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angel-inked · 4 months

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When they keep secrets

We all have secrets, don't we? Some are just bigger than others

A/N: happy new year 💖

Taglist: @vvkingofgaybisciutsvv @thequeenofthewinter @thedevilshardy @mollybegger-blog @wandawiccan60 @cameleonhardyfan63 @inkwolvesandcoffee @liliac-dreamer @potter-solomons

What he wanted.

"You ready?" You asked, smiling at Tommy. "Yeah." Tommy replied, quiet and stoic as ever. You kissed his cheek before getting out of the car, taking a deep breath as you stared up at your childhood home. The idea of Tommy meeting your parents didn't make you nearly as nervous as the idea of your parents meeting Tommy, and if Tommy is nervous, he's certainly not letting it show on the surface, not that his flat affect allowed much to seep though anyway. You ran your hand along the railing as you climbed the front steps that seemed significantly smaller and less steep than they did when you were younger, the light sent of your mother's cooking wafting out of the partially open window. The memories of childhood came flooding back to you, your dad chasing you up and down the hallway, mom making your favorite meals, getting a hug and kiss from both of them as they wished you well before you got on the school bus. What more could a kid ask for really. You swallowed your nerves and knocked on the door. It flung open before your arm even had time to retract to your side, "how have you been, honey?" You're dad asked, swiftly pulling you into a hug. You giggled into his shoulder. It was always unclear who was more excited for you to return home, you or your parents.

"Come on in," your dad ushered the two of you inside, "Tommy, right?" He added, Tommy turned to him with narrowed eyes of slight confusion. He nodded. "Phil." Your dad smiled, introducing himself with an outstretched hand. Tommy shook it hesitantly. He wasn't used to being greeted so cheerfully. You grinned as your dad hurried off, to the kitchen to tell your mother of your arrival, no doubt. Shaking your head as you moved that direction yourself, smiling at the sounds of Tommy's heavy combat booted steps following along behind you. Tommy would trail you like a loyal dog whenever he was unsure what to do with himself. Your nose followed the sent of a delicious lunch in the making into the kitchen, where you saw your mother hovering around a skillet on the stove burner. "Hi mom." You smiled with a wave. "Oh, come here dear, I need a hug!" She exclaimed, making you giggle like you did at your dad earlier as she pecked your cheek lovingly. "Who's this nice young man you've brought with you?" Your mother grinned, flicking her eyes toward Tommy with a grin. "This is Tommy." You smiled, gesturing to him. Your mother's face lit up, "I'm Cassandra, we've heard several wonderful things about you dear." Your mom introduced herself. You could tell Tommy was a bit blindsided by her characteristic vigor. He remained silent for a moment before finally settling on, "Likewise." After a moment. "Why don't you kids have a seat in the living room, and I'll call you when lunch is ready." Your mom smiled, waving you off as she went back to the stovetop. You nodded and took Tommy's hand in your own, leading him to the end of the hallway. "You okay?" You asked quietly, walking slowly to keep your boyfriend's lumbering pace. "Yeah," Tommy started, "people are just usually more excited to watch me beat the shit out of somebody than they are to meet me." He added. "Oh, really? Because they've been biting at the bit to meet you. Every phone call lately as somehow involved being asked when they were going to meet you." You grinned. You watched Tommy's eyes shift between your face and the space over your shoulder. Turning around, you saw a picture of your mother with a baby on her lap hung on the wall, both wearing matching smiles to boot. "Well," Tommy said, grabbing your attention. "I can certainly see where that grin comes from." He said, looking between you and the picture, making you smile and nod.

Tommy remained in the doorway of the living room for a moment as you flopped on the couch. He began inspecting the mantel, a wooden box with a glass top that stood up on its side held medals and ribbons, including a pyramid of power and a purple heart. He moved to the side to eye down a picture of a man in a formal dress uniform, recognizing this man as Phil, your father. The inside of his head felt hazy, like when somber clouds became intent on blocking out the sun. The world feels grey, and those who can disappear inside out of the gloomy weather. Some find a dreary rainy day depressing. Others, like Tommy, feel rather at home in the gloom of a downpour. "Tommy." A voice cut through the haze of thoughts. A hand clapped down on his shoulder, "you were in corps?" Tommy asked quietly, turning to face Phil, who nodded. "I swear, this shit follows me everywhere." Tommy mumbled. "You active?" Phil asked. Tommy shook his head, "Not anymore." He murmured, "I have one of these," he started with a gesture to the display box of medals. "The purple heart." He added. Phil smiled, straightening his back and lifting his right hand in salute, Tommy returned the gesture. "I commend you, Tommy." Phil smiled. "I should be telling you that." Tommy said quietly. "I should be asking why this is the first time I'm hearing about any of this." You said from your spot on the couch as you crossed your legs. "Because I don't like to talk about it." Tommy grumbled, hanging his head. Your expression softened, standing and moving toward Tommy. You gently wrapped your hands around his wrists to guide his arms around your midsection, engulfing him in the comfort of a warm hug. Your dad padded him on the back, unintentionally making him pull away from you. Tommy eyed him oddly, you thought, like a half-hearted side-eye. "Lunch is ready!" Your mom called before you could really question this look.

Settling in at the table, you almost felt like a kid again. "How was your day, sweetie?" Your mom asked. You smiled, grabbing a piece of the fried chicken off your plate as you began telling them about your week. Tommy ate in silence, giving himself hell mentally after flinching at your sudden outburst of laughter at one of your dad's jokes. "Is something amiss, Tommy?" Your mom asked. You turned to see alarms going off behind Tommy's eyes. "No, everything's good, I appreciate this." Tommy said quietly, gesturing to the table, trying to redirect the attention away from himself. "You're very welcome, deary." Your mom smiled. Tommy nodded and continued to eat quietly. Watching you joyfully converse with your parents, he wasn't sure he'd ever admit it to you, but this is what he wanted growing up.

First date dilemma.

Eddie has always found getting ready rather stressful after being in front of a camera for the better part of his career. He had always felt the inescapable feeling of having to impress or prove himself to people, but preparing for a date was even worse. "Mmm," a deep rumble reverberated through his skull, making Eddie freeze in place, awaiting further harassment from his inner critic, but it didn't come. "Your heart rate has risen." The dark voice said lowly. "Yeah, no shit." Eddie muttered as he examined himself in the mirror. He sighed heavily and shrugged off the grey plaid long sleeve, "Nope!" He said, shaking his head. Vemon sighed, Eddie narrowed his eyes at the sound as he put the shirt back in his closet, feeling a pair of tendrils extending out of the midsection of his back. The feeling of the symbiote oozing through his skin was like warm water through a strainer. It was odd at first, but now it's hard to go without the warmth of Vemon coursing through his vains or the feeling of security that came from the symbiote forming around his body. Eddie turned away from his closet to see a navy long sleeve button-down and his leather jacket being presented to him, "Put this on." Vemon said. "Are you sure?" Eddie asked, taking the shirt in his hands. "Yes," Vemon exclaimed, "otherwise, we are going to be late." the symbiote added. "Being late is kinda my specialty, ya know?" Eddie deadpaned as he buttoned his shirt. "Idiot!" Vemon exclaimed, "being late on a first date is not a good look." They snapped. Eddie sighed as he picked up his keys and motorcycle helmet, "You watch too many Hallmark movies." He grumbled, locking the door behind him.

