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notyour-valentine · 5 months

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The Spirits that I summoned (Young!Tommy)

[Masterlist] [Taglist]

Summary: Where Arthur sees danger, Tommy sees a quick way to make some money and use people's prejudices against them.

Note: This is my participation for Chi @little-diable 's 15k celebration - what an accomplishment, and what an incredible, versatile body of work. In typical student mindset, I'm scraping the deadline, but I hope you enjoy all the same. The quote I drew was: Even as a child I felt it, and marvelled at the power of this woman who, though veiled, could electrify a room

All my writing is produced by an adult and created with an adult audience in mind (18/21+). You are responsible for your own media consumption. I do not consent to my work being translated, copied or posted elsewhere on this platform or any other.

Warning: Stereotypes of travellers (in line with what is shown in canon)

Wordcount: 1588

He twirled the coin between his fingers. It was a habit of his he knew he better ought to shake.

Though his hand was hidden deep in the pocket of his brown worn trousers, Tommy knew one glance would give away his restless nature, his nerves. His weakness.

Lucky for him, his counterparts weren’t always as perceptive.

They were young, younger than he was, but not by much. And they were playing dress up, the same way the children were doing down at the fair, picking up wooden sticks and calling themselves knights.

Oh they had chosen well, he had to give them that - sturdy boots made for walking, weatherproof coats, and thick scarves to keep out the cold.

But the leather was polished to a shine, the shoes free from any scratch. And the coats had never seen repairs, at least none that were visible to the eye.

The scarves matched the boots and the boots the purse and the purse the coat. All a little too perfect to be accidental.

Besides, the shorter one of the two had forgotten to take her earrings off.

Pearl, he could easily tell, even in the fleeing light, with a little gold stud.

Tommy knew money when he saw it, and he saw it now in the shape of these two newcomers.

“Go-good evening.”, one of them said, looking from one to the other.

Arthur only glared at them suspiciously.

“Are, ahm, are you one of the-”, she gestured to the illuminated camp site behind them.

“Who’s asking?”, Arthur wanted to know, building himself up to his full height.

He had a strange look in his eye as if he wasn’t sure whether to scare them off or take them to bed. Either one. Or both.

“We, ah, well, we-”, the one stammered again, nervously fidgeting for words.

“We want our fortunes told.”, the other one said sharply. “They say you people know how to read palms and teacups. We want to know our future.”

Do you now?, Tommy thought, his eye-catching the reflection of the moon on those earrings, those pretty, expensive earrings. Peal and gold.

“Yes.”, the first one, the shy one said. “Please.”

“Oh I can read palms alright.”, Arthur said, running a hand through his hair.

“Arthur,”, Tommy said, cutting off his older brother, who glared at him as if Tommy had slapped him.

He gestured for his brother to take a few steps away.

“What are you on about, Tommy?”, Arthur demanded to know. “I like the look of the tall one. You stay out of it.”

“Shut up and don’t think with your cock for once.”, he sneered.

His brother’s face hardened.

“You can either get your end wet, or…we can make a sweet little something off of them.”

Arthur shifted on his feet, humming under his breath.

“You think?”, he said. “Bringing them to Aunt Pol? Or Queen Boswell?”

Tommy shook his head.

“We’re not bringing them anywhere.”

Birmingham was too far away, where Polly was haggling with the baby and Ada, and that Boswell hag would only take more than her share of a cut.

Besides, these girls weren’t kin. They didn’t know what they were asking for. So they wouldn’t know what they would receive either.

Arthur didn’t seem too convinced.

“Mother said not to mess with things we didn’t understand. That if we disrespect the traditions, there’d be punishment.”

Their mother had said that. Their mother had also had most of her visions when she had drunk a gallon of rum or whisky in a single evening.

Tommy was already thinking about how much those earrings would buy them - food, or new winter shoes for the whole lot of them. Maybe even a horse they could train to race.

He’d like a horse, but those shoes would have to come first.

“Just let me do the talking, eh?”, he told Arthur before turning back to the women.

“So what made you come to us?”, Tommy asked, after bringing them into Polly's wagon and telling Arthur to stand guard.

He could see the girls' eyes dart around it, picking up in little details. The crochet curtains, the Black Madonna, the framed pictures of the family. The countless candles.

The girls exchanged a look, then one glanced down while the other squirmed in her seat.

“My brother thinks it's all a hoax.”, the first told her lap. “But he wasn't there when…”

She took a deep breath.

“Our mother used to hire a woman to tell their fortunes. A traveller woman.”, she said.

“We weren't allowed to be there, but we saw her enter. Even as a child I felt it, and marvelled at the power of this woman who, though veiled, could electrify a room.”

She dropped her voice to a whisper.

“Everything she said came true.”

Tommy nodded solemnly.

“It's good to know you have a respect for these matters.”, he said. “Oftentimes those that are not learned in these arts underestimate the forces at play.”

He tried his best to choose words as ceremonious as possible.

“Are you sure you want me to read your palms and tell your future?”

The girls nodded eagerly.

“We have money!”

She reached into her purse and pulled out a few coins. Tommy knew at a glance it wasn't a stingy offer, but the pearls would be worth more and so he shook his head.

“Knowledge of the future cannot be bought with coin. It has to be a trade.”

“A trade?”, the shorter one asked.

Tommy hummed.

“Sometimes they'd tell the farmers the days weather and get a few apples for their worries. A fair price for something trivial. Are you asking about something trivial?”

He already knew they weren't, that was why he was telling these lies.

It wasn't long before one urged the other and she took off one of her earrings.

Just like he had hoped.

“I want to ask about women.”, she said, slipping off her gloves and handing her hands to him in a show of surprising determination.

“On the continent there are whispers of a woman's emancipation, of votes for women and equal rights to men.”

Tommy nearly laughed.

“Will that happen here in England too?”

She looked almost eager, like a child desperate for sweets.

Tommy took her hand in his, squinted, then ran his fingers along her palm.

Just like he had thought, a soft hand that smelled of expensive ointment, probably lavender.

“I can see you think highly of the value and purpose of your sex.”, he said, before contonuing. “Others will come to realise it's indispensability in a more clear, more distinct way.”

Poor brother, father or lover to deal with the consequences of his words, but Tommy wanted that earring, so he decided to add just a little more.

He took a deep shaking breath and nodded.

“And yes- don't let the distance to the continent discourage you. What happens there will spread.”

He lowered her hand gently.

“Me now.”, the other one insisted.

“A moment.”, Tommy asked, dabbing his dry brow with his sleeve. “Tis not an easy task for me, nor was it an easy question.”

He bit back his smirk at the look of sympathy in the woman's eyes.

Finally he cleared his throat and urged the other woman to give him her hand. Gently, he stroked her palm while glaring deeply into her eyes.

“I'm getting married soon.”, she said. “Or I may be. I'm not too sure about him.”

“Do you love him?” Tommy asked.

“I do, but…”, she sighed. “He is a soldier, training to be an officer.”

“And?”

“I'm not sure I want to be married to a young Officer in His Majesty's army. But it's a thankless business being a soldier's wife.”

“And now you have come for insight to clear your doubts.”, he asked, before glancing at her palm.

He took more time now, running along the lines of her palm, shifting and squinting and making a right show of it.

“I can tell you one thing.”, he said. “It will not be thankless.”

“No?”, she asked.

“Oh no- if you think your intended is set for a dull career in the forces, you are much mistaken.” He said. “I see service, yes, duty and courage too, but it will not be thankless. It will be celebrated and honored and remembered for generations to come.”

“My George?”, she asked surprised. “You can see that just in my hand?”

“That and more.”, Tommy promised her, picking up in the glint in her eyes. She may not like the idea of being a soldier's wife, but she seemed to enjoy the thought of being a hero's ons.

“Medals, marches, hymns-”, he nodded, trying to piece together what little he knew of soldiery, most of it what he had picked up from pinched newspapers.

“And the pride of our whole nation.”

Wasn't that what they said soldiers were? Those soldiers at the races certainly thought they were- as if all of England should bow before them just because they put on a sense of importance along with their uniforms.

But those words made her beam from ear to ear- both now without their earrings, as they left, clearly content with their visions of heroism and women's rise.

Tommy let them go gladly, his fingers toying with the earrings in his pocket. They were worth a pretty penny and could stretch far.

