckled up, hands on the wheel, watching her blue nails loop the laces.

“There’s one, like, ten minutes away.”

He’s shaking his head. “We got food in the house.”

Her gaze lifts. Her foot drops. “Oh, c’mon, it’s on the way home. We’ll be, like, five minutes. I just got off a two-hour flight, dude, right through dinner. I’m starving, I –”

“Would you just get in the damn truck, Sarah?”

It’s shorter, snappier, angrier than he meant. But he’s parked in the middle of the packed pick-up area, and the rattling of suitcase wheels and the whistling of cab drivers and the fucking roaring of planes overhead are making the headache behind his eyes worse.

Sarah freezes, one arm still leaning on the doorframe. “Jesus. What the fuck?”

“Sorry,” Joel mutters, shaking his head. “Sorry. Just – get in.”

“No need to be an asshole about it,” she murmurs, pulling herself up into the passenger seat.

Joel’s face is in his hands, elbows atop the steering wheel. “I’m not tryna be an asshole,” he says into his palms.

His daughter looks at him. Concerned. “Somethin’ happen? While I was gone?”

He shakes his head again.

Nothing happened.

He’s quiet the rest of the night. The rest of the week. Sarah notices, he knows she does, because she pries. In her own way. She’s smarter than he is. Less obvious.

She’s already up and in the kitchen when he rises on Tuesday morning. Spins around at the toaster, tells him the machine’s ready for his coffee. Asks if he wants her to make it. Asks if he wants any breakfast.

Thanks, kiddo. No, I’ll get it. No, you’re good, thanks.

They sit opposite one another in silence, save for the crunching of Sarah’s toast. He can feel her eyes on him, same way he felt Lois’s. Trying to burrow deep inside, take a look at his brain. Catch a glimpse of the words he’s thinking over and over and over.

There ain’t no words, though. It’s just images. Video replay of your back as you strode down his driveway, the way the wind caught your hair and brushed your cheek, the way your hand came up to wipe your tears. And the way he stood there, like a fucking idiot, and did nothing.

His chest hurts any time he thinks about you. Pulls in, knits itself together in knots. He’s good at pushing feelings down, good at turning them away from the sunlight like faded pebbles. But this is different. It’s a different kind of hurt.

It’s unresolved, it’s an open wound. It’s you. And it’s every time he hears REO Speedwagon, every time he pulls a flannel over his shoulders and catches the scent of your perfume on it, every time he’s flicking through the TV and catches a flash of a hospital setting, it’s a pair of hands deep inside the wound, pulling it a little wider.

It aches. It stings and it aches and it winds.

And then he turns the pebbles around. Back to the shade. Over and over and fucking over.

On Wednesday night, he caves. Asks Sarah if she’s spoken to you.

She’s chewing on a slice of pizza; licks the grease from her fingertips before she answers. “Not really. She’s been quieter than usual. Why?”

“She’s been quieter than usual?” he repeats, playing off the way his head shot up by looking straight back down at the pizza box.

Sarah narrows her eyes. “Yeah. I figure she’s working a lot.”

“Right. Right.”

“She gets tired of being in the house all the time, I think. Getting treated like a kid still. So I guess the more time she can spend outta there, the better.”

Joel nods slowly. He already knows that much.

Sarah studies him. Watches his hands as he dabs a pizza crust into the dip. When he tosses it in his mouth, he looks back up at her.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says. “You want the last slice?”

“You take it,” he mutters, sitting back and wiping his hands on a napkin. “I’m stuffed.”

She hums, reaching forward. “Whatever it is,” she says, pulling the dough apart, “that’s got you this down –”

“Ain’t nothin’ got me down, kiddo.”

“– whatever it is,” she continues, “I bet it works itself out.”

Sarah stands up, taking her water with her, and wanders out of the kitchen.

----------

Joel struggles through another sleepless night, Thursday through Friday. His eyes don’t close over once. He hauls himself out of bed early in the morning, forces a black coffee down his throat, and heads off to work.

He’s up at some new client in Waco. Andrew Curtis – or, well, Andrew Curtis’s father, but Joel’s been dealing primarily with the son, and the guy’s a fucking imbecile. Doesn’t know his head from his ass, probably. And he has a voice like nails on a damn chalkboard, and his shirt’s untucked around the back, but Joel ain’t got a tone kind enough, or half the wordsmanship, or an ounce of energy to tell him.

Anyway – he spends all day at this dusty site, trying to work and instead, thinking about whatever the fuck you’re doing. Wherever you are, whoever you’re with. It’s almost seven by the time he’s leaving, packing up his truck and watching Andrew Curtis across the yard. He’s spotted his own shadow; he’s twisting around to reach the ducktail poking out from above his belt loops.

Joel thinks to call you about it on the way home. Tell you all about the guy: his dry conversation, his flannel, the fact he kept calling Joel Joe all day. He figures it would make you laugh, least the way he’d tell it, and he reckons that’s exactly what you need right now. That’s exactly what he needs, right now.

When Clark’s call him, he dials your dad. Has his ear blown half to hell by the speakerphone. Learns midway through the conversation that you’re right there in the car, too, and bites back a stream of incoherent, senseless words. Settles for a quiet reminder: he’s right here if you need him.

He doesn’t expect you to take him up on it. Knows you got better things to do than deal with some asshole who’d rather break your heart than have a few difficult conversations. You’re probably having fun, probably finally feeling good again. You’re probably fine.

But still. He doesn’t sleep that night, either.

It’s just gone two when Anna calls. He’s lying in bed, some shopping network on loop on the TV. His tired eyes bore into the screen, defocusing over the pixels, not watching nor listening and barely fucking breathing until he picks up the phone. Her voice is panicked, shrill, and shaking so much he wonders if his own phone is trembling with it.

“Mr. Miller?” she asks, and Joel sits up. “Got your number from Yelp. ‘m sorry it’s so late, it’s…oh, fuck – it’s, like, 2AM.”

“Anna,” Joel says hoarsely. Get to the fuckin’ point.

“Right. Sorry. It’s just…we kinda have a…situation, here.”

It’s you. He fucking knows it’s you. His heart begins to hammer. He doesn’t give a fuck whether she puts two and two together or not when he asks –

“Where is she?”

“We’re still at Frank’s,” Anna says, sniffing. He can hear the booming bassline of music, muffled; the sharper chatter of voices. She’s on the street. In his head, he can see her shoulders hunched; her bare arms wrapped around her body for warmth. She goes to say it again. “We’re still at –”

“’n where is she?” Joel cuts, and she finally cracks.

In one long, drawn breath, she spills. “She was fucked from the second we walked in here; she drank too much too quick, Mr. Miller – Joel,” she says when he corrects her, “and then she just – I dunno, she just – fucking disappeared with these guys, me ‘n Kara never saw ‘em in our lives – and they went upstairs we think, and she came back smelling like weed, and then this guy – he just, like, scooped her off, Mr. M– I mean Joel, like, totally dragged her away, and then –”

“Who–? Anna – Anna, wait,” Joel says, shushing her between her rambling, trying to rein in what she’s saying. When she finally shuts up, he speaks slowly and calmly. “Who dragged her away?”

“We don’t fuckin’ know!” she almost shrieks down the line. It cuts out for a second and Joel’s heart stops dead.“– so we don’t know,” she says when her voice filters back through into his ear, “but Sam said he saw the dude drop something in her bottle when he turned away. A pill or something.”