He arrived at the restaurant with exactly a minute and a half to spare, thanks to Vemon doing most of the driving. "Now, I need you to be quiet, alright?" Eddie murmured under his breath, glancing around nervously. "Of course, Eddie!" His alien earpiece exclaimed, "You are perfectly capable of messing this up without my input." They added mockingly. "Well, thanks for having faith in me, jackass." Eddie muttered, rolling his eyes. His feet were suddenly glued to the ground once he spotted you sitting on a bench by the door, waiting. You smiled widely when you saw him, "Hi Eddie." You beamed. Eddie remained in stunned silence, eyes traveling up and down your form. "Say something!" Vemon hissed, Eddie could feel them face palming. "You.. look amazing." Eddie managed, with Vemon threatening to force whatever they wanted out of his vocal chords if he didn't. "You're pretty dapper yourself." You smiled, making small adjustments to his windblown shirt collar. You turned and started toward the door, Eddie stood dumbfounded for a moment before he let out a small, breathy, "Oh." At the unseen force going to work once again, making his legs move with an irritated sigh. The restaurant wasn't busy, so you were seated quickly. Eddie's face split into a grin as he watched you smile at a baby that cooed up at you from his mother's arms, "Oh, aren't you just precious!" You awed, giggling as the mom jokingly asked her son if he was being flirty. You went and sat at the table the host led you to, "What an adorable little human spawn." Eddie hoped Vemon's words were not meant to be as sinister as they sounded. "Um, would you excuse me for a moment." Eddie said to you in a nervous haste. You nodded, and Eddie found his way to the restrooms. Once the door shut behind him, he leaned on the sink with a heavy sigh. The sound of almost liquid matter moving made him look up at the mirror, seeing the floating head of his extraterrestrial buddy hovering over his shoulder wasn't nearly as terrifying as it used to be. Eddie shook his head lightly, running his hands over his face. "What?!" Vemon exclaimed, Eddie narrowed his eyes at the symbiote with an audible huff. "You're on a date, and I'm sightseeing!" His alien counterpart insisted. "And I asked you to do it quietly!" Eddie hissed. Vemon tilted their head to one side, a soft hum vibrated through their being. Their pearly eyes and face, despite mostly being made up of an ungodly amount of teeth, held no malice. Eddie let out a defeated sigh, "I just don't wanna mess things up again, like I did with Anne." He admitted, so to speak, wasn't like he could exactly hide anything from the extraterrestrial anyway. Vemon sighed as they bowed their head, "Don't worry, Eddie, we can get through this." They grinned. "And if we don't?" Eddie questioned. "We can say we tried." The symbiote responded. "Well, let's aim to not screw up, then shall we?" The reporter agreed, Vemon nodded and disappeared beneath the surface of his skin to allow Eddie to finish his business in a sort of simi-privacy.

Eddie found Vemon's lack of commentary after their conversation in the loo disconcerting. It was unlike them and made their host anxious. As Eddie sat down at the booth, the anxious feeling seemed to disappear and was replaced by a wave of calm, and from where Vemon and he were connected, a vague sense and means of assistance. "So, how was it?" You asked, placing an elbow on the table and resting the side of your head on a closed fist. Eddie's brows attempted to touch as his features conveyed confusion, "You're meeting." Vemon murmured. "Ah, my meeting! Uh, good, it was good." Eddie exclaimed. "Well, that's... good." You smiled, making Eddie snicker. "Say, did you ever get that promotion?" Eddie asked, making you nod with a face splitting grin. "That's amazing!" Eddie congratulated you. You remained in touch with Eddie after working together, and you couldn't be more glad you did. He was funny, and miles more supportive of your career choices than your last romantic partner, even his quirk of talking to himself was endearing. Your food arrived shortly after ordering, "You put that in the article?!" You gasped. "Why not? It was the truth." Eddie responded with a smile. You shook your head with a laugh, "The ever controversial Eddie Brock." You smirked playfully. Eddie once again found himself stopped dead in his tracks by you, hearing his name on your lips provoked evocative things in the reporter. "We like this one." Vemon purred. "Yes, we do." Eddie whispered lowly into his drink under the guise of clearing his throat.

Crafty Bastard.

"Alright, fine! Just don't work too hard, love." Alfie groaned as you helped him settle into his armchair. A sciatica flair left him doubling over as he tried getting out of bed this morning. "I should be telling you that." You smirked, bending down to kiss the lips of your stubborn husband. After an hour's worth of arguing, he finally reluctantly agreed to let you fill his place for the day and that he would satisfy your insisting that he needed rest. "But now, don't go letting anyone think they can just go slack off just because I'm not fucking there!" He ordered with a stern pointed finger as he layed his cane across his lap. "Wouldn't dream of it." You smiled, pulling on his black coat and wide brimmed hat, earning a whistle from the London gangster. You scoffed at his actions and left the house. Alfie tapped his cane against the floor, idly for a few minutes, to make sure you had left the house. He stood with a start, leaning his cane against the wall by the coat rack. "Finally." He grumbled to himself, Cyril lifted his head with a whine. "What?" Alfie groaned. Cyril replied with another whine, "You're serious? I should've been an actor, pulling off a performance like that." He mused. Cyril's ears perked forward as he tilted his head to the side, "Don't look at me like that, you mutt! A little lie never hurt anyone." Alfie said in retort. "Come on, we've got work to do." Alfie called as he walked out of the room with the mastiff at his heels.