Easy money, for once. He didn't even pity those two for their ignorance. Of course he had never learned to read palms or cards or dreams, why should he?

He had never shared Polly's conviction or Arthur's fear. Why should he? It was all just smoke and mirrors, nonsense, and charlatanry. Nothing to lose sleep over, he thought, as he tossed one of the earrings up in the air and caught it again.

Thank you for reading - I'd love to hear your thoughts

Taglist

Overall

@lilyrachelcassidy @jyessaminereads @chlorrox @watercolorskyy @books-livre @quarterpastmidnight @lilyevanswhore @polishcrazyone @zablife @just-a-harmless-patato @stevie75 @flyingjosephine-blog @runnning-outof-time @cillmequick @babayaga67 @butterfly-skinnylegend @shelbydelrey @mrkdvidal1989 @raincoffeeandfandoms @midnightmagpiemama @adaydreamaway08 @kmc1989 @trixie23

Tommy

@knowledgefulbutterfly @babayaga67 @signorellisantichrist @lespendy @geeksareunique @look-at-the-soul @lothbrokcore @rangerelik @elenavampire21 @evanore

#valentineswritings #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby x reader #young!tommy shelby #young!tommy #the spirits that i summoned #little diable15k

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valentineswritings · 1 year

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Grief is a monster One with terrible fangs It's a funny little creature Spitting venom where it nests The more it's wished away The harder it bites It creeps through cobwebs Rotting away all it touches A parasite that won't die Not even with time The further we run The closer it seems to get It tears tiny holes Through broken flesh Day after day A fate none can escape Grief is a monster

By Valentine

#valentineswritings #poetry #poets #poet #poem #poems #writing #writers #words #grief

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valentinewritesmuses · 1 year

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It took me a few weeks but I have an official writing blog. I won’t be roleplaying anymore so if anyone wants to stay in contact with me, follow me at https://www.tumblr.com/valentineswritings

<3333

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aemtargg · 1 year

Note

Not one-shots but just small multichapter fics, i forgot the others but I recommend these two:

Dragon's Blood by ValentinesWritings

False Altars by oakenshields

Both fics are also in tumblr but the usernames are their ao3 accounts

Ok 🙂 Thanks for letting me know! I appreciate it!

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merovingianprincess · 1 year

Note

Growing Pains by Lilibethwrites (AO3&Tumblr)

For the Love of Books by bustlesandbustiers (ao3)

Dragon's Blood & A Fair Exchange by ValentinesWritings (AO3 & Tumblr)

Thank you!!!

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valentinesecho · 7 years

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Rules: tag 10 of your followers you wanna know better

(But I have no friends fam) (I barely have any followers at all) (Half of my followers are porn blogs) (I can’t blame them tho) (I look like a porno tbh) (Im just that attractive) (Also, I was tagged to do this by @taste-the-monochrome)(Thanks for tagging me bb)

Nicknames: That bitch, Slut, Val, Asshole, Idiot. Those are all nicknames I call myself.

Height: 5′6 or 5′7 (Goddammit, why is everyone so fuckin tall?)

Time right now: 2;25 am

Last thing I googled: Not gonna lie, I googled the word Variety to make sure I was spelling it right and using the word correctly

Fave music artist: The Neighbourhood, Hollywood Undead, Starset, Get Scared, Creature Feature, Lady Gaga, Neon Trees, Theory Of A Deadman,

Song stuck in my head: Im in Love With An Angel by Theory Of A Deadman

Last movie I watched: The Nightmare Before Christmas, by Tim Burton

Last TV show I watched: Uh... idk... I think Ouran Highschool Host Club?

What I’m wearing now: Lmao... A black Blink-182 shirt with the bitch ass killer rabbit on it, and a pair of plaid patterned dark pink and green pajama pants

When I created this blog: I think last August. I forgot tbh

The kind of stuff I post: Idk... Apparently pretty funny shit, cause I hit 50 followers last night (Congratu-fucking-lations, bitch)

Do I have other blogs: Yes, ValentinesWriting and ValentinesArt, go follow them, 10/10 content, (I don’t post very much on them though)

Do I get asks regularly: Nah, and frankly, I don’t give a damn (Yes that was a reference)

Why did I choose my URL: Idk... I just included my name and my other personalities name..

Gender: Born as a female, don’t give a shit what you call me

Hogwarts House: I took the test on the website and it said I was a Ravenclaw. Im not that into Harry Potter, but whatever man

Pokemon team: Instinct

Fave colors: Black, Pastel Colours, Indigo, Electric Blue, White, Gold, Silver

Average hours of sleep: Usually 8-12, when I do sleep

Lucky number: 3

Favorite characters: All of the characters in my book, Srsly you should ask me about it, it’s gr8, 10/10 would write again (No I wouldn’t, fuck that book)

Dream job: Famous/Internet Famous Author

Number of blankets I sleep with: 1 big blanket, 1 or two small blankets

Following: Your mum to the bedroom ( ͡◉ ͜ʖ ͡◉)

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notyour-valentine · 2 years

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Strawberry Red ~ Tommy Shelby x Reader (Angst)

[Masterlist] [Taglist]

Summary: After two years, Tommy reunites with Grace, but the same things that once intrigued him, do the opposite now

Note: You have chosen- I hope you enjoy. This is technically a follow up to Blackberry Stains but it can stand alone.

I do not consent to my work being translated, copied or posted elsewhere on this platform or any other. This hasn't been beta'd so I apologise for typos or mistakes

Warning: mention of PTSD, cheating

Request: no

Wordcount: 1992 words

He couldn’t help staring, but for all the wrong reasons.

Back then, two years ago, he had been enthralled by her.

She had been a novelty at first, and like all curiosities, had drawn attention.

And his gaze had lingered.

She had been bold. She had been brave and straight-forward, even foolishly so and that had intrigued him.

How unlike (Y/N) she had been!

From the way she spoke, not just the foreign accent but the confidence that dripped from every word, every sentence laced with certainty.

Even her walk was different, not hasty, with her head held high the way very few women in Small Heath did, having been taught all their lives to evade attention and the risks that would contain.

Not that anyone with half an ounce of brains would ever dare to look at (Y/N) the wrong way, but there had been a time before Tommy had made his name and before hers was intertwined with his.

And all these barefooted, hungry years left a mark on the body and soul.

The way she did her hair was different. The men didn’t mind of course, but she was wearing it open the way no respectable working woman would have thought to do. It would only get in the way of the meals that needed cooking and the chores that needed doing.

Meals for his siblings, for his nephews. Meals for him.

Even the way she would dress was different, so many bright, pale colours that made her blue eyes shine.

(Y/N) had one white blouse- the good blouse, work only for special occasions and never for longer than an hour or two because she never would have thought to wear it during the preparing or the cleaning up.

Otherwise she’d stick to darker colours that wouldn’t show the stains and would be more forgiving to alterations and mending.

All these differences had added a shine to Grace.

And back then, he had drowned himself in them.

And yet every single detail that had captured his eye and caught his attention merely two years ago, haunting his dreams ever since, now only seemed wrong to him - like flaws in the design that he had been blind to back then.

It wasn’t her fault.

Nor was it anyone else’s.

But the longer Tommy watched her, listened to her, looked at her - really looked at her, the more something under his skin began to itch.

As the evening went on, everything fell in place just as he had planned it.

She was intrigued by his idea and liked the taste of the expensive champagne they served at the Goring.

But when she smiled, he felt no sense of achievement or accomplishment - instead his eyes lingered on those lips, painted red, making it even more obvious that their smile was wide and honest, but not a bit lopsided. It didn’t make little wrinkles appear in the corners of her eyes that would promise to be permanent marks of joys passed in years to come.

He felt the way her hand tightened on his arm in excitement as they approached the surprise for the evening - his arm, not his hand.

She had always taken his hand, ever since he had grabbed hers for the very first time when he had been barely seven, and the shopkeeper was after them for picking up the apple that had fallen off of the cart. His screaming had startled her frozen, and so Tommy had to pull her away.

She had reached for his hand ever since, in good times and in bad.

Tommy felt his own muscles twitch on their own accord, turning his palm to the woman at his side, expecting her to lace her fingers with his, only her hand never left the bend of his arm.

Why should they?

But in their absence, his hand closed into a fist to fill the void.