Joel’s body tenses. Freezes solid, with the blood in his veins. His eyes fix on one spot on his dresser: the loose handle that sits a little squint. He stares at it until his peripheral starts to blur.

“He – say that again?”

“He roofied her, we think. But we can’t fucking find them. Sam and Kara are in there just now looking. The guy pulled her away, that’s what I’m tryna say!”

“Right,” whispers Joel, nodding. He drags a heavy hand over his eyes, tries to push the image of you in danger out of his head for one second so he can figure out what to do.

Anna doesn’t hear him. She keeps talking. “…and then Sam said she told him not to call her dad, but I had to call someone, y’know? You’re the only person I think she wouldn’t – I think she wouldn’t mind me callin’. Please.”

He’s already halfway down the stairs, arms pushing through the sleeves of his shirt. He keeps the phone against his cheek when he bends to reach for his boots, ties them loose and grabs his keys.

“You call me as soon as you find her, you hear? I’m on my way,” he tells Anna, and hangs up.

He’s panicking. Fear, transferred between her cell and his, creeping over his shoulders, wrapping long, cold fingers around his throat. He’s panicking. He’s panicking. He never panics. Where the fuck are you? Who the fuck are you with?

There’s barely any traffic on the road, but the drive takes for-fucking-ever. The lights at the side of the road blur into long, thin streaks of orange. His hands are tight around the steering wheel, his jaw clenched. Your name lies loose on his lips.

He pulls up right outside the bar. There are small clusters of people, congregated tight together under the streetlights; cigarettes hanging from lips, bottles loose in hands. He shoves by them on his way to the door. Some guy shuffles out of his way, looking up to cuss Joel out and quickly dipping his head again when he locks eyes with the grizzly expression.

He shoves the door open with his shoulder, and spots you instantly.

----------

His knuckles are throbbing. Skin stretching anytime he moves his hand, searing hot and sharply stinging across the bone. Your touch is the only thing soothing them right now.

He got two good punches in. Just two. Burst the guy’s nose. He would’ve kept going, had he not been in a bar full of people – people who knew who he was – and had you not been stood behind him, body liquid-like from how much you were swaying.

But he has you home now. Up in your room, settled in bed. You’re safe. You’re with him.

You’re fucking wasted. Like, can barely lift a glass of water to your lips unaided wasted. He spent the entire drive watching over you, stealing glances when your head turned or your eyes lulled closed, checking you were still awake, still talking, still fucking breathing.

Whatever that asshole gave you, you don’t seem to have had enough for it to do too much damage. The alcohol is the real culprit. Though you were cognitive enough to yell at him over Lois in the kitchen, which relieved him for a second before it fucking crushed him. He’s lying awake right now – listening to the sound of your snoring – replaying the argument in his head. Over and over.

You’re an asshole and a liar. Just stringing me along this whole time.

He’s some awful cocktail of angry and terrified and fucking heartbroken. You’re lying inches from him, your hand resting softly on top of his, and yet – you’re miles away. The space between you both – fragmented, treacherous.

In a perfect world, he’d have wrapped his arms around your shoulders. He’d have pulled you against his weight, against his strong, steady form. And he’d have walked you, as slow as you needed, out of the bar and to his truck. Maybe laughing. Maybe singing.

He’d have told you everything was fine, told you he loved you, told you he was gonna get you home, make you feel better. He’d hold you until the sun came up, and then hold you until it went back down.

He’d love you. And you’d let him.

Maybe that world doesn’t exist, Joel thinks. And maybe that’s for the better.

It fucking hurts, though. Stings like a hot blade through his chest. All this time, messing around, pretending there was nothing more to it. Letting his feelings through like water in a fucking dam. It was bound to break eventually.

And maybe he really thought, even just for a fleeting moment, there could be something here. Something worth holding onto. More than two idiots messing around, more than sex and secrecy.

He didn’t even realize. Didn’t notice the shift. When did he start feeling…more? When did it cross that line?

He’s staring at the end of your bed. Thinking about you under him, gripping onto his shirt, his hand between your legs. The very first time. And every other fucking time since then. Which one was the threshold? Who pushed who?

His ringtone bursts through the silence, making him jump. His arm swings to fish it from the nightstand, swiping to answer before he’s even read who’s calling, just to shut the thing up.

“Hello?” he murmurs.

“Hey, Joe? Uh, I mean, Joel? It’s Andrew Curtis here.”

He rolls his eyes. For fuck’s sake. “Mornin’, Andrew.”

“Hi. Sorry, I know it’s super early. I’m just checkin’ we’re still good to go. I got my guys ready, we’re rarin’ to get goin’ whenever you are.”

Joel clears his throat, pushing slowly off the plush mattress, resting your hand on the sheets. “Yeah, uh…” He slips out of your room, hopping over to the bathroom and closing the door over. “…I had a, uh…a family emergency durin’ the night. I’m gonna be a little late, but I’ll be there.”

“Oh, gee, I hope everything’s alright?”

He phrases it like he wants Joel to clue him in. He considers for a second actually saying, Yeah, my best friend’s daughter – who I’ve been sleeping with for the last month – got plastered at a bar – Frank’s, local place, you heard of it? – because I broke things off with her – but I didn’t want to, I was just tryna be fuckin’ noble – and I went and picked her up, punched a guy who was tryna hurt her, because guess what, Andrew – I’m in fuckin’ love with her.

He sums it up with: “Yeah. Everything’s fine now. Thanks.”

“Alright, well, great news! Call me when you’re twenty minutes out, I’ll have the guys here for you arrivin’. Safe journey, Joe!”

Joel breathes an Uhuh and hangs up, holding the bridge of his nose. He has a headache, like he’s the one who’s been drinking. It’s only going to get worse, too, heading off to go spend his Saturday with Andrew fucking Curtis and his loose flannel.

The sun’s rising slowly, lighting the hall in a warm glow. Joel pads quietly into your room and pulls the cover back over his side of the mattress. You stir; your head jerks only to move some hair from your face, and then you sigh, sleep pulling you back into its arms.

He watches you for a second. Wishes he could run a light hand down your cheek, kiss your head. Whisper a goodbye, the same way you did to him almost a week ago.

He shakes the thought, collecting his boots from the floor. His hand hovers over his shirt for a moment. And then he lifts it by the collar, lays it neatly on the pillow by your head, and leaves. You can keep it, trash it, burn it. But it’s yours. Everything about him is yours.

In the kitchen, he stands by the sink, nursing a cup of coffee. It’s a quarter to six. This early on a Saturday, he figures he’ll be in Waco by seven, seven-thirty latest. His eyes fix on the spot you two stood last night, yelling back and forth about Lois. She seems so far away, now. He can barely remember the shape of her face, the sound of her voice.

His grip tightens around the mug. He places it in the sink, and grabs his keys. As he passes the stairs, he pauses. Leans on one foot, head tilted to listen out for any sound of life. Any fucking sound – the creak of a floorboard, the squeak of a door handle. Anything to keep him here. Anything.

Nothing comes. No sound, no movement, no you.

He closes the front door gently on his way out.

----------

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moon-alight · 8 months

Note

Hi I'm a really big fan of &team can write

When you lock bathroom door and cry after an argument

Hello! Of course, I can. (BTW, all my inbox asks are deleted. The only ones I still have is this one and another one that was made like 5 hours ago. I don't know what happened. Please ask me again if you have more things for me to write <3)

Masterlist

&Team reaction to you locking yourself up after an argument.