"Where's Mr. Solomons?" Ollie asked, eyes wide with worry, or maybe they were wide from being startled by you slamming the door behind you to announce your presence in the warehouse, Thomas Shelby may have been right when he proclaimed you to be as eccentric as your husband, not that you cared. "Home," you stated, "Sciatica's giving him problems again." Ollie's features lit up knowingly as he nodded with a smile, "Right," the young assistant chirped, "shall we get to work then?". You spent the morning sifting through the messy state, Alfie always left his desk in. Papers strewn here and there, pens discarded wherever they happen to be instead of being put back in their holder, an abandoned glass of what's left of last night's whiskey on the rocks. You picked up the glass and inspected it carefully, shrugging your shoulders and deciding you only lived once. You took a small sip from the glass. Ollie narrowed his eyes as you swallowed the unsavory and heavily deluded room temperature liquid with a grimace. "What?" You asked, noticing the odd look Ollie was giving you. "Why?" Was the only word he could utter. "Why not? I'll have you know Mother didn't raise a milksop." You smiled, leaning forward with your elbows on the desk, a finger pointed right at Ollie. "And I'll have you know, you're just like Alfie." Ollie said, shaking his head with a sigh.

"Hmm," Alfie hummed, making adjustments to his tie in the mirror. "What you'd think?" He asked, turning around to face his oversized lap dog that was rather at home, sprawled out on his dad's bed unapologetically. Cyril lifted his head with a grunt, looking at Alfie with half lidded eyes as he gestured to his black necktie. "Tie or no tie?" He asked. Cyril blinked at him a couple of times before letting out a long, drawn-out groan as he flopped his head back down on the bed and stretched out his legs. "Tie it is then." Alfie said, slipping a light gray wool button vest over his white dress shirt. So far, his plan was going marvelously. Everything downstairs was neat and tidy, just the way you liked it. He had even spent extra time on the showroom that you had become rather proud of, and now he was dressed for the occasion. All that was left was to cook and set the table, and maybe just maybe, he thought to himself, if he had planned this correctly, he would be done by the time you were to return. "Oh," Alfie muttered upon exiting the bedroom, "almost forgot." He added, returning to the dresser. He rummaged for a bit before shutting the drawer with a soft thunk, "Cyril, here boy." he called. The bull mastiff left his comfy spot on the bed, sitting down at Alfie's feet and wagging his tail with a lazy pace, and his large pink tongue hung out of the side of his mouth. "Now there's a handsome lad." Alfie smiled after attaching the clip on bow tie to Cyril's collar, giving his handsome lad some headpats because handsome lads deserve their headpats.

"Have a safe trip home." Ollie waved you off as you sat a bag of paperwork in the backseat. "To you as well." You returned the wave, sliding yourself into the car. "Homeward bound?" Your driver asked. "Indeed." You nodded. You leaned your head back, closing your eyes with a sigh, and finally allowed your tired limbs to go limp and just be for the first time all day. It had been a while since you ran the bakery without your husband on hand. Alfie often asked you to accompany him to his meetings, claiming it was because he wanted your opinions, which was only partially true. You could be just as business savvy as him, but you've also brought a certain air into any space you enter that Alfie decided he'd rather not do without. A smirk lined your lips when you recalled your first face to face meeting with the Shelby clan, Alfie waltzed into the Shelby estate and announced that any and all ill treatment of you would not be tolerated with his pistol on full display as he waved it around. Before you knew it, you were on your doorstep, fumbling with your keys. You sighed in satisfaction when the lock finally clicked open, stepping into the warmth of home and out of the chilly Camden air. "Alfie, I'm home." You called, setting the briefcase of papers by the coat rack and shrugging off your husband's jacket. "In the kitchen, love." You heard Alfie call back. You narrowed your eyes as they landed on his cane, leaning against the wall. Deciding to ignore it, you followed the mouthwatering sent of dinner into the kitchen. Alfie was leaning back on the counter with his arms and legs crossed and a warm grin on his face. You eyed him up and down, and Alfie nodded toward the candle lit table. "Well," Alfie asked, making you turn back to him. "What you'd think?" He asked with a loving smile. "Everything looks wonderful," you murmured, "especially you." Alfie's grin widened, and he moved toward you, his hands readily finding your waist as he leaned in for a kiss. "Did you do all this?" You asked, Alfie nodded, but then a loud deep bark filled the room. You both looked down at the panting mastiff that was staring up at you, awaiting his own kiss. "Cyril helped to." Alfie said. Your face split into a grin, "I'm sure he did." You stated, binding down to place a kiss on Cyril's wet black nose, which he gratefully returned, making you giggle. Alfie returned his hands to your waist, "Happy anniversary, love." Alfie murmured, holding you close. "What about your sciatica?" You asked, a slightly worried look in your eyes. "Well, I had to get you out of the house somehow." Alfie chuckled, making you shake your head with a smile.

"You crafty bastard."

Out of patience.

Prohibition era Franklin County was full of secrets. The Bondurant brothers knew this better than anybody. After all, more than half of the county's supposed law enforcement were paying them, and no one really knew who that new highfalutin deputy thought he was. Eighteen year old Jack Bondurant and his eldest brother, Howard, considered Franklin's greatest mystery to be their brother Forrest, more specifically, wherever he'd been disappearing to after closing time. Howard pushed Jack to follow when they spotted Forrest heading off into the woods. Jack pressed his shoulder firmly against an elm that was just barely wide enough to hide him from sight if he stood sideways. He peered around the tree and was met with a view of his older brother's back. Forrest moved through the fallen leaves with the ease of a predator silently stalking its pray. He came to a stop, turning around suddenly, Jack jerked his head back out of sight so hard he might as well have jerked it clean off his shoulders, he exhaled sharply. Peering around the tree again a moment later, only to see nothing. Jack narrowed his eyes in confusion and relaxed his stance. Suddenly, he was grabbed and roughly shoved back into the tree. "Gah!" He exclaimed, sighing when he found himself eye to eye with Forrest. "What're you doin' Jack?" He asked quietly but sternly. "How the hell did you..", "I asked you a question." Forrest snapped, cutting Jack off. "What are you hiding?" Jack asked. Forrest loosened his grip on his little brother's arms and reeled back slightly, mulling over the question in his head. "Me and Howard's been seein' you take off in this direction for weeks now." Jack added. Forrest glanced off to the side as he removed his hat and held it against his chest, "Now what makes the two of you think what I do is any of your goddamn business?" He grumbled, gesturing between Jack and himself. Jack furrowed his brow, opening his mouth to speak but was ultimately cut off by Forrest once again, "Why don't you go pay your preacher friend a vist, better yet, go help Cricket fix the car. Whatever you do, just let me worry about what I got goin' on, alright?" The older brother explained, stepping aside. Jack stood and stared suspiciously at Forrest for a moment. "Well, go on, get!" Forrest ordered, flicking his head back in the direction of the station. Jack hung his head, glancing up at Forrest as he pasted him, feeling rather disgruntled.