Her eyes widened in awe when he introduced her to Charlie Chaplin, but they had the wrong shade and so he perceived the delight in them as if it was dulled by the presence of a veil which he couldn’t lift.

Because there was nothing to lift, nothing he could pull away, no switch to press that would reveal her.

She was gone, but he had left her first.

Back at Ada’s home, a house he had bought as the prize of his ambition, he watched the flickering light of the fire and the reflections it threw on the marble mantlepiece, on the crystal chandelier.

It turned his whisky to glowing amber and made her pale hair appear golden.

Grace was stunning, with her soft, laid, light hair, with her pale eyes that looked at him in adoration and painted lips.

Arguably, she was far prettier than (Y/N), with these looks of hers that could turn heads and would capture attention. They had done so tonight the same way they had done at the Garrison.

But she wasn’t nearly as beautiful.

In the smoothness of her skin he missed the tiny scar on her temple from where she had hit her head chasing after baby Anna, back when she had been just a little girl herself.

Her eyes were clear and beautiful, like a cut jewel in the shop window that was worth more than half a street of houses back home, but they also seemed strangely cold, without a trace of the warmth he could always find in hers.

Her lips were full and shapely, but she never bit the inside of them in a failing attempt to stop a smile from falling.

Grace had painted them with some expensive lipstick that while keeping the colour on her lips, had left little trace on the gold rim of the champagne flute.

But all Tommy could think of was how the strawberries had turned her lips a shining red that one spring day. He had fed them to her and couldn’t resist the temptation to mash them against her lips until their juice was spread far beyond her mouth, not even sparing the tip of her nose.

Their kisses had been sticky and tasted of more sweetness than could ever come just from the fruits alone.

When he was on his second whisky, the third of the night, Tommy was no longer able to block out the question that was burning on the tip of his tongue.

Why?

And that meant having to face the answer, which was as pathetic as it was obvious.

Because she was different.

That was all it was - the same way crowds were drawn to curiosities, and children cooed around new born kittens.

That had pulled him in and he had stayed because they had been different too, but in a darker way.

Four years of hardship and two brothers to bury had left their mark on her soul, just like the bruises on her knees from praying for them. The rationing had taken its toll on her health, just like with Ada and Polly. With little meat to go around, they gave it all to the children, causing their iron levels to plummet and their heads to spin with dizziness more than they ever had before.

He saw her lingering looks on the pictures and the way she always sighed after ending her prayers - her prayers for the fallen.

Yes, she had been different and her change had frightened him, but it was nothing compared to how he had been altered.

Despite it all, she was still the same girl he had left behind, the one he had let turn his head, but the boy she had fallen for in turn, the one she had been in love with, no longer existed.

And the man that had come back was nothing but a poor replacement, unworthy of the love and care she sought to place upon him.

Geeing how he could not hide these changes in him from her shattered him even more than any difference in her behaviour ever could.

She had been as soft and tender as she had always been, offering him all that care and gentleness he had longed for every night in France, but there had been something else in her eyes too.

There had been concern and that had been too much for him to face.

And so Tommy had betrayed her.

It wasn't the night he had spent with Grace, his betrayal had started long before that, he knew now, and he had repeated it again and again.

No, his betrayal smelled of the dried lavender she had put under their pillows because she had heard in the bathhouse from some other women that it had worked with their husbands, and of the smoke when he had tossed it into the flames.

Betrayal tasted of all those meals she cooked for him, the old favourites and when they failed new curiosities- something different every day, no matter how much time it took to prepare or how expensive the ingredients were, just to get him to eat. They all tasted of betrayal as they sat there untouched and uncherished.

It was as bitter as the tea he had let grow cold time and time again, ignoring it the same way he ignored the homemade biscuits she always placed alongside it.

Betrayal was the sound of the squeaking bed when he turned his back to her each and every night and felt as cold as the absence of her hand in his shoulder for all the times he had shrugged it off.

That was betrayal and it haunted him every day and every night since.

All the efforts he had discarded, every item or person a witness to his crime, silently accusing him.

He spared Grace the birth of this feeling that night, and sent her back to her husband who was rich and good and kind to her without so much as a kiss.

In the end, despite the way their evening had begun, she had looked confused, but he had never felt more certain

She wouldn’t soothe the ache in his chest, for that there were too many difference his mind refused to look past and two much regret in him for his mind to allow him pleasure, even of the basest kind.

Alone again, he stretched himself out on the hardboard floor in front of the fireplace, sighing deeply.

Despite his efforts, Tommy never found out where she had gone. She had left without a trace, or at least without any he had cared enough to notice at the time and he hadn't asked questions before it was too late.

Now all the birthday presents and Christmas cards that came for everyone but him were sent with love and care but without a return address. Without even a postage stamp. And yet all the people he paid to watch the streets for her when another of these days approached, saw nothing, least of all her.

So he had no chance of knowing where she was, which city or which country even.

He did not know which bed she was sleeping in, or who might be right there beside her, hearing the soft whispers if her breath.

The thought made white anger boil up inside him but it was quickly suffocated by the realisation that he had forfeited any claim to her.

He had discarded her love and affection, her kisses and the softness of her embrace, her tenderness and her efforts.

They were hers to give and he had rejected them. Why should she not give them to someone else?

Grace had moved on too, so why shouldn't she?

Because I can't.

No, Tommy did not know any of these things, but he knew that she would have two blankets in her bed, no matter how hot it might get.

He knew that she would have that wooden cross hanging right over her head as she slept, and a picture of her parents on her bedside.

He knew that he could find a handkerchief in the top drawer.

He knew that she would have laid out her clothes for the next day to allow her a few minutes more in the morning and that she would have done that just after cleaning the kitchen the night before, no matter how late it got, or how little there was to do.

He knew it all, that and more and he would know until his dying day.

Even as the fire faded, Tommy stayed on the floor, slowly letting the memories strangle him, while he told himself the burning in his eyes was from the smoke alone.

End.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it and would love to hear your thoughts!

Tag lists:

Overall

@lilyrachelcassidy @jyessaminereads @watercolorskyy @books-livre @chlorrox @quarterpastmidnight @lilyevanswhore @polishcrazyone @zablife @just-a-harmless-patato

Tommy

@knowledgefulbutterfly @babayaga67 @signorellisantichrist @lespendy

#valentineswritings #tommy shelby #thomas shelby #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelmy imagine #thomas shelby imagine #tommy shelby fanfic #thomas shelby fanfic #tommy shelby angst #thomas shelby angst #peaky blinders #peaky blinders imagine #strawberry red #blackberry stains

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notyour-valentine · 6 months

Text

Barbe Bleue (Tommy Shelby x Reader Angst)

[Masterlist] [Taglist]

Summary: Beware, beware...

Note: This is a very much belated contribution to @zablife and her celebration. Congratulations once more - I hope you enjoy nevertheless!

Warning: death, violence, dead bodies - also quite literally pardon my french

Wordcount: 4565 words

She remembered everything about the day of their first meeting, the sun turning the sea to shining aquamarine, the terracotta tiles of the roof taking on the shade of a precious wine.

It had been a beautiful day in a beautiful place, warm, but not too warm for the children to play outside. There had been boys playing at soldiers, or outlaws, or even cowboys, and some girls playing a skipping game.

“Méfie-toi, méfie-toi, méfie-toi.”, they had sung, as the rope picked up speed, before sending one of the girls in the middle. “Première épouse, Deuxième épouse,…”

They had added to the melody of the place just like the whispering of the wind in the trees, and the waves splashing against the cliffs.

That was the day she had first met Thomas Shelby.

He was a businessman, he had said, one of many that came to these parts, yet one of few that came alone, without wives or girlfriends or mistresses. It seemed almost like he had truly been here just for business.

He had never said if this particular endeavor had been a success, but theirs had.

They had driven up to the hills, in that shiny polished car of his that he had let her drive at the end of their few days together.

Then he had invited her to London, not just said it, but paid for her travel and accommodation for the five days she was there.

During the days she had been sightseeing or shopping, with him meeting her for lunch or tea and then always in the evenings. They went to the theatre, to the opera, the ballet.

And a few months after that, they had holidayed together in Rome, eight days just him and her and la dolce vita.

By the end he had asked her to marry him - and how could she say no?

She had met many people, many men, in her time. Some were generous, some were kind, some were affectionate, some were attentive. Few were all.