Warnings: angst, fluff, arguments, some cussing

Word Count: 762

-K

-He understood that you needed space but when he heard the lock on the bathroom, he got worried.

-Didn't want the argument into what it ended up being but lets be honest, you're both stubborn hot-heads. It was bound to happen.

-Feels insanely guilty after he hears soft sobs (even though you tried to hide it)

-Knocks softly on the door and rests his forehead against the wood as his heart breaks inside his chest.

-"I'm so sorry, baby. Please, open up. Please, let me hold you."

-Feels so guilty and just wants this all to end to be honest.

-Fuma

-It wasn't supposed to happen but you were both blind to the others statement so he lifted his voice a little and saw tears appear in your eyes.

-When you locked yourself up, he realized his mistake and closed his eyes as he stood alone in the living room.

-Fights with himself on what to do because on one hand he wants to give you space but at the same time, he wants to hold you close and assure you he loves you.

-Walks towards the door and thinks he's Anna so he knocks and asks you to open the door. When you don't, he sees this as you want to be alone so he leaves.

-Comes back two minutes later because he loves you and knocks again.

-Nicholas

-I also see him as a hot-headed person so beware.

-He just desperately wanted to win the argument that he forgot to listen to your side and messed but by creating a bigger problem than necessary.

-The moment he hears the lock, he calms down internally and stares at the door.

-Tries to open the door anyway but realized you actually locked yourself in.

-Apologizes as if his life depended on it because for the first time that evening he understands your point of view.

-Will be so happy and relieved when you unlock the door.

-EJ

-You had been arguing to the point where neither of you really knew what it was about anymore.

-When he hears a door shut he doesn't think much of it but when you haven't returned after like 10 minutes he panics.

-Goes to the door to hear your soft sobs and panics even more so he tries to open the door but it is locked.

-A sudden fear of you leaving because he went too far washes over him and he feels his heart almost combust from stress.

-Whispers to you from his side of the door about how you two can fix this small problem and how sorry he is.

-Has an existencial crisis but calms down immediately when you let him inside.

-Yuma

-Hothead number #3!

-Absolutely scoffs when you lock yourself inside your bedroom and waits for you to come out but you don't and he frowns.

-He hears your sobs and immediately feels guilty for how harsh he had been during the argument.

-Immediately calls EJ to ask what he's supposed to do because he is clueless.

-EJ scolds him for being an idiot before he gives advice on what to do.

-Yuma knocks softly on the door and apologizes to you for everything before you open the door and he tackles you in a hug.

-Holds you close and kisses your temple while he keeps apologizing.

-Jo

-Sorry but I cannot imagine a scenario where he would make you cry.

-If anything he would be the one locking himself up and sobbing.

-Harua (I'm sorry I forgot him! SO SORRY!)

-The moment he realized the hurtful words he had said in a fit of anger, he looks down in shame.

-When you lock yourself up, he becomes Anna from Frozen and stands in front of the bathroom door while knocking desperately.

-"Y/N?" He would call out to you and knock a couple more times. When you refuse to open the door, he turns his back against it and slides down until he sits on the ground.

-Tortures himself by listening to your sobs and soft cries from inside.

-Is ready to pick all the stars out of the nightsky to give them to you because he just desperately wants to apologize.

-Taki

-Absolutely the one to blame himself and scold himself for hurting you to the point of you locking yourself up.

-Will leave you alone for a while and wait for you to open the door before apologizing continuesly for being stubborn.

-Won't leave you alone afterwards and has his arms around you the whole time.

-Continues to apologize every few minutes just to make sure if you're still mad or not.

-Kisses your temple and cheek like twenty times. I love him.

-Maki

-Has a hard time understanding why you'd lock yourself up because he genuinly thought the argument was just brief.

-Realizes he might've raised his voice unknowingly and now feels bad about the whole argument. (I swear he wouldn't raise his voice on purpose)

-Knows when you need space and leaves you alone for a while before knocking on your door and talking to you softly.

-Apologizes for the whole fight and asks if he can at least hold you.

-When you open the door, he is so gentle and sweet with you. <3

#&team drabbles #&team #&team scenarios #&team imagines #&team fluff #&team headcanons #&team nicholas #&team k #&team ej #&team fuma #&team yuma #&team jo #&team taki #&team harua #&team maki

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solomons-finest-rum · 1 year

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Hello to one of my favourite Alfie fic writers! Since you're taking requests, I'd like to make one as well.

I don't know how it works but how about a scenario/imagine where Tommy gets in some kind of trouble (as always) and Alfie suggests that his lovely gangster wife could help and goes to introduce them but as it turns out it's none other than the Shelby's sister/cousin/relative/friend/or maybe even an ex? (Your call one this one) who they thought was dead or something?

Idk if it's even worth your time and effort but I just wanted to make a request ;) No pressure, of course!

Love you and your writing a lot!

“As The Crow Flies” (Alfie Solomons x fem!Reader) — PART 1

SUMMARY — By all accounts Anna Gray died in Australia and had no business standing in Alfie’s living room, nor calling the man “darling” for that matter. But there you were, identical to the picture they took when they shipped you off to the colonies.

AUTHOR’S NOTE — Thank you to @zablife for being the most gracious beta!💗💗💗💗💗 and thank you Anon for this request, because actually it inspired a full-blown multi-chapter idea! So this is set around... Season 5 I suppose? But I'm going to ignore everything in it and Season 6 too. Let's pretend none of it happened and just focus on the fun part! That is driving Tommy insane and making Alfie say outrageous lines.

WORD COUNT — 2,286

Masterlist

In retrospect, Tommy Shelby felt he should have known better. He should have fucking known that the moment, the moment, he came to Margate to sort the bloody situation out, exactly two things would happen.

One, he would have to sit and listen with a straight face to Alfie’s inspired monologue, the subject of which had swerved from elephants to bank robbery in about two and a half minutes, and then managed to touch upon just about everything else under the sun.

Tommy remained quite sure that the sense of Alfie’s rambling had been long lost to history and the point of it all was just to talk him to death, really. Put him out of his misery with nonsense alone.

“Now then, Tommy, as I said, right, I ain’t the vindictive type, I really ain’t, so I am gonna help ya out just this once, right, outta the goodness of my own heart.”

Tommy managed not to roll his eyes. Barely.

“‘Cause I am a changed man these days, Tommy, an’ it can be that the old man that I am, I’m goin’ soft on ya, right, an’ so tradition dictates, mate, to ask for more than ten thousand for my troubles.”

Tommy raised a brow.

“But as things currently stand with the medical bills, on the account of bein’ shot in the face by some cunt, right… Fifteen would sound proper fair, mate.”

Thank fuck for small mercies, Tommy thought, then lit another cigarette and promptly got up to leave. Alfie apparently managed to settle both sides of the conversation, negotiations included, and their American problem could very well sort itself out all on his own—thus proving to Tommy once more that the only thing he could really count on in this world had always been lunatics.

“Right, the fuck you’re doin’ now, sit down!”

Tommy frowned and remained standing, cigarette in the corner of his mouth and sheer outrage emanating from his entire person. The question of “what in fuck’s name do you want now, you crazy bastard?” overtook his face.

“Right, I need to make a bloody phone call,” Alfie said then, which explained exactly nothing.

Yes, that was the second thing Tommy had been so sure would happen. Alfie would first go on a tangent, then formulate a plan that involved three separate layers of deception, a bribe, and a crate of dynamite (probably).

Then Tommy would get caught in the middle as bloody always and Polly would have his head for going along with Alfie’s plan in the first place.