Forrest sighed as he watched Jack until he disappeared into the underbrush. Briefly entertaining the irony of effectively telling Jack to go sneak around with that preacher's daughter, with himself being in the same situation tenfold. If that new common wealth's attorney knew what was going on right under his nose, Forrest was sure he'd be hunted down and sent to the gallows by Wardell himself. He pushed on despite these thoughts. He wrapped calloused fingers around the jar, barely being contained by his sweater pocket, as he treaded the unstable ground. He'd promised a gift last time, and he'd damn himself to all eternity if he didn't keep his word. He allowed a smile to tug at his lips as he saw you at your usual meeting spot, rear end parked on a log, waiting. A twig snapping under one of his heavy boots made you jump with a gasp, "You came." You smiled, standing up to hug his neck. "Yeah, finally." He said quietly, "had to deal with Jack before I could get away from the station." He added. "I wish I could meet your brothers someday." You sighed, sitting back down. "Oh, I'd say you will, with the rate we're going." He replied, taking a seat next to you, his smile becoming more of a smirk. You rolled your eyes with a smile, and he scoffed at your reaction. Forrest reached for his pocket with a deep sigh, retrieving the Mason jar, inspecting the clear liquor before nodding and handing it to you. You cracked the lid and brought the jar to your lips, smiling as the burn of watermelon moonshine engulfed your senses. "I'll never understand how you drink that fruity stuff." Forrest teased. You smirked as you took another gulp, batting your eyes at him innocently over the jar. "Don't you go givin' me that, I've seen you put that stuff away quicker than Howard does, and that's sayin' somethin'." He chuckled, leaning forward. "What's in the box?" He asked, gesturing to the square shaped box with a red ribbon tied around it that you had brought with you. "That's your gift." You smiled, wedging the open jar between your legs. You picked the box up and placed it in his lap, "You didn't." He grumbled, eyeing the logo on the box after removing the ribbon. "You have wire wrapped around one of your boots," you exclaimed, "it's past time you got new ones." You added. Forrest stared at you for a moment, "Do I have to put'em on?" He asked you stubbornly. "Yes, you do." You giggled. Forrest shook his head lightly but moved to replace his old work boots nonetheless. "You know you have every lawman in three counties up your ass right now?" You questioned. "Yeah, but the government of this state ain't the only way that the sheriff gets paid, and I've spent the better part of my years doing this, so I've got a government of my own, and I can run quicker when there is no sun." He responded. A smirk laced your lips as you took another drink. Forrest finished lacing his new boots just as a metallic sound caught his ears, turning his head to the side. He saw you toying with a pair of handcuffs, folding them over in your hands repeatedly. "Where'd you get them from?" He asked. "Well," you said with a half-suppressed laugh, "let's just say Rakes is going to miss the pleasure of seeing you in these." You grinned at him. "You stole'em." He said, his voice wasn't accusatory nor was his statement a question, just a simple matter of stating a fact. "And here I thought I was the criminal in this mess." He mused, standing up to shrug off his sweater, making your eyes light up as you grinned widely, to give you better access to whatever you wanted whilst mentally trying to burn the image of your expression into his brain.

Forrest ascended the front steps of Balckwater station slowly with a heavy sigh, knowing his brothers would leave the side door unlocked to await his return, like always. His body still felt as if it were reeling from its exploits, but he didn't mind. The change of pace was nice once in a while, and at least he knew he would get some good rest once he finally made it to his bed. He shut the door behind him and clicked the lock in place. Another sigh left his lips as he struck a match and lit up a smoke. He was careful not to smoke around you. Less the smell got you in trouble. Not that Mason Wardell was any better a man than Forrest thought himself to be. They were both outside the law in a way, just with different backgrounds and upbringings. However, Wardell was viewed as more approachable to the public eye that Forrest preferred to stay out of. The light of the embers and the staunch smell of tobacco were the only things that seemed to fill the room. Everything appeared still, or so Forrest thought. "Where the hell have you been?!" Howard exclaimed as soon as Forrest entered the barroom. "Nowhere that's any of your goddamn business!" Forrest retorted, sitting the box with the red ribbon out of sight behind the bar, Howard didn't need an invitation to ask more questions. Forrest parked himself on a barstool. In hopes, taking the time to savor his smoke would be enough to wait out Howard. The eldest ran his eyes up and down his baby brother, searching for anything that was amiss. "What're you starin' at your boots for?" Howard asked, leaning back in his chair. Forrest mulled over his words, "Had to get new ones." He finally said. Howard narrowed his eyes. Something still wasn't adding up in his head. Forrest never buys himself anything unless he's forced to. However, the brothers returned to their separate indulgences silently, Howard likely to succumb to a drunken stupor before ever actually making it to bed, and eventually, Forrest smudged out the butt of his cigar and made his own way to bed without a single word of a goodnight.

Forrest stared into his black coffee with a heavy exhale, taking a small break from his ledger to let his thoughts that had been clouding his work consume him. You were back in your world, and he's still stuck in his. He still carried a stinging feeling of guilt over first impressions, "You send your clown with the bowtie 'round here again, I'll make sure you personally pull a clever out of his fuckin' skull." He growled, yanking roughly on the breast pocket of Mason Wardell's shirt. He locked eyes with you as you gave him what appeared to be an approving smile and a small silent wave. He approached you in town a few days later, making sure your daddy was nowhere to be seen. You followed him behind the general goods store for privacy. "I, uh.." He started almost nervously, removing his hat, "I do apologize if I frightened you at the station the other day, I have no qualms with you." He wasn't even sure why he felt the need to apologize to you. You smiled at him again, "Honestly, I dislike that prig of a deputy just as much as you do. Dad is just as bad. That man takes a shit and thinks half of Virginia falls out of his ass." You chuckled. You giggled again as Forrest' brows made an impressive attempt to touch.