Mr Thomas Shelby was one of those few.

So it was no choice at all, was it?

There was only one time where she met his family ahead of the wedding, and perhaps it was why she was so keen on memorizing all she could about them.

They were an interesting lot.

There was Mrs Gray, an aunt, who was wearing more glitter and shine than a Christmas tree, from earrings, to bracelets, necklaces and brooches.

All, she noted, the most expensive Art Deco cuts money could buy.

There was the sister, Mrs Thorne, who favoured less flashy items both in jewelry and clothes, but no less pricey. She could tell from a mile away.

There were brothers too, to go with the sister. The elder with his narrowed eyes and scarred knuckles, seemed keen to avoid her gaze.

The younger made an effort to hold her gaze, to keep his soft hands in the pockets of his tailored jacket, and his jaw muscles’ clenched.

He was a boy, she could tell, who would have taken great offence to being called that.

They were kind enough, she had to admit, but there were gazes she did not like, whispers she could not catch and words she could not place.

“She’s got some shoes to fill.”

But she knew she would be happy with Thomas, she just knew she would.

Arrow House was their home, a large country home on a sprawling piece of land. And all theirs. It had been Thomas’s for nearly a decade now, but now it would be their home, for their future.

Thrice’s the charm. That was what one of the chauffeurs had said with a shrug.

There were rules of course, as in any house. He didn’t like her in the basement, fraternising with the servants he said. What an oddly harsh way of putting it. Nor did he want her climbing to the attic. There was nothing up there and the stairs were unsafe. And who would want to have a ladder snap out from under them?

Oh and his office was to be his alone. He didn’t want her meddling in his business, not that it was of interest of her anyway, he assured her.

Not the attic, not the office, not the basement.

With all the other rooms, she could do without them, would probably never have wondered what lay behind those doors if he hadn’t made such a point of it, but it wasn’t worth starting an argument over.

There was so much else to explore!

Not just the many rooms, and the paintings on the walls, the expensive furniture, the vast library, that had predated his ownership of the house for generations, she was sure, but other fineries.

The silverware was old, she recognized quickly, but it was placed in cupboards with new china, the industrial kind, but by no means cheap. She recognised the gold rims and gold paintings on one set from a catalog a few years back, done to replicate the Fabregé style just a few years after they lost most of their customers in tragedy.

Quite…flashy.

But there was another set, also new, but in shape and colour more reminiscent of the classical style in softer colours, like the late baroque, but in the style of the European Art Deco.

Both sets seemed barely used, with even and matching numbers of plates and cups, no chips, no scratches. Two brand new sets of china just a few years apart that, apart of time and pricing, couldn’t be more different.

A few days after her discovery, she had almost forgotten it, but Frances, the housemaid asked her if, as Mistress of the House, she wanted to purchase a new set of china. “No need to squeeze another one in the cupboards.”; she told her in the lightest tone she could muster, expecting a giggle or smile at least, since she was in charge of delegating the cleaning duties and wouldn’t welcome yet another dust collector.

Instead, the woman had grown pale.

The contents of the cupboards could only occupy her for so much, especially when compared to the gardens.

There was a traditional rose garden, with stone statues. Three looked as old as the house, but two were far less tormented by time and weather, only showing the earliest of marks.

The vegetable garden was carrying well, and as the gardeners told her, but two years from their first rotation, to keep in mind if she wanted to keep the vegetable garden.

She saw no reason to remove it.

Beyond it, just beyond the walls she could see dents in the grass where supporting pillars must’ve stood once, and up until not too long ago - but long enough for grass to regrow.

When she asked the gardeners what had stood there before that, he told her he didn’t remember, but that he would help her with any changes she wished.

Thomas had told her she could reshape the garden to whatever she desired.

“I shall take my time before making any rash decisions.”, she assured the gardener as they passed the flowerbeds with the yellow roses. “It takes time for ideas to take root, just like flowers.”

“Oh aye,”; he said without the smile she had been hoping for. “If they have enough time to get to spread them.”

How curious northern humor was!

Beyond the gardens were the stables, a large, renovated facility with extra rooms for the saddles, reins, crops and boots.

She saw men’s boots of all sizes, sturdy and worn, partly even mended.

Only in a dust covered box in the corner did she find women’s boots, a white pair and a brown one.

The white leather boots were delicately worked, yet seemed highly impractical to her. The brown pair, though made from soft leather, seemed more sturdy and reliable. They were also two thumb widths longer.

Neither shoe had been worn long enough to create true creases.

Upon spotting her discovery, the stable boy told her there was a shoemaker in London who she could seek out, but she declined.

The next time she visited the stables, with Thomas, the box had disappeared. What a shame, she had liked the azure-painted wood. It had always been her favourite colour.

And the time she went to retrieve the silver candelabra, she found the shelves below void of both baroque pastels and gold shimmer.

How strange.

What remained though were the outlines in the tapestry she could spot on her way up and down the stairs. There were two, where there was almost a pale shadow behind paintings of horses, peaking out behind the frames. One shadow had almost disappeared if the morning light didn’t betray it, but another was more noticeable.

Still, she didn’t like the case of the disappearing china. It wasn’t her taste, of course, but she had quite liked the way the pale blue looked against the white of the cup.

Of course, she could have asked Frances or the maids, but she was nothing if not a self-reliant woman. Where would one put old china? The basement? The office? The attic?

Certainly not the office, she thought, giggling at her own joke, so she opted to try the attic.

Careful as not to lose balance or break through the old wood, she crept upward, only to find it truly reliable.

The attic was as all attics were, with old furniture, forgotten trinkets and a few suitcases.

She wouldn’t have spared them a second glance if she had not noticed a peaking shimmer of silver from a fray that had snuck out from its leathery prison.

Her curiosity sparked, she opened them.

Each and every one of the suitcases were filled with clothes, suitcase upon suitcase of women’s clothes from stockings and underwear, to fur-lined winter coats. As always, the sparkling evening dresses captured her attention most of all - the shimmer and shine, the beads and glittery frays.

But not all the dresses were at similar lengths, in fact, about half the dresses would be too short for her to wear, while the other half would be too long.

How strange - especially since they were both in the fashion of the last decade, after the war and the stagnation that came after, created in the rush of the new world, with wider cuts, shorter skirts and blinding shimmer and shine.

It was a true shame to leave such pieces rotting in the attic but she didn’t know who they belonged to, Mrs Grey? Some were certainly flashy enough? Mrs Throne - some perhaps.

Either way, the gowns were all so very recognisable, she wouldn’t make a fool of herself by being seen wearing another woman’s clothes.

While Thomas’s office was forbidden to her, and perhaps in exchange too, she had an office of her own, looking over the gardens, with a plush sofa, a delicate writing desk, and freshly cropped flowers brought to her each day.

Next to the sofa was a small side table with two drawers. In the first was nothing, emptied out to be filled with her heart's desire.

In the second, she found anything to avert a spontaneous catastrophe, from handkerchiefs, to needle and thread, and a little envelope holding buttons in case one came loose.

What a thrifty choice, especially since she knew that Frances and the maids had sewing supplies downstairs.

Still, any well-educated girl should be able to sew her own cuff buttons back on, and inside. She found a collection of those.

Only upon folding it again, did she see the letterhead identifying the sender. Mrs T. Shelby it read, in dark red, almost maroon lettering.

She thought nothing of it, except that her predecessor must’ve been either a very serious woman, or a very professional one. It looked almost like the kind of font used for company writing rather than a private letterhead.

She knew, of course she knew, that there had been a Mrs Shelby before her.

Thomas had told her all about that - well, not all about it, but she knew of her and that their marriage did not end on good terms.

What more did she need to know? She certainly didn’t care for much else.

The previous Mrs Shelby didn’t seem to be missed much by his family as they never spoke a hint of her, nor the staff. Besides, she was Mrs Shelby now. What should she concern herself with the previous one?

Does spring wonder how winter’s tidings fared?

Most unfortunately for her, Thomas was frequently away on business, and she soon found herself forced to find use for her time. Eventually, even she relented and began to browse the bookshelves. Most were old classics that were better known than read, and dry books of law and higher learning.

Occasionally she spotted a book of poetry, or geography or history. One book did indeed catch her interest - a book about the unfortunate wives of the increasingly unshaped Henry VIII.