What he didn’t expect was for Alfie to change his tone of voice completely as soon as the person picked up on the other end:

“Yeah, darlin’, it’s me. Come to the house, alright? Right, ‘cause I need ya here for somethin’. No, not like the— Bloody hell, woman, just don’t fuckin’ argue with me for once, alright?”

Sometimes a rare occasion would present itself for Tommy Shelby to become fucking speechless. Truth be told, he remained rather surprised that two such occasions had also involved Alfie Solomons, undoubtedly purely for the Devil’s bloody amusement.

“Who was that then, Alfie?”

“None of ya fuckin’ business.”

Tommy had a sneaky feeling there wasn’t a clever enough question in existence that could have pushed Alfie to say anything more. He looked smug as hell for having pulled that stunt off so Tommy was willing to see it through.

For old time’s sake.

The sun was setting and they had another drink, then Tommy let Alfie go on another tangent about… Tea import. Perhaps. Who knew, he wasn’t really listening.

On drink three Tommy was alerted by a car pulling up to the house, followed by a door slam and a rhythmic clacking of high heels on the porch. Tommy looked to Alfie, but the man remained infuriatingly calm.

Just as Tommy was about to reach for his gun, the door to Alfie’s study opened unceremoniously and a scent of expensive perfume wafted across the room. Tommy turned around and tried his best to keep up the indifferent facade, but failed miserably. Nothing could have prepared him for you walking through that door, with a giant bodyguard no less, following you like a second shadow.

“Alright there, Billy?” Alfie greeted the bodyguard casually and the man grunted in response. “Right then, might ya wait in the car for us, mate? This whole bloody business will take a minute.”

Tommy then watched as Alfie approached you and planted an affectionate kiss to your cheek, at which point Tommy stood up abruptly.

For a moment he just stood there and stared; a state he didn’t find himself in too often these days.

“Darling, are we having guests?” you asked Alfie in a tone so familiar to Tommy; so like your mother. Pleasant, on the verge of sarcastic.

By God, either that Camden bastard was a magician or you had a twin sister that Polly never mentioned. Because it wasn’t possible… It couldn’t be you. Not according to the file he stole from the parish. By all accounts Anna Gray died in Australia and had no business standing in Alfie’s living room, nor calling the man “darling” for that matter. But there you were, identical to the picture they took when they shipped you off to the colonies.

“Right then, Tommy, might I present my lovely wife,” Alfie said. “Sweetie, this here is Tommy Shelby, right, all the way from the ungodly place they call Birmingham—”

“Tommy Shelby?” you interrupted and looked at Tommy with a smile so like Polly’s that Tommy nearly lost his composure again. “My, my… And there you went and promised you were done with the life, Alfie.”

“Right, an’ how could that—”

“Anna,” Tommy interrupted what he was sure was a budding monologue from Alfie.

“Yes?” you asked. “You know my name?”

“I… Know your mother.”

“Know?” There it was again. That curious smirk of yours that could really mean anything. Tommy found it harder and harder to keep up the charade.

“But that’s not possible, Mr. Shelby.”

“What’s not possible?”

Your tone remained polite, but your dark eyes said it all. The expression of quiet resolve Tommy thought only one person capable of delivering with such resentment.

“I’m an orphan, Mr. Shelby.”

Tommy said nothing to that, because what in hell could he even say? All of a sudden the American issue faded into nothingness, replaced solely by the phantom standing before him.

“So you did not lie, I see,” you turned to your husband with a quizzical expression, seeing as Tommy went quiet again. “He really is as strange as the papers make him. No matter, though, Mr. Shelby, I hope you like chicken? My husband insists I’m a terrible cook, but you must stay for dinner.”

Tommy nodded mechanically and put out his cigarette just to busy his hands with something. When he looked at Alfie, though, Tommy noticed how the man’s mouth twitched, clearly indicating the scheme was playing exactly how he wanted it to. Mad bastard, Tommy thought. There was no saying if he was being played or tricked or helped. Probably all at once, but solely for Alfie’s benefit of course.

“Right, curious as I am, luv, what delectable fuckin’ option you maimed and butchered for dinner, Tommy isn’t stayin’—” Alfie then stopped himself when two sets of identical Shelby scowls got directed his way.

Tommy did stay for dinner and made sure to clean his plate, too. He didn’t mind the food at all; it reminded him of Polly’s simple cooking back in the day when she would take care of Tommy and his siblings in Small Heath.

The more he listened to you talk and bicker with Alfie, the more of your mother he saw in you and the angrier he got at seeing you here of all places, as Alfie’s wife, unable to speak to you in plain terms. Tommy wasn’t exactly sure which made him angrier, though—the fact that you were Alfie’s wife or the fact that the sly bastard had kept you from your true family for who knows how many years. How did he even find you?

All the questions he had were still swirling around in Tommy’s head and he wasn’t particularly paying attention to anything else, besides staring daggers at Alfie. He was hoping there would be a moment to talk to you alone, but of course your husband would never allow it. He watched Tommy like a hawk the entire evening, sometimes with just a hint of a smile to suggest he was still three steps ahead of everyone else.

“See you never got accustomed to that fancy cookin’ they’re offerin’ ya at the mansion these days, Tommy,” Alfie said, undoubtedly truly enjoying the charade. “Tommy’s an MP, darlin’, right about two steps from gettin’ a knighthood I reckon. Yeah, a real prince he is.”

The way Alfie said the word was so clearly a jab at Tommy’s ancestry that he didn’t even flinch. What he was curious about was your reaction, but you remained perfectly pleasant:

“Don’t tease, love, we haven’t had guests in ages and I’m not letting you drive this one away.”

When the maid took away the plates, you lit a cigarette in a swift overdone gesture and Tommy was once more taken aback with your resemblance to Polly.

“Well, I’ll leave ya both to it,” you announced as you got up. “It was a pleasure, Mr. Shelby.” You extended your hand and Tommy shook it. “I know you tried your best with the chicken and I appreciate it,” you paused and tilted your head to the side as if sizing Tommy up.

“I rarely trust your husband’s judgement,” he replied.

The way you smiled reminded Tommy of a cat that got into the pantry. He decided not to think about it too much.

“I see. Goodnight then, Mr. Shelby.”

As soon as Tommy heard you got upstairs, he turned to Alfie who, unsurprisingly, already had a gun pointed at him. It was a casual way of it that was the most infuriating—Alfie’s hand was more so resting on the table and the gun just happened to be there, pointing at Tommy.

“Now then, Tommy, let’s be reasonable about this, mate.”

Tommy clenched his jaw and remained silent, but his murderous glare said it all.

“There are four people at the house, right, includin’ you, me, my wife, then the maid… Then there’s Billy outside, right, who’s gonna be rightly worried once he doesn’t get my dismissal for the night. So I want ya to be real cold an’ calculated about it, Tommy, just like I know ya can be, ‘cause if ya decide to off me for no reason now…”

“No reason.”

“Right.”

“You’re old enough to be her father.”

“Yeah an’ fortunately I’m not, ‘cause that’d be right fuckin’ awkward at the temple, mate.”

“Temple?”

“What’d ya think, Tommy, that I smacked her over the head and dragged her into my cave?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

“Right, we’ll have to show ya the pictures then, she looked stunnin’.” Alfie leaned back in his chair. “Tell ya what, mate, why don’t ya come by for tea one day?”

“Tea.”

“Yeah. We have it, Tommy, we’re not animals.”