"Thank you so much for all the help, dear." You smiled as the elder woman grabbed your arm and shook it lightly. "You're very welcome, Selma." You replied, loading the rest of her groceries into her husband's truck, making sure to help her into the passenger seat when you were done. "Need a ride home?" Glen, her husband, asked. "Do you need help putting the shopping away?" You asked. "No, deary. You've done quite enough already, don't need a youngin spending their whole life worrying over us old folks." She smiled. "In that case, I'll see you at Sunday dinner. I have one more stop to make." You smiled. The older couple nodded, sending you off with a wave. Along the way, you intercepted a runaway ball, stopping it with the side of your foot. You smiled and waved before kicking the ball back to the eagerly awaiting group of kids with a light laugh. "Good afternoon, Mr. Anderson." You grinned. The old man tipped his hat as you gave his two dogs ear scratches. As small a town as Franklin County is, it felt like home. The only place that felt more like home was that little out of the way gas station just before you hit the county line. You kicked the heel of your boots against the edge of the steps to knock off the mud, "Alright, you boys better keep up the good business!" A man exclaimed, letting the door fall shut behind him. His exclamation made you look up at him with a sharp inhale through your nose. "Well, I'll be damned," the stranger said, removing his hat, "last place I'd expect that common wealth's attorney's offspring." He smiled. "I'm here on personal business, sir." You said coldly. "Of course, I didn't mean to pry. The Bondurants are in, and tell your father Floyd Banner says hi." The man said with a smirk, opening the door and holding it for you. "I say hi for no one." You muttered, walking past him. "Well, at least one of the Wardell's has some sense about them." He said jovial, letting the door shut as you turned back to give him a disgruntled look. You sighed, turning your back to the screen door. You were being ogled by two men at the bar. The younger of the two was dressed sharply, and he appeared to have stopped in the middle of wiping down the bar counter at the sight of you, judging by the rag in his hand. "This must be Jack." You thought. The other was atop a barstool, brown curls were in disarray on his head, and a wild look filled his eyes, a jar of hooch in his large hand. "Damn." The wild-eyed man said. "I'm lookin' for Forrest Bondurant, either one of you know where I can find him?" You asked. The man on the stool smiled widely with a nod, "Well, you'd think I'd know where to find'em, seeing how he's my brother and all." He said with a laugh, stumbling drunkenly as he tried to stand, catching himself on the edge of the bar. "Ah, Howard." The realization dawned on you. "He's in the kitchen. You can go on back, good luck gettin' anything out of'em." He added with an amused smirk. "Much appreciated." You smiled, feeling less of need to be formal, considering what you've heard of these two. Howard raised his jar to you with a smile, Jack nodded and gestured to a doorway, and you nodded back.

Sure enough, you found Forrest. Fitting a crust into a pie tin, of all the things you thought you'd never see him do. "What's this then?" You asked, smiling so hard at the sight before you, your cheeks became sore. "Well, somebody's got to do something with these apples, ain't no sense in lettin'em rot." He responded without looking up, starting to fill the crust with said apple slices. You stood quietly, just watching as he placed the slices in a meticulous pattern, admiring him with a smile. Forrest could feel a pair of eyes on him. However, it didn't feel like either of his brothers, and Maggie only came to him with questions or when she needed something. This stare didn't feel unfamiliar, however. So, he looked up and let his closed fists land on the table with a heavy thump. "What the hell are you doin'?" He exclaimed quietly. "Forrest?" A voice called. "Oh," a red-headed woman appeared, covering her mouth with her hand. "I wasn't aware you had company." She smiled apologetically. Forrest glanced between the two of you, hurriedly getting the top layer of crust on his apple pie, cutting vent slits with a knife. "Put this in the oven, would ya Maggie?" He asked, washing his hands. "Sure, Forrest." Maggie replied. "I've got business to attend to." He grumbled, eyeing you as he dried his hands. Forrest led you into his office. He locked the door behind him and shut the blinds. He spun you around and grabbed your wrists in an urgent manner. "Now, I asked you a question. What the hell were you thinkin' showin' up here?!" He spoke hurriedly. "First of all," you started, gently freeing your wrists from his grip. "Calm down." You said. Forrest sighed, rounding the corner of his desk and running his hands through his hair. "Just for the love of God, tell me what your doin' here." He urged again. You began to walk toward him, a smirk on your face. "Uh... what.., what are you doin?" He murmured. Your hands readily found his shirt collar, pushing him back against the wall and capturing his lips with yours. His hands were on your waist in an instant. Both of you were out of breath when you pulled apart, staring into each other's eyes for a moment.

"Couldn't wait." You breathed.

One more second chance.

The Vandals could get rowdy without a doubt. You glanced back as a loud cheer erupted out of the crowd of leather jackets and vests that engulfed over half of the parking lot, only to see Benny whisking a doe-eyed Kathy into their midst. You shook your head lightly, feeling slightly bad for the poor girl. Wasn't that long ago the two of you decided a night out was long overdue. Now you wondered if your sheltered high school best friend would be able to cope in your world, well, used to be yours.

Your sights were set on a lone red bike, parked on the opposite side to the others. Not that there wasn't enough room, even if that was the case, the only thing any onlooker would've seen was a flash and blur of movement, there ain't a Vandal worth their weight in salt that would leave their leader out on a cold curb. Johnny was like that, always had been actually, staring up and down the highway with a cigarette between his fingers. You supposed the trucker in him would always shine through. "She's still running?" You asked, gesturing to his bike. You could tell your voice startled him by the split second wide-eyed look he gave you, "Yeah." He nodded, bringing his smoke up to his lips, evening out his features like nothing happened. Classic Johnny. "No, she's not," you said with a confused look, "she's right here." You exclaimed, pointing at the bike. "Heh, very funny." Johnny quipped.

"The old man wanted some alone time with his smokes, I take it?" You teased. "What old man? Where?" Johnny questioned, narrowing his eyes and making a show of looking in all directions, including up in the air. You laughed lightly as you watched the index finger of his right hand flick the side of the cigarette he held in his left, another quirk that hadn't changed. Your eyes became glued to his ring finger as the smoke once again reached his lips, "You're still married?" You questioned. An amused smirk appeared on Johnny's face, "Heh, not for long." He responded. "Still lasted longer than I ever expected." You smiled. Johnny scoffed and shook his head, "Well, that makes two of us." Comfortably resting a hand on your lower back as you joined him in leaning against his bike.

"How's the ink shop? Haven't been by there in a hot minute." He asked. "Business is good." You said. Johnny nodded, "What'd I'd like to know," Johnny turned back to you, "is where did that pal of yours, Benny, get my design on his shoulder?" You asked, patting the logo on the back of Johnny's jacket with your palm. "Look, if I'd known he was going to get it tattooed, I would've sent him to you." Johnny defended himself. It was readily apparent that Benny didn't know your history when he introduced you to Johnny.

Silence befell the night air for a moment, "How long have we known each other?" You questioned. "You ask me that as if we weren't drunk when we met." Johnny chuckled. You smirked and rested your head on his shoulder, right where you could feel the thump of his heartbeat against your temple, staring up at a star filled sky. Your countless offs and ons with Johnny ran through your mind. You wondered many hows and whys in the span of a couple minutes. "Do you think we gave us too many second chances?" You questioned, out of the blue. "Why would I?" He responded, "we may be bad for each other, but it's not like we're good for anyone else." He added.

The moment was interrupted by the rumble of bikes roaring to life, "Hey," Benny called, coming to a stop next to you and Johnny, Kathy hugging his midsection for dear life. "We ready to go, boss?" Benny asked, gesturing to Johnny. Johnny turned to you, unintentionally bringing emphasis to his knees, bowed to an extent from straddling a hunk of metal for so many years, in the process. This made you smile the same way it did back then. "What'd ya think?" He asked, offering his hand to you.