She remembered a sing-song game about the man, skipping back and forth on chalk-bordered lines: “Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived.”, all aiming of course for the last and most fortunate spot. As a child she had done so too. Of course now she knew that Anna of Cleeve had the greatest luck - and sense - of all of them.

Beside it was a book on yet another Queen who through no fault of her own came to miss her head, and as she pulled out the book she had selected in the hope of familiarising herself more with her new homeland, it caught in the binding and was thrown off the shelves.

As she picked it up, she noticed the folded letter paper someone had used as a bookmark between the pages.

On it was a list of names, three for boys, three for girls.

Charles - Alexander - John - Sophie - Marjorie - Jane

The names were of no concern to her, not compared to what she saw printed on top of the page.

Mrs T. Shelby.

In purple, looped writing.

Her thumb brushed over it, tracing the looped S, the hooped L, the way the letters were all strung together in a girlish way, like the first word of a fairy tale in a children’s book.

Not at all professional.

And a complete clash with maroon.

She did not mention the letter and envelope to Thomas, much like the dresses. But this time it wasn’t for lack of thought. In truth it was anything but - she thought in professional maroon writing, and breathed in looped purple lettering, the contrast, the mismatch, the utter dissonance making her temples throb.

It was the same temple Thomas caressed as he pushed hair out of her face, saying how much he would enjoy a portrait of hers to hang in his study.

It wasn’t an unreasonable request - many new paintings adorned his walls, of him and his brothers, standing, a horse, or even sitting in a group. Some included his sister and aunt, while others contained just the woman.

The only reason someone should own more than one painting of oneself is if one owned more than one house to show them in.

Her husband seemed to disagree.

In fact, he seemed very keen on it.

She could tell by the clothes the women wore and the hair they had when they had been immortalised when they had been painted.

It was more difficult with the ever-so-boring clothing choice of the men.

“Frances?”, she asked one afternoon, looking at the large family portrait in the dining room.

“Mrs Shelby?”

“Where is the painting of the previous Mrs Shelby?”, she wanted to know.

“Mrs Shelby?”, the older woman said, sounding almost frightened at her suggestion.

“I’d like to see it please.”

“Tha- there is no portrait here.”, she stammered, shifting uncomfortably.

“No?”, she asked. “Where is it?”

“Gone.”, Frances quickly said and rushed to leave.

Gone. Maybe so, but that didn’t mean she didn’t know where it was gone from, not when she so clearly saw the thin line of paler tapestry peeking out behind the painting of the horse, or the lining on top of the painting of the doe in the forest.

Two signs, two paintings.

It wouldn’t be unusual for a man who had not one but four paintings of himself in his house to have more than one of his wife.

But as she looked at the horse and the doe, she did wonder if one maybe showed a woman in purple and the other a woman in maroon.

From the window she could look out to where the gardener’s children were playing, a game of skipping rope.

It brought back the memories of that very first day, and the melody the girls had been chirping.

Méfie-toi, méfie-toi, méfie-toi.

The shoes disappeared, just like the china had done, and she was sure if she had told a soul of the suitcases in the attic they would suffer the same fate if they hadn’t already. The letter paper and envelope could burn, or be hidden easily, but not the outline on the walls, no matter how little of it was shown.

She knew because she passed them every single day, and every single day she would let her eyes confirm what could not be erased. Father time remained undefeated - flowers wilted, women aged, colours faded, some to light, some to dark, but they faded all the same and once the petals had dropped, once the wrinkle had formed, there was no smoothing it back out again.

But she wasn’t there yet, not quite, and she knew well how to play her part, and so she took great care in wearing the jewelry Thomas not only bought her, all his money did that, but picked them out himself.

They were neither the most exquisite nor the most tasteful of her collection, but wearing it was what a good wife did and would undoubtedly please him greatly and the last thing she wanted was for him to stop buying her jewelry.

So she wore the necklace, and the matching earrings and the matching bracelet she had gotten over the course of a year - birthday, wedding anniversary and Christmas respectively, but the pins she clasped in her delicately laid hair were her own.

Just a little touch of elegance wouldn’t hurt, not that many would understand. Tonight's extravagance was for business partners she had never heard of, as, like her aunt-in-law so generously put it, insight to family business only extended to blood.

On the way down, as the silks of her gown whispered against her thighs, she could see the outlines of the replaced paintings even in the flickering lights that illuminated the rooms for the night.

But while the electricity was fickle, her smile never failed, nor did the sharpness of her gaze.

Just because it was not hers to know, did not mean she had no interest in finding out.

After most were on the closing sips of their first glass of champagne, Thomas and Arthur and a few other men moved onto a more private discussion for which a change of scenery seemed necessary.

She saw them leave through the door to the library but when she went there for some much needed air, it was empty.

That only left a return to the hallway, which was filled with guests, or the servant’s staircase at the back.

Not up, she thought, someone who took such great care to remove themselves from a situation would not then choose the option that limited their movement further.

So down it was, to the kitchens and cellars and storage rooms.

All day there had been a hassle to rival the preparations for war, with everything being prepared only to the finest of standards, clattering of pots and pans, shouting of a handful of cooks over a dozen kitchen helpers, the murmur of honest work being completed.

Now there was anything but.

Granted, they had settled the menu for tonight to allow for maximum flexibility, but that did not mean the complete absence of work, nor of people.

A lady of the house snooping about in the kitchens, of course only to inquire after the selection of brandy Thomas ought to have made for after dinner, if asked, would not go unnoticed- if there was anyone left to notice.

But it was as if all birds had escaped the cage, all chickens fluttered out the den, all horses escaped the pasture. There was no sound, no sight, nothing but the buzzing of the event upstairs.

Until she smelled the smoke of the cigarettes coming from behind the kitchen.

Walking on her tiptoes to prevent her heels from giving herself away, she crept closer, until she could touch the cold wall, just below where the window was tilted open to let the kitchen smoke escape - and now let the cigarette smoke in.

“-....gotta change me shirt before we get back.”, she heard Thomas say, followed by a slight, strained cough. For a man so keen on appearances, he was so easy to slip back into his old speech patterns when with his brother. Such a mistake was so easily and obviously avoidable, but when in the company of Arthur, it was a certainty for him.

“Yeah, yeah, you do that Tom. I’ll just get some boys to clean up the mess in the meat room.”, she heard her brother-in-law mumble.

She removed herself quickly, if either one of them decided to use the kitchen door to get back in and held her breath until she knew it was clear.

How strange - that Arthur would want the meat room cleaned in the middle of a party, she thought, as she kept her company with the storage boxes of wine, both new and those predating her husband’s purchase of the house.

It was an easy guessing game of which was which, but not one she was interested in, and with Arthur’s promise to return quickly, she’d have to move quicker still.

Glancing left and right, before she reached for the door knob, she was surprised to find it locked. The easy thing would have been to ask Frances or the cook for a key, as they both had one or to retrieve the spare key in the butler’s office, the appropriate thing would have been to return to the celebration. The smart thing, the only thing that would satiate her more, was to pull one of her bejeweled hair pins out of the back of her updo and twirl it between her fingers.

Locks were so much like men, one just had to know which buttons to press and how to do it, but after a bit of fumbled wiggling, both inevitably gave in.

It opened with a slight click, making her heart flutter with excitement, as she pushed it open with her shoulder, gathering her skirts in anticipation of the unsavory stains of blood and worse that would stain the white tiled rooms.

But when she looked up, she was met with eyes, a pair of warm brown eyes ripped wide open as if surprised to see her - only they didn’t see her. They couldn’t see her.

The pin slipped from her hands as she clasped them tightly over her face to keep herself from screaming, disappearing in a scarlet puddle as she stared at the man, at his eyes, his parted lips, and the metal hook that had been driven through his throat, holding his lifeless body up at the place where he had met his end.

There was another, further back, his body slumped to the side like a forgotten sack of coal, with his face turned away from her, blood still seeping out from under him.

And there was a third, laying on the table where the butchers would prepare the game after a hunt, his hand but an inch from a cleaver, still reaching it seemed.

One. Two. Three.

All men she had seen just moments ago, with life in their eyes and strength in their limbs as they left the dining room for the library - left with Arthur and Thomas.

She did not even realise she was running until she reached the door to their bedroom, her mind remembering in the very last moment that Thomas had spoken about changing, so she turned in the opposite direction, all the way down the hall to one of the countless guest rooms.