Tommy said nothing to that. He was still reviewing his options, but as he wasn’t a fan of spontaneous action, the patient approach seemed appropriate. The offer, though, just like everything else about the situation, was fucking infuriating.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“Fuck you, Alfie.”

That finally made Alfie smile and for some reason he lowered the gun.

“Right, so seein’ as we’re family, Tommy, and what a happy coincidence this is, I must say, I feel like we should talk fuckin’ proper. None of that shit.” Alfie then gestured between them as if he hadn’t been responsible for “that shit” in the first place.

“We’ve been talking, Alfie,” Tommy deadpanned.

“Yeah, but then there’s still somethin’ ya haven’t told me about your American troubles, isn’t there, mate, so I’m expectin’ you’ll be more honest with me in the future. Now that I’ve brought the right arguments to the table…”

The hint of a threat in that statement almost made Tommy wish he still had his razor cap around.

“She’s Polly’s only daughter, Alfie.”

“Right, I’m aware of that.”

Tommy nodded, feigning understanding between them. As always, handling Alfie very much resembled handling a live grenade without a pin.

“This can’t be the way to end things.”

“Who’s endin’ things, Tommy?”

“I’m just saying.”

“Yeah, an’ I’m going to let this one slide, Tommy, ‘cause you just got a lot to process, mate, so I’m prepared to be understandin’.”

Tommy shook his head and reached into his jacket pocket, at which Alfie uncocked the gun. Tommy slowly pulled out his cigarette box, but Alfie never even flinched. It was gruesomely reassuring to still have been right, even in the position that Tommy currently found himself in.

Alfie Solomons would always remain Alfie Solomons, even with the whole song and a dance about getting old and senile. He was still the same mad bastard Tommy came to know all those years ago, and as things stood, Tommy found himself wondering if this time he shouldn’t try poison instead of a bullet.

“Tommy,” Alfie sighed, “with three good eyes workin’ between us, mate, I really would greatly mind if I somehow acquired a fuckin’ tumour in my lungs, too.”

Tommy said nothing and he knew Alfie hated it.

“Which means put that shit out, mate, and listen to what I’m about to say, ‘cause I got a feeling you’ll really wanna hear it.”

#peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders x reader #alfie solomons fanfic #alfie solomons x reader #alfie solomons imagine #tom hardy fanfic #tom hardy imagine #tom hardy x reader

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nightgoodomens · 3 months

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Shipping D/M is fine, cute even. It's disrespecting their partners that a lot of us draw the line at. Don't say that never happens either. I have seen it personally and have blocked more than one blog for it. Calling their relationships with their partners fake, or over, or nothing but baby trapping, or whatever else is beyond just cute fun shipping. It's actually hurtful and has led to things like Georgia being bullied off Twitter. That is taking things way too far.

Super long answer so I put it under read more, also if you’re not interested in these conversations then you can simply not click ‘read more’ and everybody wins.

You do realise that nobody is obliged to respect and love Georgia and Anna just because one is David’s wife and the other is Michael’s girlfriend?

There is this weird thing in this fandom that just because you’re Michael’s and/or David’s fan you must love and respect their partners and think their relationships are perfect. And that’s simply not true.

Georgia and Anna are separate people. I will judge them based on what they show and it would be healthy if others started to too, because while many are shocked that the ladies are not entitled to automatic respect and in extreme cases worship, I am surprised Georgia is called a Queen because she films David doing grocery shopping and Anna is called a Queen because she will post a picture of miserable as fuck Michael.

But you know what? It doesn’t bother me. They make people happy? This is what people think they deserve to be worshipped for? Cool. I might think it’s weird but I will let people be and I’d appreciate if they let me be for not thinking that the sun shines out of their asses. What I see from them make me not a fan of them but I hardly have any deeper feelings about the two of them, so I usually don’t talk about them.

People are allowed to theorise on celebs, their partners, and their relationships, based on what they see from public people who provide the material themselves. There are private couples out there who share nothing because they don’t want the public to theorise, but the people we talk about aren’t one of them.

There’s no terms and agreements that you are only allowed to squeak at what you see.

It goes both ways. If someone is allowed to comment positively, then someone else is allowed to comment negatively.

You are allowed to disagree with one and agree with another or form a completely different opinion.

The blogs that I read merely provide their thoughts on what they see. The shippers themselves discuss and sometimes even disagree with each other - politely. One thinks that. The other thinks something a bit different. Third one pops in with a completely different mindset. And that’s fine. They have a chat and that’s it. If it bothers anyone to see discussions about relationships then they can always block. But it looks like it only bothers when the discussions aren’t positive.

I block people being creepy about Crowley and Aziraphale and they’re fictional so I don’t blame anyone for blocking anyone else for whatever reason. It’s your space. Make it whatever you want it to be.

Now, Twitter is hell. It gave people the opportunity to talk with celebs. Some use it wisely. Some are slightly over the top, some are pure creeps, some are weird. If someone messages Georgia or Anna with their theory then they’re an idiot. That’s it.

I have never heard of Georgia being bullied off Twitter because of shippers so I can’t comment on that. The last time she was bullied off Twitter was because she searched her name on Twitter which she’s known for and then responded to a teenager who talked about her views (without tagging her) regarding the war. She decided to respond. People attacked. She decided to quit.

Now, I have two opinions on that - One, I think what happens on Twitter is insane. There is a reason why anybody with bigger following is refusing to post any opinions now because no matter what opinion they will give, it won’t satisfy everyone, and a mob of hate will follow. Two - barely a few months prior Georgia saw exactly what happened to Michael for sharing his opinion when he was actually asked for it, so I am not sure why she thought that fishing for trouble herself was a good idea. I guess she thought she’s above the treatment that Michael received which is interesting. Or she simply didn’t think. But considering she was posting photoshoots of herself moments later on Instagram fishing for compliments from fans… She survived the realisation that not all fans will always worship her.

Also - just a final point. It really isn’t evil or stupid to theorise and I’d urge people to have a bit of a read about PR relationships because it’s nothing new. Generally have a read about PR and you will understand why believing everything that you see on social media is simply foolish. Use common sense, trust your gut, question yourself and your views. There is a reason why celebrities have PR. There is a reason why there are contracts involved. If a bunch of people say something stinks here and they’re noticing patterns of PR/fake relationships/unhappy relationships etc… maybe have a read instead of having a meltdown about how dare they suggest this relationship isn’t an utmost perfection.

It’s good for your own development; learning behaviours and patterns to make it easier for yourself to spot people fooling you in personal relationships and in business relationships. Learn the signs of bullshit and toxicity, you will be surprised how much easier they can make your life and have you avoid shit. Be critical and use common sense. If something doesn’t click, there is a reason for it.

You see on social media how your friend bullshits people because they post a picture of the best boyfriend in the world while you know they are fighting three bloody times a day. You think celebs are truthful on social media?

Anyway this has gotten long - my point is: People are allowed to theorise but they’re stupid if they directly message the person about it.

#dingdong night went on for too long #oh well #hugs and kisses mwah mwah #NightGoodOmens answers #I had a tag for such posts so you can block them and I forgot fuuuuuck #Michael and David answers #was that it #I don’t knowwwww

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sparrowssally · 4 months

Text

A short rant regarding David Tennant, Michael Sheen, and their respective partners

Just started re-watching Staged a few days ago to celebrate finals being done and when I went in the tags to see other people talking about it…wow, was I in for a rude awakening!