"One more second chance?"

The gangster.

London, east end. 1965.

Maybe it was the elegant suit. Maybe it was the fact that he was currently strutting down the middle of Ormsby Street with a sleek Ford Galaxy at his back, following along like a loyal dog, saying good morning to everyone he passed. You'd say Reginald Kray was a well distinguished business savvy man, but you'd also had to have been living under a rock for several years to say that. Wasn't a single soul left in London who didn't know who the Kray twins were, Ron Kray was a one-man London mob. Reggie was quite the opposite, really, suave, charming, but proved to be just as volatile. You could walk into any pub to hear a lie or two about them.

The radio played a sort of upbeat tune as you whisked around the kitchen, humming along around the hardboiled sweet in your mouth. The morning had started out ordinarily enough, hurrying around to finish the chores your mother gave you alongside the promise to grant you the rest of the day to do with as you wished, so the quicker you finished the more time you'd have to enjoy yourself, right?. Maybe you'd go to one of the local shops for a bit of browsing, or perhaps pop out for a bite to eat with some friends. These thoughts were disturbed by a pounding at the front door. "I'll get it!" You shouted, with you being the only one downstairs currently, made sense, you figured.

You were met by a pair of piercing blue eyes that narrowed and the man's forehead creased as his clear and bright orbs scanned over your appearance, "Frank about?" The man asked before the twinge of regret of flinging the front door open so eagerly could properly settle in your gut. It would surely rear its ugly head later. "Frank!" You called over your shoulder into the house and up the stairwell. You turned back to face the finely dressed man with faux confidence, leaning against the door frame, determined to make yourself appear unintimidated. The man ran his eyes over your frame once again unashamedly, "Who are you?" He asked, tilting his head to the side with a quizzical look. "Frank's my older brother." You stated. "Hang about, I know you, but you.. you were smaller then. You've all grown up, haven't you?" He said with a half-suppressed smile. "It happens." You said, stepping out of the doorway, relishing in the coolness of the cobblestone underneath your bare feet. You both looked up at the sound of a window rising, and your older brother's head popped out, "Half a minute, Reg. right down." Frank called down, ducking back in.

Thankfully, the man in front of you didn't seem to either notice or much care that you snapped your attention back to him. Reggie Kray, at your doorstep, you marveled silently in your mind. The corners of his lips curled downwards into a frown. He adjusted his tie as he checked his watch. "Is my brother in trouble?" You questioned. Reggie nodded, then tilted his head to the side, away from you. Narrowed eyes still aimed down the street. "Will you go out with me?" He asked seemingly out of the blue, turning back to you suddenly. Your eyes widened in surprise. "I'll take it easy on him if you do." He added, a warm expression spreading across his face accompanied by a half smile. "Yes," you said, rolling your candy around in your mouth with your tongue, making clack off your teeth, "but not for that reason." You added.

"What's that you've got?" Reggie asked, gesturing to you. "A sweet." You explained, pulling the sticky light yellow olive shaped drop out of your mouth, holding it between your thumb and forefinger. "Oh, now that's not just any sweat, is it? That's a lemon sherbet." Reggie said matter of factly. "Mind if I have a crack?" He asked, reaching for the sweet. "Alright." You smiled with a light chuckle. Reggie popped the sweet tasting drop into his mouth, "Mmm, now that's nice." He mused, "Saturday night?" He asked. You nodded with a smile.

Suddenly, Mrs. Shea, your mother, appeared beside you. "What's the matter with you?" She scolded, "You’re half dressed talking to a man in the door. Get back in the kitchen. Finish them dishes." She ordered, pulling at the end of your fuzzy peach colored sweater. Not that you cared, if Reggie Kray would openly ask you out in your lounge wear, bare feet and all, did you really need to dress to the tens twenty-four hours a day. You shrugged, turning to head deeper into the house. "Hold on," Reggie started, making you turn back to him. His eyes shifted to your mother as he took your lemon sherbet out of his mouth, "This is yours, init?" He asked. You nodded, taking the sweet, looking your mother directly in the eye as you popped it back into your mouth before you sauntered off. Much to her displeasure. She growled at Reggie as he licked the sticky candy coating off his fingers before slamming the door in his face.

"Hmm," Reggie hummed as he thought to himself with a smirk, glancing between the cobble and the door, "well, the mum seems lovely."

#when they keep secrets #tommy conlon warrior #eddie brock/venom symbiote #alfie solomons peaky blinders #forrest bondurant fanfiction #johnny vandal the bikeriders #reggie kray legend #tom hardy #hope you enjoy #guess you can consider this WIP Wednesday lol #i might be focusing more on an original piece for a while but we'll see what i get inspiration for

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weaponizedvirtue · 9 months

Text

Harbored Secrets {Peaky Blinders}

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Reader (gender-fluid former soldier from "The Face I Hide Behind")

Summary: It's been a year since you reconnected with Thomas Shelby in Small Heath. Letters can convey a lot. But personal identity and your own brand of nightmares are easier to convey in person.

Notes: This is for my friend, @everythingelseisextra. He has motivated me and encouraged me to develop this character into who they really are, even beyond my own safe little comfort zone of topics. This one touches on PTSD and discrimination, but also gender fluidity in an era where it was often something no one talked about, acknowledged, or accepted. Marie/Eli kind has steadily shown themself to be bigender and it's an important part of them I wanted to explore.

Tagged: @everythingelseisextra, @ce1iat, @morrigan-crowmwell, @running-outof-time, @straight-outta-kirkwall

No one was supposed to have been down here. William had said it was clear and you, Tom, and Danny had shuffled down into the muck behind him. It was supposed to have been easy- “bury the mines and scramble.”

But sometime between Will’s report and your team slipping inside, the situation had changed. Two Germans had found their way inside and waited, cloaked in shadow, until everyone’s back was turned. They’d made quick work of Danny, like silent dogs leaping for their prey and digging their sharp teeth in before any of you had noticed you weren’t alone.

You’d been distracted with your notes, unfolding them and quietly reminding Tom of where each device should go when he stood suddenly, drawing his gun. He’d always been an impeccable shot and even in the dim light of the tunnels, one of the Germans went down with little more than a gasp, a bullet buried in his chest.

But the second one was quicker. He emerged from Thomas’s left like a bat, all fangs and claws and blind speed and before your friend could counter, he dragged his blade across the man’s throat.

Tom stumbled, fell to his knees, and a shout tore out of your mouth, grieving and guttural. There was a scuffle, Will shouting to you about getting out as his weapon met with the German’s. The screech of metal on metal was shrill, an alarm that insisted you move, but you couldn’t leave without Tom.