They would house some guest or cousin for the night who had already unpacked, but she didn’t care as she slammed the door shut, her fingers slipping again and again as she turned the lock.

She wanted to scream, to hurl, to curl up in the corner and weep, for herself as much as the three she had seen. She wanted to fill her coat lining with jewels and run, run straight to the train station, on a ship - to the Americas, or Australia, or Africa - anywhere, anywhere but here.

But she couldn’t leave.

She couldn’t stay here either. Soon she would be missed, if she wasn’t already. No, she had to go down. She had to smile, to talk, to drink, to dance because if she didn’t the guests would know, and worse, Thomas would know.

Her whole body tensed as if the muscles wanted to burst forth, escaping the prison of her skin like rats scurrying away from a sinking ship as she pressed her palms against the wood of the door, forcing herself to breathe, to calm herself, to think - to think on everything that happened, to draw on everything she knew.

She’d survive this, she’d have to. If anyone could, it would be her.

When she turned she could see her reflection in the mirror glass, the abyss of nighttime beyond, painted lips, perfect hair, jewels given by her husband and a silk gown tailored to perfection.

She was the image of elegance and perfection, and when she smiled, no one would ever know. No one could ever know. She would not let them.

By the time she had descended down the stairs, not even her hand was shaking anymore, only her heart was thundering in her chest. It was the only part of her body she could not control, the only thing she could not subjugate to her will, not as she talked to the guests, not as she took her husband's arm, not as she beamed and clapped for his toast.

It thumped and thumped and thumped.

Only in the mingling after the drinks, between billiards and card games, in the haze of exotic cigars did she see Arthur and Thomas talking again, their backs turned.

As if feeling her gaze, Thomas turned.

She smiled at him, the perfect, perfect wife, before turning back to the guest she was talking to, an older woman who had been telling her about her granddaughters.

They would be of an age, she thought, with the girls she had watched that very first time she had met Tommy.

In that very moment the thumping of her heart seemed to match the rhythm of a skipping rope, being hurled through the air in a shadowed street on a distant shore, perfectly in sync with the bright laughter of girls and the song they sang.

“Méfie-toi, méfie-toi, méfie-toi de Barbe-Bleue.“

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Tommy

@knowledgefulbutterfly @babayaga67 @signorellisantichrist @lespendy @geeksareunique @look-at-the-soul @lothbrokcore @rangerelik @elenavampire21 @evanore @dandelionprints

#valentineswritings #tommy shelby #thomas shelby #peaky blinders #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby / reader #tommy shelby & reader #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby / reader #thomas shelby & reader #tommy shelby imagine #thomas shelby imagine #tommy shelby x reader imagine #thomas shelby x reader imagine #peaky blinders imagine #barbe bleue

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notyour-valentine · 1 year

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Irene's Delights ~ Tommy Shelby x Reader (Fluff)

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Summary: After Tommy disappears from a party, she goes out to find him

Note: Written for K @runnning-outof-time s floral 3K celebration! I hope you enjoy

Warning: mention of war, PTSD

Wordcount: 1868 words

She was glad to leave the stuffy air and noise behind.

Not that she was a bore, but the Shelbys and their closest friends were a loud and merry bunch, quick to laugh, drink, sing, cheer, scream, shout and celebrate until there was little left of the music to hear.

Most of the Shelbys that was. But not the one she sought most.

She had thought she had seen him slip out through the terrasse door a little while ago and when he hadn’t returned since, she thought that was her safest bet.

The night air was crisp but the night starless, with only the moon standing as a proud witness high above the usually so peaceful countryside.

Even tonight the luscious plains, large trees and gentle springs swallowed all sound of the celebration with gracious ease as only a few paces further down the terrace, she could hear the stone under her heels.

She searched in the darkness for the familiar red glow of his cigarette, for the sound of footsteps, for his voice calling out to her but was disappointed on all counts.

“Tommy?”, she called as she rubbed the goosebumps on her arms. “Tommy, are you still out there?”

“Yes.”

The simple, soft spoken answer came closer than she would have thought, barely a few feet away from the edges of their garden.

Her mistake had been looking on eye-level, searching for a man standing or leaning, not laying down in the damp grass, suit, leather shoes and all.

Even now he made no attempt of getting to his feet, and so it was up to her to make her way to him.

Once she had thought that any green that belonged to a house was a garden, but that was before all this. Now they had gardens, several, and grounds, but amidst and above all that they still had a garden, their garden, where she planted and tended to some vegetables and the odd flower, although the gardeners were far more talented than she could ever hope to be.

This little speck of land couldn’t compare to the vast beauty of the rose garden, but still Tommy had chosen this of all places.

“And is there any reason why you’ve been out here all night?”, she asked, half amused, half irritated. “You’ll end up catching a cold!”

He only huffed in response, his skin turned to silver by the moon.

“What if you get sick, hm, what then?”, she asked, knowing the answer. He would refuse to admit it to himself, making any and every symptom worse in the process only for him to collapse at the foot of the mountain of his own ambition, rendering him completely bedridden for a few days, finally submitting to the doctor’s advice after refusing to even hear of it for the preceding days.

They had played that game before, and every time they repeated each move.

Best to avoid the match all together it seemed.

“I’ll be fine, love.”, Tommy promised, as he always did.

But he didn’t sound fine, not that he sounded sick either. Just…strange.

“Won’t you come back inside?”, she asked.

“No.”, he replied, his gaze firmly locked on the skies.

“Not even to have a dance with me?”, she tried to coax with a hint of a smile playing on her lips.

“Not tonight, love.”, he replied.

She sighed, glancing from him to the house where his family was still celebrating to the utmost possability.

“Well, it’s a little rude to leave your family and your guests unattended. I’m sure they’re missing you.”

After all, it was his brother’s wedding and they were hosting it at their home.

“You think?”, Tommy asked, sneering almost.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”, she asked, feeling a different cold to the one of the night air.

At first his only response was a deep and long sigh and when she crouched down next to him, she could see a strange look in his eyes.

“Tommy?”, she asked, stroking his cheek.

“I’m sure they’re just fine without me there. Probably happier in my absence.”, he grumbled.

“Why would you say that?”, she asked. “Surely not because of Linda…”

She was a strange choice for Arthur, for any one of them really, and she wasn’t easy to like. For that she was too forthcoming, too smiley, just too much - too much to be believed truly genuine.

But Tommy had made every background check possible to man and found nothing, and she made Arthur happy, and better to, so this was it. As of 11:34 this morning, Linda was a Shelby, a change celebrated at their house, although not everyone had adhered to her request to have no alcohol served apart from one celebratory toast of champagne.

“It’s not Linda.”, Tommy mumbled, shaking his head just slightly. “It’s not her…”

His words ended in a long near neverending sigh.

“What is it, Tommy?”, she asked again.

“Nothing, I’m just tired.”, he groaned. “You go back inside, eh? They’ll be missing you.”

“And they won’t miss you?”, she asked.

It had been meant as a joke, with half a smile, but to Tommy that wasn’t it.

“I doubt it.”

“Why would you say that?”, she asked, a chill running down her back that had nothing to do with the way the wind made the rose bush leaves whisper.

Tommy reached up and ran the palm over his hand over his temple, clearly not wanting to answer her question, but she wasn’t about to let this go.

“Tommy, what are you talking about? They are our family, of course they want you there.”

“They’ll say that.”, he agreed, and she was surprised to see resignation and not bitterness in his eyes. “And then, when I’m around, they act differently., because it is like that when I’m around. it’s different.”

“Tommy-”

She wanted to tell him that it was not true, that it was only his imagination but she couldn’t deny that there was truth to his words.

“Don’t try.”, Tommy told her, while she was still searching for something to say, something soothing and meaningful. “You know what it was like before.”

There was only one true ‘before’ in the life of Tommy Shelby, in the life of them all, and so there was no need for further explanation.

“Of course that changed things, but it changed it for us all, and not just for you.”, she tried to soothe.

“But it is different with me.”, Tommy insisted, sitting up as if he had been bitten by a snake, his pale eyes piercing in the darkness of their little garden.

“Because I was the one who was put in charge, I was the one giving orders, me - saying who would go, and where. Not John, not Arthur. I had to make the choices and I haven’t stopped since.”