Obviously the show is everyone playing heavily exaggerated versions of themselves, but the sheer amount of unhinged-ness that people were expressing in the tags was INSANE. The fact that there are people out there who either 1) just plain hate David’s wife Georgia, and 2) think David is secretly in love with Michael and that each of their respective partners are just FWB (despite both couples having multiple children) are quite frankly appalling.

I wasn’t around much in the Doctor Who fandom when people were rabid about wanting David and Billie Piper together so maybe this isn’t a new thing but Jesus…I was just shocked at how incredibly delusional and strange some people can be.

All this is to say, I firmly believe—based upon everything that I’ve seen—that David and Georgia seem to be very happy together and the same goes for Michael and Anna, and that David and Michael are close friends. Anyone suggesting otherwise and wanting to shame their wives/partners for roping them into “loveless” relationships (and having children as a way to “manipulate” them into staying) can very kindly fuck right off. All the sources people seem to be citing don’t add up and it’s clear (at least to me) that it’s people who largely just hate Georgia for being married to David and Anna for keeping Michael from being with David romantically.

Anyway, this is completely random but I just felt like it needed to be said. Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk.

#there’s been a couple posts that I’ve seen that are just UNHINGED #do people really say things like this?? Jesus Christ #david tennant #georgia tennant #michael sheen #anna lundberg #bbc staged #doctor who

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geekwritersworld · 2 years

Text

EDITH

credit for gif: google

Pairing : Peaky blinders x sister!reader, OFC (Edith)

Warnings: none

Hi , hyd?

Could i ask for a peaky blinders fic ?

One where they find out they have a little sister at the orphanage ( 4/5 ) and she looks exacly like tommy and she goes on to stel the hearts of everyobe with her cuteness

And could she maybe be shy and when there is a lot of people she goes to tommy or polly to pick her up?

Thank you!

Summary: As stated in the request above.

A/n: Some facts and timelines have been adjusted to better fit this story. P.s I am aware I'm insanely late. I am honestly sorry for it, however ya girl's got issues.

The streets were still empty considering the early hours of the morning.

The woman hunched over the blanketed lump in her hands. Shivering, the old woman opened the door, wondering who in the devil was at the door of an orphanage at nearly dawn.

And all she could do was gasp at the sight of the shriveled woman, her hair astray holding a new born child in her arms.

Ethel thought of that night 4 years ago often, she'd been new at the orphanage then, had just started 2 days prior and she didn't expect such sadness within her first week working there.

The little girl had been the tamest little child she'd come across. The other older children at the orphanage marveled at the tiny blue eyed baby.

She watched the little girl open her eyes and gaze at the ceiling, she watched her gurgle and she looked at the candle light and she heard her squeal as she asked Ms. Ruth her name "Edith, woman that left her here said her name was to be Edith", and she watched Edith take her first steps and heard her mumble her first words "No!" Edith squealed when Ethel tried to feed her some more of the thick porridge.

They spoke of the woman often at the orphanage. Wondering who she was and why she had left a newborn alone with no family. But no one, no matter how long they stood by the window at the orphanage, no one saw the woman again nor did anyone come for the child.

But the other 9 children at the orphanage had accepted Edith as their own. Treating her as their own little sister. The 5 boys would let her sit in a wooden crate and would push her around till she was a squealing and giggling mess. When she was 3, the boys would steal her some sweets from the kitchen, fourteen year old Jack made alterations to 10 year old Anna's old dress to fit Edith.

She had become the light joy of those children's lives, without even knowing it.

Edith was a wanderer. She'd wandered into the few big rooms, into the kitchen, into the backyard where Ms. Ruth had been adjusting the wet clothes on the clothes line and she'd even wandered out of the orphanage on one occasion.

She'd wandered out onto the street when the door had been briefly left ajar. She gazed up at the tall figures she'd never seen before. At the noise she'd only heard rarely when Ethel let her accompany her on errands.

"And who are you gorgeous?" Edith hadn't ever seen this woman before, but she giggled at the sight of the woman in a funny hat.

"Edis" pushing her hair out of her face, Edith looked at the woman who'd bent down to talk to her better.

"and where's your mother?" the woman asked.

"There" she smiled, pointing to the building behind her, and then turned her attention to the woman's gloved hands.

"Well why don't we get you back there safely eh?" extending her hand to the child, the woman led Edith back. "What's your name?" Edith asked, her blue eyes wide.

"Oh I'm Polly but you can call me Pol" she teased, couldn't help looking at Edith curiously.

"Ok Pol" Edith shifted her attention to the horse they walked past.

"prettyy" the little girl gasped at the sight of the big dark horse that leaned its head down a little closer to the young girl.

"and who is this Pol?" at the sound of the gruff voice, Edith snapped her head up at the man speaking, looking at him in wonder.

"Her names Edith" Pol looked at the man "and she decided to wander out" Pol teased making the little girl let out a shy giggle.

Edith didn't hear the man's response, instead she focused on the horse in front of her and only looked away when Pol ushered away towards the orphanage.

As Pol held Edith's hand, she occasionally looked over at the little girl. But once the two were right outside the orphanage door, she bent down to level with the 4 year old and said "well you'd better get inside before you get in trouble sweetheart" Pol caressed Edith's cheek as the door was frantically opened- practically thrown off its hinges by a frantic looking boy who opened his mouth to say something but stopped upon seeing the company right outside the door.

"Bloody hell Edith!" He bent down and hugged her tight, then looked up at the woman.

"Thank you er-"

"Don't worry, you'll know me name soon enough I suppose" Pol smiled leaving James confused but he didn't think too much of it, only grateful that the little girl was safe.

"What were you doing outside?!" jack exclaimed gently holding her shoulders.

Ethel and Ms. Ruth both came running to Edith, each crying out in relief.

"Where'd you bloody go?" Ms. Ruth picked up Edith who simply giggled unaware of the chaos that ensued inside the orphanage when no one could find the little girl.

On the other side of the orphanage door however, Pol had just walked up to her nephew, letting him know she'd see him at the betting shop and then disappeared down the street.

She couldn't help but continue to think of the little girl she'd met. Her blue eyes, they were the color of the ocean on a warm sunny day.

"The color of blue daisies" she whispered to Martha, holding Finn. The color she prayed to see once again. Polly knew the Martha Shelby's eyes anywhere. She saw her sister-in-law in her nephews eyes, she saw them in her niece and now; she saw them in Edith.

Pol had always wondered why Martha refused to come around to the house anymore months before she passed away. Thinking to herself of where she could possibly find a definite answer she headed to the one place she hoped would answer some questions. Polly knew Martha wouldn't have kept any trace of it in her own house, but what confused her further was why she'd given up a child.

She knew her sister-in-law, she knew Martha would've never gone to the hospital had she been pregnant.

Clenching her fists walking up to the door Polly sent up a silent prayer, praying she would find something useful here. Waiting after she had knocked twice, Pol heard the door open and stood in front of Martha's neighbor, Helen; the only woman Polly could think of who was as stubborn as they come.

Helen was a woman of small stature, she stood in a grey dress and had the same look of adamancy as she had 4 years ago.

"Took you long enough to bloody come" Helen grumbled letting Polly in without a question.

"You've done well for yourself" Pol said her taking in Helen's house.

"I haven't, my husband has though of course" she winked making Pol snort.