You reached down fast, your hands desperately trying to stem the blood seeping from the deep slash across his throat. He gaped up at you with wide, unseeing eyes, and his hands closed around your own.

“Carter.”

Your name wheezed out of his lungs. It was insistent but muffled, as if someone had stuffed your ears with cotton, then given you an order. But it was your name. It was your name, here below the trenches, on the lips of your dying comrade as if your moniker was important enough to be a last word.

"Stay with me. Come on, Tom."

Your voice came out ragged and pleading and your body rocked forward as you tried to pull him to his feet. He didn't respond, his body sagging into yours as you stood.

“Dein Freund wird es nicht schaffen.” The soldier from before wagged one finger at you from a few feet away. Behind him, Will lay motionless in the mud. “Carter, ja?”

The soldier pointed at you, his eyes glittering in the dark. Blood dripped from his knife, mixing thickly with the mud that caked your boots.

He advanced forward suddenly, dropping his weapon to the ground. He yanked Tom away from you, then clapped both hands around the base of your throat and squeezed. You struggled against him, your fingers locking around his wrists, trying desperately to pry yourself loose.

"Carter." His eyes were wild, nothing but fire and hate. Your name spilled from the soldier’s lips like a mantra, breathless and desperate, a plea even as he cut off the last of your air.

You didn't know him. You couldn't remember his face or his hands or how this stranger could possibly have grabbed hold of your name.

You just knew his grip was tightening. Then with a resounding snap, your windpipe buckled underneath the pressure of his knuckles. The makeshift cavern you and the rest of the Company had dug for yourself collapsed into darkness around you, burying you and your fallen comrades as if you never existed in the first place.

“Carter!”

Your eyes snapped open and air rushed into your lungs so quickly it was painful. Feeling rushed back into your fingers and your hands automatically latched onto the ones pressing up against your chin. There was too much light, too much air, building in your ears and your lungs until all you could hear was a roar.

You moved. Like a wound spring, you rocketed upwards and pressed your knee hard into your assailant’s gut. He grunted, twisting underneath you, and it took a moment for the haze in your eyes to clear. It came to you slowly, where you were, that it was a pillow underneath your palms, not dirt, that you were in your smalls, not your uniform.

And that it was Tom, clean and alive and whole, lying beneath you, not some intruder lurking in the dim light of the lanterns.

“Carter?”

You blinked, trying to separate what you were seeing from what you saw. The moments didn’t match- one where Thomas Shelby breathed, startled but watching you with patient, cutting eyes. And then the other, where the same man slumped to the ground, his gaze blank and lifeless.

“You’re alive. Jesus, you're alive."

Your head dropped to his chest and your whole body sagged against him, spent tension racing from your muscles far too quickly. The sudden shift left your body aching and a tremble quaked through your limbs.

You flattened your fingers against Thomas's stomach- he was here, he was alive, not a bloodied corpse forgotten underground. You grabbed at his hands, counting each digit, positive that they would dissolve into memory if you didn’t hold on hard enough.

Turning your head slowly, you pressed your ear against Thomas’s chest. You just needed to hear it. Just one strong heartbeat.

It was there, loud and racing just like yours, and a mournful quiver escaped your throat before you could stop it. Your breath shifted brokenly inside your lungs, thin and reedy and not enough. The part of you that was logical, that worked on stratagems and common sense, snapped from somewhere deep inside your head.

Look at him, for god’s sake, you’re not some infant. It was just another dream. Who the hell can’t tell the difference?

But your body disagreed. Your limbs remained locked where they’d fallen. You were afraid of moving, as if the moment you did so, Thomas’s existence would be a toss of the coin and not a certainty. With your nose planted against his sternum, there was still someone to hold onto.

Slowly, strong hands slipped down just below your elbows. Fingers gently circled your upper arms, tugging you upwards. Your body followed rigidly and Tom tucked you up against him before you could protest. His arms wound around your back, his hands rubbing circles in the taut muscles around your spine, and his chin came to rest against your left shoulder.

"I'm right here, Carter."

A hand wandered into your hair and Tom's fingers dragged slowly through the few curls you’d kept. You focused on the touch, on the soft sheets under your knees, and Tom's breathing, steady and even. Slowly, as visions of the tunnel and the bloodied, still figures of your friends faded, your own heartbeat matched its pace.

"Why didn't you tell me you had nightmares?"

You swallowed, shame mixing thickly in the pit of your stomach. You'd kept that bit of information to yourself on purpose, determined to keep quiet when you knew Thomas had endured just as much and more than you.

"You should have told me."

There was frustration in his voice and sympathy just below that, both feelings you were unsure how to face. Somewhere along the way, Tom had become the one person you wanted to impress. Somewhere along the way, you'd wanted him to think you were infallible. Admitting that you dreamed of your time in the tunnels, of moments you'd faced and moments you could have faced, hardly looked like strength to you. Admitting you still heard the picks and shovels of the Germans inching closer and that you fidgeted in cramped spaces hardly seemed like bravery.

But Tom deserved an explanation, now that it was out in the open.

“I'm supposed to be stronger than this. I said I could handle being a soldier. They send me home and I can't even handle the echoes?”

There was a huff of air at your neck and Thomas pulled back sharply. His movement was so sudden you missed him, your body suddenly cold at his sudden withdrawal. Something flickered in his eyes as you studied his face, closer to fury than you could remember from the man. It felt for a moment like a dismissal and as grief and shame stirred angrily through your belly, you forced yourself off the bed and onto your feet.

But Thomas’s fingers caught around your wrist, a silent command to stay put. You froze in place, your eyes darting back towards the man. Satisfied, Thomas sighed. He considered you for several seconds, then he reached down to pull his shirt over his head.

It wasn’t what you expected, but Tom’s plans rarely were and there was a look in your friend’s eyes that demanded you wait and listen. Tom dealt in timing like you dealt in numbers.

So instead, your eyes traveled down his body in earnest, mapping out the myriad of scars painted and scratched and stamped into his skin. Some you remembered, could divulge the story yourself; others were newer, fresh splits of skin and bone that didn’t match what you knew of Thomas Shelby’s timeline.

“Bullet from the Somme.” Tom tapped his left side where your eyes had come to rest and at first, the information seemed like a surprisingly open confession from Thomas. But without pausing for your answer, Thomas continued, walking his fingers down each scar.

“Barbed wire in Amiens. Blast in the trenches- you pulled me out, remember?” You did, but his fingers moved again before you could reply.

He walked you down each limb, detailing a scar now and then, avoiding others that you still wished to rub out with your own hands. The scars were Thomas’s story, told in violent brands and permanent tears on his skin because words were never enough to describe battle. It was a strange, devoted kind of exposure, one you could appreciate fully coming from Tom. But it was unlike your friend to offer up information without asking something in return.