She reached for him in an attempt to soothe.

“But it’s not like that anymore. You are not their Sergeant Major anymore.”,

“Am I not?”, he asked, his voice thick with the weight of his thoughts, and the heaviness of his heart.

It was enough to shatter her own.

“Sweetheart - “, she whispered, her hand finding the side of his face.

It was cold to the touch and slightly damp from where his silver skin had been caressed by the grass.

“You are doing what you are doing to protect this family. They know that.”

He averted his eyes, no longer able to stand both her touch and her gaze.

“I am not saying your worry and concern is unwarranted.”, she began slowly, “but you cannot place all that responsibility at your feet, Tommy. We are all adults.”

He only huffed in response and so she tried once more to lighten his mood as she stroked her thumb over his cheek.

“Besides, now Arthur is officially primarily Linda’s problem.”

Tommy’s eyes fluttered shut. “He’ll always be my problem.”

“And you will always be his.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but then only sighed, dropping his head.

“Oh my love!”, she said, moving closer and thereby kneeling on the grass herself to allow herself the stability of pulling him close.

“Watch your dress!”, Tommy reminded her. “The grass will stain it.”

He had a point; she was wearing a dress, the same colour of the Irene’s Delight roses when they were in full bloom, it was a gentle pink color, a soft, almost whimsical thing, that wouldn’t stand a chance against the assault of the damp green grass.

“Then I’ll scrub it out.”

It wasn’t a reason to deter her from leaning into him.

A frown appeared on Tommy’s face as he took her hand in his.

One could have thought that years of paperwork and pen pushing would have softened, but the rope and chalk had gotten under his skin in more ways than one.

And yet that roughness was strangely comforting to her. It hadn’t come by hardship, not truly, but rather from hundreds of hours of horsemanship, and to Tommy Shelby there was no greater joy this world could provide.

He turned her hand in his and ran his thumb over her palm.

“You’re not doing any scrubbing with those hands, you hear me?”, he grumbled. “What do you think we have maids for?”

“It won’t kill me.”, she argued, pulling her hand back.

Still, Tommy’s frown only ever seemed to deepen.

“Oh Sweetheart!”, she sighed with a smile. He had so much resting on his shoulders, and always added more weight. Her dress and her hands were the last thing he ought to worry about, the last thing to warrant even a hint of concern,

And so she reached over and cupped his face, bringing his head down to rest on her lap with gentle force.

As soon as he realized her intention, he leaned into her, and when she began to run her fingers through the strands of his hair, he closed his eyes, finally relenting and melting into her touch.

With every stroke, with every caress, the frowns seemed to lessen, and with that, she hoped, his worries.

As she let her hand find a rhythm caressing his hair, she lifted her eyes, seeing the pale moonlight play tricks on the shapes of their garden.

It was a little chaotic, a little unkempt compared to the rest of this mansion of theirs, but it was theirs, and she far preferred these few square feet compared to the vast luxury of the other gardens.

As peaceful as it was, she couldn’t help but think of the war.

It had been a cut in all their lives, changing them all, no matter if they went to the front or remained at home, even if she had no scars to show for it.

So did Tommy, beyond those tattoos and the scars that marked those years away from home.

Some she could see or feel or sense but others were buried so deep within him she could only suspect their existence, and yet they shaped every day, every action, maybe even every thought.

But he was back, he was home and he was hers.

That alone made them luckier than most.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed and as always I'd love to hear your thoughts!

@runnning-outof-time congratulations once more on your incredible celebration! I hope you are having a lot of fun and of course that you enjoyed this little something I wrote for you! xx

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Tommy

@knowledgefulbutterfly @babayaga67 @signorellisantichrist @lespendy @geeksareunique @look-at-the-soul @lothbrokcore @rangerelik @elenavampire21 @evanore @dandelionprints

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notyour-valentine · 2 years

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Blighty One ~ Tommy Shelby x Reader (Angst)

Summary: When Tommy gets hurt, time is running out and when his girl steps up, there's nothing he can do about it

Note: Thank you for the request - I hope you like it.

Here is my [Masterlist].

I do not consent to my work being translated, copied or posted elsewhere on this platform or any other. This hasn't been beta'd so I apologise for typos or mistakes

Request: I was wondering if you could write something where Tommy's girl risk her life to save him?

Warning: Gun violence, blood. Expect canon confirming tone, language and depiction of violence. Your media consumption is your own responsibility.

Wordcount: 1868

Breathe, Tommy thought. Just fucking breathe.

Right now there was nothing he could do apart from that, nothing at all. And the last thing he could afford was to lose his head.

They had cover, so even if they were still firing, they wouldn’t be able to hit them.

It was alright, he told himself, because they had cover.

And as long as the bullets kept coming there was no way of looking back, not unless one wanted to risk getting shot. But they had cover - fuck

Focus, soldier. Fucking focus.

It was as if he was trying to fight a pressure on his chest as he tried to breath, a biting, burning pressure that made a groan escape his clenched teeth.

Forcing his eyes shut, he battled for control of himself.

He had to - that was his job.

Opening them again, he leaned his head back against the wood and looked around, searching for John.

Always John first. He was the youngest, his younger brother and the one with the most waiting for him back home. So he had always looked for John first, after every struggle, every fight, every collapse and every explosion.

But he could see him, standing at the corner of the small entrance to the corridor they had fled into, his back pressed against the painted wood, and the gun in his hand. Arthur was next.

He wasn’t close to John, which made his heart beat even faster than it already raced, but then he saw his brother, kneeling in front of him.

Tommy on his own breath as he leaned forward to get a look at his brothers eyes, because that was the second danger, surpassed only by possible injuries.

He needed Arthur, and he needed all of him if he wanted to get through this.

But Arthur’s eyes, even if they were wild and frantic like two treacherous lights glimmering in the darkness, were clear.

Thank fuck.

Those were his two priorities.

It wasn’t like the others didn’t matter to him, of course they did, but his brothers were his responsibility.

They had only come to France because of him. If anything happened to them, it would be on him and he’d never forgive himself.

Only…Tommy wasn’t in the trenches, nor was he underground.

The trousers he wore were black and not that ghastly greenish-brown which he never wanted to see again.

There was no mud either, but clean, cold stone and painted wood.

And the light was the sun that made them sweat until the water stood in their shoes but it came from the flickering light of the lamp.

“Oh my God!”

It was her voice that truly brought him back, her frantic, panicked voice and her equally unsteady hands.

His own still had her coat in an iron grip at her collar from when he had grabbed her and pushed her head down and out of harms way.

“Oh my God!”

She was wearing the new coat he had gotten her, as blue as a midday winter sky.

Tommy liked buying her pale clothes, now that they could afford them. Before, they never would have twice of buying something that would get dirty easily and show stains.

She was always hesitant, preferring practicality over luxury, but he so liked to spoil her. Even the seamstress had been cautious about the white wild leather gloves.

Or they had been white, now they were stained with red.

“Arthur, what do I do?”, she whimpered, her chest rising and falling in rapid, frantic intervals without any semblance of rhythm.

Tommy looked her up and down, trying to find the source of the blood- on that pale coat of her’s he ought to have seen it at once, but he saw nothing…nothing at all.

It did nothing to curb the bottomless terror he felt.

“Fuck!”, Arthur said, his eyes meeting his and in them, he saw nothing but dread.

Only when he felt the pain from the pressure (Y/N) tried to apply, did his own gaze lower.

Fuck, Tommy thought.

It had all happened so quickly.

One moment they were walking through the now deserted hall, his mind already on the horse, on the way home and an easy day - for once.

Then someone from the gallery had bellowed his name, his voice filled with hate and venom.

Once he had seen the gun, he had had less than a single second to react.

John had been the quickest to draw his gun, or at least that was what he remembered.

Tommy's only concern was getting her out of the way.

And once they had cover he had made sure the rest of them were alright.

Only now did he have the time to look at himself.

(Y/N)’s hands were pressing down on his waistcoat, made from the same black fabric, but when she drew them back, the red stains had doubled in size.

“Let me see, let me see!”, Arthur insisted.

In one clean tug he had ripped the buttons clean off and pushed the dark fabric aside.

Under it, a red rose had begun to bloom, just opening its petals towards the sun.

Only when she gasped, the pain truly hit him.