"So why are you here?" Helen asked

"I need to ask you, did you see Martha within the last few months before she died?" Pol knew Helen had always been adamant on checking up on Martha, making sure she was alright. Even when Martha began pushing everyone away, it was Helen who had still argued her way into Martha's home. It was Helen, after all, who had found out something was wrong when Martha hadn't come home the night they found her body in the cut.

"I did" Helen sat down offering Polly a cigarette, who denied, and lit one for herself.

"was she-"

"she was pregnant yes, helped deliver the child meself" Pol's eyes widened at Helens revelation. Helen continued looking ahead, letting out of puffs of smoke.

"And you didn't bloody say a thing!" Pol looked at her incredulously.

"Martha made me swear not to tell a soul unless I was asked" turning to Pol "I'm sure it wasn't an epiphany that brought you here out of the blue"

"four years" Pol let out a breath "that little girl has been there alone, for 4 years"

"Not alone" Helen said "checked on her every now and then, children at the orphanage love her" she let out a puff of smoke.

Pol continued standing near the table "suppose that life maybe better than the one with us" she finally pulled a chair out and slowly let herself sit down, letting the realization sink in.

"until some family that's far worse than yours decides to take her in" Helen snorted, letting her gaze fall on the window.

"Fuck" Polly muttered. Closing her eyes for a second, she knew the other families in small heath were scarcely much better. She knew of dwelled amongst the neighboring families. She knew of the pain and abuse, the nightmares she'd heard stories of.

"I'll bring her over sometime then" Pol said quickly walking to the door and then rushing out.

She didn't wait to hear Helen's response. Instead she went straight to the betting shop.

"Tommy" she called, everyone moved out of her way as she headed for Tommy's office and opened his door, without knocking.

Looking up irritated, Tommy adjusted his collar, waiting for Polly to speak.

"need to gather the family at home" she said.

"Why?"

"Because apparently you have a fucking sister"

"Pol, have you been drinking?" Tommy risked.

"BESIDES ADA" Polly snapped

He wasn't sure what Pol was talking about "what"

Pol sat and, rather impatiently, explained to Tommy about Edith. With each word Pol uttered, Tommy found himself breathing heavier.

This whole time, he had a four year old sister who'd been living in an orphanage. An orphanage that was minutes away, he had a four year old sister he had been minutes away from for four years and he hadn't a clue.

Tommy didn't know much of what had happened to his mother within the last year of her life. His mother had forced the children to go live with Aunt Pol, and they didn't see too much for her during her last year. And then one night his Aunt had woken him and his siblings up, with their drenched then neighbor at their front door, telling them their mother was gone.

Tommy had already made up his mind.

He left his study and approached John "John, gather everyone and meet us at home, Pol and I will be there in a bit" Not waiting for a response he and Pol left the betting shop.

They were going to bring Edith home.

There was a lot more to bringing a four year old into their care, they knew this. But they'd deal with it once they knew that the little girl was in their care.

Ethel hadn't let Edith out of her sight all day. She was far too scared. They were beyond lucky that the kind woman had brought Edith right back, but it may not necessarily be the case, should this happen again.

There wasn't much to do at the orphanage, but the children all made do.

Ms. Ruth was teaching the older children, and seeing as Edith was the only four year old, Ethel would have to begin teaching her letters soon.

So while the rest of the children were occupied, Ethel was the one to rise out of her chair with Edith rushing over to hold her hand when someone had come in to the front of the orphanage.

Opening the door Ethel looked up at the woman standing with a small smile while a man stood next to her who's gaze immediately fell onto to Edith.

Edith's eyes brightened when she looked up at the two grown ups, and smiled when she noticed Pol.

"Yes?" Ethel inquired, tightening her grip on Edith's hand.

"I'm Polly, we're here to talk to you about little Edith here" she smiled kindly at Edith, who looked up at her.

Tommy looked around the orphanage, trying to understand where his little sister had been living this whole time.

Hoping that the last four years had been kind to the little girl.

He heard the muffled noise of Pol talking to Ethel in the other room, while he observed the room.

"This my horsey" he snapped his head in the direction of the voice, looking down behind him to find Edith on the floor, holding a white horse toy.

"This is your horse eh?" Tommy squatted and took off his hat, holding it he looked at the few toys strewn in front of him.

"uh huh" she held the toy horse out, pushing it into the grown mans hands.

putting his hat down, he held the toy in his hand, turning it over to see it was obviously an old worn toy. "does your horse have a name?" Tommy raised his brows.

Edith let out a huff, then hummed, making a small smile tug at the corners of Tommy's lips "well I name him Horsey, but Jack said I can't call him that because that is not a name" she hummed again.

Tommy fully smiled this time at his little sisters little dilemma "hm, well sounds like you're very worried about his name"

"Cause!" Edith exclaimed looking at Tommy with her big blue eyes "he need a name!"

"I don't know your name" Edith said.

So he told her his name and sat for over 10 minutes, giving her one name after the other, but she hated every single one. Tommy even threw in his brothers names, wondering if any of those would appeal to the little girl. Until he heard footsteps approaching, then he looked up at his Aunt, who stood int he door way with teary eyes and a smile.

Edith looked up to see Ethel walk in behind Pol with shaking hands. Kneeling down, she picked up Edith and went into a different room, leaving Tommy and Pol alone.

"Well sweetheart" Ethel started "You remember Pol" Edith nodded enthusiastically.

Ethel continued "Well, you're going to be part of her family now"

Edith looked sad for a few minutes, but there was only so much sadness a four year old could comprehend "Can I still come see you?"

"of course, we'll be right here, and you can come visit anytime"

Ethel had of course informed Ms. Ruth and the children about Edith, which led to tears from all the children and even a few from Ms. Ruth.

While Ellie had made Edith promise she wouldn't forget them and Jack promised to sew her some new dresses, Ethel and Ms. Ruth were packing up Edith's few belongings.

When Edith was finally ready to go, Pol turned around to look at Ms.Ruth and Ethel while Tommy led his little sister outside.

"Thank you, for being kind to her" Pol didn't wait for a response but walked out.

"HORSEY!" Edith ran to pet the horse Tommy led her to, and then he asked "would you like to ride her home?" when Edith squealed yes, Tommy climbed onto the horse then Pol gently helped Edith onto the horse, placing her in front of Tommy and he slid one arm around his giddy four year old sister and the other held the horses reign.

The people of Small heath observed Tommy Shelby, the notorious leader of the ruthless gang, the peaky blinders, pass them with a giggling and squealing child holding onto his arm.

And Edith squeal louder when Tommy carefully lifted her off of the horse and gently put her down in front of the Garrison. It did occur to him that the pub was an odd place to bring a child, but seeing as that he and his family owned it, he wasn't too concerned.

"where are we?" Edith looked up at Tommy.

Pol walked up behind Tommy "We, are going to meet the rest of your brothers and your sister"

But Edith wasn't listening, she'd turned to continue petting the horse that had bent it's head a little lower, enjoying the soft little hand that patted his head.

Tommy shook his head at how easily the child was distracted and he turned to Pol "I'll walk the horse to Curly's with her"

With a nod and a quick glance at Edith, Pol walked towards the house and Tommy squatted down next to Edith "want to come with me and see a few more horses first?" He put his large palm on his sisters back.

"MORE HORSEYS?!" Tommy shifted slightly at Edith practically screaming with excitement in his ear.

"I think you and Arthur will get a long great"

He let Edith hold the horses reign and walk him inside the shed and he trailed next to her.