The cost presented itself quickly enough.

“So.”

Thomas lifted his head from the last scar on his thigh and nodded towards you.

“Show me yours.”

The request was a fair one and you imagined there was a point to it that Tom was aiming for, but your body went cold nonetheless.

You showed very few people what sat beneath your clothes. It was hardly different from what they'd seen before, just a set of ribs and a set of breasts and a torso of scars stitching them together, but it had never felt like the truth, showing them skin that hardly felt like yours, bearing your body to them when it hardly felt like your own.

You hesitated, feeling compelled to explain, desperate for someone to listen, even more desperate for Tom to understand. The words came out slow and thick as molasses, your voice quiet, and you looked down at yourself, picking at your nightshirt.

"What people see and who I am don't always match, Tom."

Even without looking at him, you knew he was thinking. There was the softest exhale and a purposeful silence, then the rustling of sheets as he shifted slightly closer to you.

With an unexpected burst of courage, you dragged your eyes up again and sure enough, he was waiting, studying you with a softer expression than before. He pressed his tongue to the top of his mouth for a moment, carefully piecing his words together before exposing them to the air.

"Whether I see Marie or Carter doesn't matter, love. I don't need a name or a body to tell me who you are."

The room tilted for just a moment, as if knocked off kilter by his words. Tears rushed to your eyes unbidden and you pressed your hands fast against them, unprepared for the onslaught.

It wasn't something you'd heard before, the quiet acceptance that whether you were a man or a woman in the day, the hour, the moment, your decision was valid and wouldn't require the consequences of judgment.

For all of Danny's kindness, he still looked at you differently now as Marie than he ever had when you were Carter. He still walked as if on eggshells when you were around, and had adopted a kind of rapport around you like you were his little sister, not his comrade in arms.

You'd seen Freddie Thorne once, on your way out of Tommy's that first time, and he'd regarded you like a math problem, all furrowed brows and frustration. He'd plucked the cigarette from his mouth and circled you like a great cat. In the end, he seemed to have settled on the idea that you weren't a threat, waved you off with a half-friendly, "Enjoy Birmingham."

But he looked at you not as someone he'd trudged through hell with, who he'd ribbed on occasional moments in camp, but as a stranger prone to lies and deception, as if your female identity was an exercise in smoke and mirrors.

Additionally, your family had hitched their wagon to the opinion that you were confused, that the moments you took joy in manners and family you were a different person from the person interested in gadgets and physical labor. They'd come to believe your insistence that you could be both was an affront to how they'd raised you, as if it was your self-control that prevented you from being a proper lady.

And when they'd gotten tired of waiting for you to become what you were expected to be, realized you wouldn't act out the part that the world demanded of you, you'd simply become too much to keep around.

Thomas alone had seen the individual parts of you and believed them to make up a whole. He alone had believed it was more than a formula to a trick or a tantrum.

You swallowed, grateful that Tom had stayed put on the bed and allowed you a moment to work through the meaning of his words. There was a sort of unspent energy to him as he watched you, a tamed impatience as he leaned back and waited.

You took a slow breath, then with shaking hands, undid each button on your shirt. After pausing one last time, your eyes met Tom's expectant ones and you pulled the shirt from your shoulders.

You didn't have as many scars as him. Not even the same type- your binder had worn deep trenches in your skin where it had hugged your breasts or ribs too tight. There were uneven ripples across your abdomen where bones had broken in protest, whether it be from the cramped position you'd crawled through the tunnels or the sustained pressure trapping your chest cavity. There were small, jagged scars from rogue shrapnel dotting your collarbone, wounds you'd had to stitch up yourself for fear of the medics discovering your secret. A long scratch marred your left side from a scuffle with one of the other soldiers, a lasting reminder that not everyone was interested in playing nice.

"Mostly from the tunnels." You lifted your chin, watching as Tom leaned forward, his eyes wandering along each scar as if he was recording them for later consideration.

"And your head."

“What?”

Thomas tapped the back of his head and your right hand fumbled inside of your hair, brushing the rough patch of skin where they’d sewn twenty stitches years before. The memory flitted back quickly, though it was vague, snatches of haze and mud, shouts for a medic, and Tom’s face above you as you were pulled into open air. You’d have shrugged him off if you could have remembered how to move your limbs, saved yourself another couple of battles before getting sent home.

"From the beam. You still get those headaches?"

It had been just a passing bit of information in one of your letters to him, must have been at least six months ago, and you weren’t sure if you were flattered he remembered or embarrassed you told him in the first place.

“Yeah.”

Thomas nodded and his face smoothed over before you could gather what he meant by asking. Instead, he reached for his lighter on the dresser beside you both. A cigarette practically appeared in his hand and he lowered it to the flame with a kind of purpose you thought inordinate for simply lighting a smoke.

With a hard puff of air, Thomas exhaled and you and he both turned your eyes to the fog rising up towards the ceiling.

“I have ‘em too. The nightmares.”

The words didn’t connect immediately. Fitting Thomas’s name into the same sentence as fear didn’t seem logical. You hardly expected him to live without it, but when a man could motivate an entire crowd of scared men onto a bloody battlefield, it seemed stupid to consider him anything but solid.

“You never said anything.”

“It’s a habit we share, eh?”

There was no room for accusations when you’d been just as at fault. You smiled wryly, slowly lowering yourself back down onto the bed beside Thomas. The man’s hand shrugged towards you with ease and after a moment, you picked the cigarette from between his fingers.

You rarely smoked, could hardly afford it with your lifestyle and didn’t care much for the taste. But you wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth and it felt enough like camaraderie that you couldn’t help but accept the stick.

As you drew smoke into your lungs and exhaled, a tingle ran up your spine. Your shoulders sagged and you closed your eyes for a moment, imagining the sharp edges of you softening and the claws of your nightmare temporarily withdrawing.

“So if I fought for mine,” Thomas continued unbidden and he bumped his arm gently against yours. “And you fought for yours-” The cigarette disappeared from your hand and reappeared between his teeth.

“I believe soldiers face the consequences together, Carter."

His gaze shifted back to you and you studied his face carefully. You knew what it looked like when someone was lying by now, knew when someone was just trying to soften the blow. Thomas was doing neither.

You leaned back slowly against the headboard of the bed, your thoughts racing too quickly to allow you the prospect of sleep just yet.

Fingers danced carefully across the back of your head, just along the edges of your scar. You turned your head to find Thomas intently watching you, his eyes blazing a colder blue than you remembered.

"Call me next time. Do us both some good."

#peaky blinders #female soldier #fanfiction #gender/character study #for everythingelse- who has steadily inspired me to be braver than I thought I could be #thomas shelby x reader

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