Edith suddenly let go of the horses reign and let out a scream, making Tommy reflexively reach for his gun and reach out for Edith with his other hand...until he noticed Edith running to the shinning brown mare in the stable. She ran to it squealing and almost tripping over some hay, while Tommy tried to calm his heart. He'd been with Edith for less than a day and she'd already almost given him a stroke.

"Wh- Tommy" Curly walked inside, looking curiously at the child engaged in a very serious conversation with the horse and at the man looking who looked pale.

"Tom- where'd the child come from?" Curly wondered.

Tommy gave a little smile "This Curly, is the newest member of our family" he walked to Edith, and put his hand on her shoulder, not sure if the four year old would be comfortable with him picking her up "Edith meet Curly, Curly this is Edith, our little sister, eh" he looked down at Edith, teasing her.

"Yeah! sister!" Edith bossed.

Curly chuckled at the little display of defiance as Edith looked up at him.

"Uh-" he was still very confused, so Tommy told him he'd explain later, in the meanwhile both men looked at the four year old that almost put her finger in the horses nose and Tommy immediately gently stopped her "Now why would you try to do that?" Tommy inquired, amused.

"Want to see if its like mine" Edith looked disappointed Tommy had stopped her.

Shaking his head, he held out his hand for his sister to hold and led her out, letting Curly know he'd see him later.

Tommy watched Edith's blue curious eyes observe the surroundings. He wondered if he could truly give her a better life. Could he possibly keep her safe? was it the wrong decision to take her out of the orphanage only to bring her into their lives, the one's where they were being targeted almost every single day?

But, Tommy realized, it was risk they'd have to take. He couldn't, as he was sure neither could his family, just get on with their lives knowing they had a four year old sister in the orphanage.

Leading her towards the door of the house, Tommy pushed open the door and led Edith inside.

Tommy almost toppled over Edith's small frame in front of him when he shut the door and turned- she had just stood still, not having taken another step further.

He shifted to look at her face, her eyes wide and her mouth open, Edith turned to Tommy "this is your house?" she gasped.

Tommy frowned, he was pretty sure there was nothing great about the house they were living in. The stairs creaked, the windows stained, the furniture was old and dusty and it was always dark in the house irrespective of the sunlight.

not saying a word, Tommy hummed in response to his sisters question.

"Can I live with you?" she whispered, her mouth still wide open as she ran up to the small table near the stairs with flowers in it.

Tommy chuckled "only if you want to" and he meant it.

"Come on" he ushered Edith into the kitchen, where she saw three men sitting at the table, two of whom were bickering about something, and there was one woman who sat quietly and Pol, who stood near the tabletop.

Both the men, that Edith didn't know, stopped fighting, and all five heads turned to her and Tommy.

Her ears burned at the attention, and she shifted slightly behind Tommy's leg to hide.

Tommy, thankfully, didn't force her to move in front or stop hiding in anyway, instead he just continued letting her hide and said "this is Edith, Pol-" Tommy looked at his aunt.

"I've already told them all about little Edith here, especially her being so troublesome!" Pol teased, smiling fondly at Edith, who's eyes grew wide at the woman's accusation. "That's not trueee!" she shrieked, then hid further behind Tommy's leg realizing she'd just brought more attention to herself.

"It's not?" Pol asked

Hesitating for a few seconds, Edith responded with a small shy 'no'.

"I'm Arthur, I'm the funny one eh" Edith turned to look at the man with the glass in his hand, he outstretched his hand towards her to shake.

She crept forward and loosely shook his hand.

"Oh! You've got a strong grip haven't yeah" Arthur joked, making Edith giggle.

"Edith" Tommy said softly "this is Finn and that's John, and that over there" he pointed at Ada who'd been looking at Edith adoringly "is your sister, Ada"

Edith looked at Ada "how come only one sister?"

To which the girl Edith was now aware was her sister, Ada, snorted "I've been wondering the same for years sweetheart, but now I've got you, it seems" she smiled kindly.

Finn and John leaned closer to Edith, and made small talk. John immediately asking her who Jack was when Edith mentioned Jack had gifted her a dress.

At one point when Ada asked John and Arthur to shut up about Jack, and poor Finn was trying to get a word in on the sparring between his siblings, Edith had moved back next to Tommy, and tugged at his hand gently.

At the feel of her tiny warm finger wrapping around his index finger, Tommy looked down at Edith, who then outstretched her arms towards her big brother. Indicating she wanted to be picked up.

His heart, Tommy was sure, would combust with the amount of love he had already felt for his little sister, who he had only known for a day.

Picking her up gently, Tommy wrapped an arm around her. Rubbing soothing circles on her small back. Edith rested her cheek against his shoulder as she watched the rest of her siblings bickering.

Pol, who'd been watching silently, wiped her teary eyes at the sight of Edith and Tommy.

"Oi, you've got favorites already have you?!" Arthur exclaimed when he noticed Edith and Tommy. Tommy rolled his eyes at Arthur, hoping his older brother wouldn't ruin the moment between him and his sister.

Immediately lifting her head, she looked down at Arthur," no, he's just very quiet" she smiled, not noticing Arthur's wide offended eyes. With his siblings all laughing with the exception of Tommy and Pol, who chuckled, Arthur turned to Edith again.

"and I'm not?"

"mmm no"

"come one Arthur, I'm obviously Edith's favorite, it would be me, isn't it ?" John looked at Edith, eyebrows raised.

"mmm well my horsey and you have the same name"

"that doesn't mea- hang on, you named your horse the same name as me? when?"

"today" Edith said innocently, not knowing what john was getting at.

Finn burst out laughing "you've got a horses name John"

Tommy let out a huff, almost laughing himself, Arthur snorted. John shook his head "right"

The sudden attention from people she'd just met had begun to make her shy and overwhelmed, Tommy noticed, when Edith began squirming in his arms. With the one free hand that wasn't holding Edith, he rubbed small circles on her back again, this time moving towards the empty hallway.

"right, let's get the little lady adjusted eh" Tommy hinted at his family towards Edith's discomfort. Arthur stood up, along with Ada, volunteering to help.

Pol looked at them "I'll be up in a minute"

Ada took Edith's little bag that Pol had left on the sofa, deciding she would put them away.

Finn had been moved into Arthur's room, John had run over to his house and had gotten quite a few of his children's old toys, and Finn had contributed further by giving some of his things for his new sister too. He'd left behind some color crayons and papers for her.

At Edith's request Tommy put her down at the bottom of the stairs. And she grabbed his big hands in her own and walked up the stairs with him. She climbed up the stairs one stair at a time, climbing up each one with a huffs that made Tommy smile. When they'd finally gotten to the top of the stairs, she waited for her older brother to guide her towards her room.

It surprised Tommy that Edith wasn't running around, like he'd expect a four year old to. Instead she stood there, looking up at him with her blue eyes wide.

So he led her to her room. That he noticed his siblings had done their best to make suitable for a four year old.

"only my room?" Edith looked at the room. Her bed she noticed had a white sheet with a floral print. There was a small dresser and a wooden closet.

Tommy said "yes"

"um" she wasn't sure how to tell him. she didn't want him to think she was a baby.

"what is it?" his eyes softened, Tommy bent down to reach Edith's level.

"well, I don't like to sleep alone" she murmured, shifting on her toes, Edith avoided looking at Tommy.

Letting out a breath, Tommy stood up and hummed. "It's alright" he wasn't sure if this was a good idea, but Arthur and Finn already share a room, Pol sometimes came home late and Ada had been sneaking out somewhere in the night lately

"Alright, you can sleep in my room then, is that alright?"

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