“Scarf- give me your scarf!”, Arthur ordered, and (Y/N) rushed to obey.

He lifted Tommy’s arm and wrapped it around his waist, tightening it into a knot before pressing down.

“You’ll be alright, Tom, eh?”, he said, nodding.

But the look in (Y/N)’s eyes betrayed the situation. They were wide and frantic and fearful, a look that made him sick to his stomach, but before he could say something, she swallowed hard, her sleeve covering her mouth.

Her bloody hand closed into a fist.

In the split second she closed her eyes, he knew her mind was racing, but when she opened them again, they were filled with iron determination.

“We have to get him to a hospital.”, she told Arthur.

“Yeah.”, his brother agreed, his large palm still pressing down on Tommy’s side.

With his other hand, he took his arm and pulled him to his feet.

(Y/N) tried her best to help but when Tommy felt his legs give way, she wasn’t able to stem his weight, making him slump against his brother’s side.

Arthur staggered a step back before catching their combined weights.

“I can’t hold you, Tommy!”, (Y/N) wimpered breathlessly, heaving him back into a standing position, as soon as Arthur had steadied them.

“‘s alright.”, Tommy tried to assure her.

His mouth had run dry and his tongue felt thick and foreign.

When he tried to focus, her face began to blur slightly.

“John!”, she hissed, “John, you have to take him!”

He tired to turn his head to look at his younger brother, but his head felt heavy.

“If I leave position, they’ll just come. You three, go!”

John’s voice had a strange echo to it, Tommy thought, as if he was speaking into an empty hall and not a small, narrow corridor.

For a few seconds he could hear (Y/N)’s frantic breathing, and then she gave a small nod.

“I understand. , You’ll be twice as quick if you help carry him.”, she insisted.

“(Y/N)...”, Arthur winced.

All the while, Tommy’s mouth had run as dry as parchment paper.

Perhaps that was why he was the last to realise, it only dawning on him when he felt her hand slip in under his coat to where he kept his gun.

“No!”, Tommy hissed as he felt the absence of the weight. “Fucking no!”

His fingers felt foreign to him as they tried to grab her.

He had aimed for her hand to wretch the gun from it, but instead had only managed to grasp her coat.

“(Y/N)...”, he warned, every syllable of her name making his throat ache. “Don’t you dare-”

His threat ended in a groan of pain as his leg buckled again.

Both her and Arthur immediately rushed towards him to hold him up.

Her face was so close to his she must’ve felt his ragged breath on her cheek.

“John please!”, she insisted.

The desperation in her voice was even more agonising than the pain in his side.

“Don’t, John!”, he snarled through clenched teeth. “Don’t you fucking dare, soldier.”

But he wasn’t in France now, no Sergeant Major that could order his men. And his men had no obligation to follow his command.

“She’s right, Tom.”, Arthur said, glancing at the door. “She’s right. You know she is. You need to go to a hospital.”

“Fucking no!”

The hiss of pain made made his desperation even more clearer, while his lips felt dry even though the words he said were sloppy.

His fingers coiled so deeply into her sleeve he could feel the fibres he could feel the wool coming apart. And yet as soon as she stepped back, his fingers slipped away without purpose and void of any strength they might once have held.

“I love you very much, you know?”, she told him, without tears, or a tremble in her voice.

And her certainty terrified him to his core.

These words came easy to her, at least when it came to him. She told him often and frequent, and he had heard these words spoken in joy and in sadness, in fear and in doubt.

She said them without expectation, without any intention but to make it known to him.

Tommy had heard these words far more often than he had ever said them, chosing to reply with other means, with kisses and caresses.

She knew, of course, that he loved her. She had to know, because it was so obvious to Tommy, laced in anything he did or said, but he couldn't remember ever saying it.

And he was incapable of saying it now. Instead the terror that had spread through his body infected his voice.

“Don’t do this, don’t fucking do this. Arthur, don’t let her do this.”, he insisted, reaching out to his brother’s face, which, like (Y/N)’s face was becoming blurry. Please.

He needed his brother, he always needed his brother, his other half, his right hand and right now he needed him more than ever.

He needed him to see sense. He needed him to stop her.

She wasn’t a soldier, she had no experience shooting anything but bottles and pigeons and he hadn’t even allowed her to hold a gun in the last few years.

Even if she knew how to shoot, she couldn’t shoot like that. Like them.

The men firing at them were soldiers who had seen active combat in France, where experience was only trumped by blind luck, which never could be relied upon.

Tommy didn’t know why they were even considering this for a single second. It was beyond madness.

His other arm was lifted and he was pulled up.

“It’ll be alright. It’ll be alright, eh, brother?”, he heard John lie to him.

Tommy tried to shake his head, to argue, to order them.

If he pulled away and could support his own weight, it would be fine. She would be fine.

He couldn’t let her do this. It was foolish and reckless and they were after him, not her. He couldn’t let her do this, not for him.

Fuck.

None of them had thought it through, how could they not see that?

If they took him to the hospital, they’d have to take the car and that meant she wouldn’t have a chance to get away. She’d be left here all alone-

How could they be so fucking idiotic?

Tommy wanted to tell them, to scream at them, to make them understand…

But he couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried.

His vision kept blurring and any strength he had one had in his arms and legs was reduced to near nothing.

And there was nothing he could do as John and Arthur half carried, half dragged him towards the exit.

Tommy fought the darkness for as long as he could, with everything he had, but every time he forced his eyes to open again, it became harder and harder with the rush in his ears growing ever louder.

Everything around him had already turned to black, when he heard the exchange of fire.

At any other time it would have sent his body and mind into wild alert, but today it was the last thing he perceived before slipping into nothingness.

End

Thank you for reading! I’d be very grateful for feedback of any kind! If you are interested in more, here is my [Masterlist]

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notyour-valentine · 2 years

Text

I'd do anything to make you stay (dark!Tommy x Reader)

[Masterlist] [Taglist]

Summary: First, she wished to leave, then she felt it was her duty to leave, then she was desperate to leave until she realised she was forced to stay.

Note: This was written for @noforkingclue and her 2.5 k celebration. Congratulations once again. I hope you have as much fun reading this as I had writing it! I tried my hand at dark! Tommy, but in a more conniving, subtle way and used the implicit prompt of "I'd do anything to make you stay" and the explicit prompt of "I have nothing I could offer you"

I do not consent to my work being translated, copied or posted elsewhere on this platform or any other. This hasn't been beta'd so I apologise for typos or mistakes

Warning: Gun, manipulation, controlling behaviour, obsession (18/21+)

Wordcount: 5033 words

"So that means, I have to leave.", She announced, slightly out of breath from the strength it took to say these words.

For a moment, there was silence. Then it was Ms Burgess who spoke up.

"So we will have to find someone new?", She sighed in annoyance. "This hassle is the last thing we need with the wedding coming up."

Her tone made her swallow hard, turning her eyes to the floor.

"Grace, leave the girl be.", Mr. Shelby argued. His tone softened, when he returned to her.

"Congratulations.", He offered. "We wish you and your fiancé all the best."

His soft smile made relief wash over her.

"Thank you for letting us know so that we have time to plan in finding a replacement, even if we are sad to see you go. You are incredible with Charlie."

That was why they had hired her.

She wasn't a governess, and no nanny or nurse either. In fact, she was only a trained housemaid, but once Mr. Shelby had found out she had three younger siblings of her own, he had hired her as Charlie's caretaker, deeming her qualifications as a sister more important than those from some college or school.

Ms Burgess had disagreed at first, but the little boy had taken to her.

And now with Ms Burgess focussed on nothing but the wedding, Charlie grew ever more attached to her.

He was a beautiful boy, so soft and gentle. Other children raged with tantrums, but only ever cried when he was frightened, hungry or exhausted. He loved to be held and always tried to hold onto a part of her in return, her hair, her hand, the fabric of her clothes.

And he was getting strong fast.

Having to leave him would break her heart but before long she'd have a bunch of children of her own.

Mr Shelby had always been kind to her. Occasionally he would bend the rules or show the occasional kindness, like sending her a car to pick her up from the station after her day off, or keeping back a slice of blackberry pie only because she had once mentioned that she adored it.

Perhaps it was because she knew their secret. It was obvious, really. The way he held and watched the boy, who on paper was nothing but his fiancée's son, gave it all away. But it wasn't her place to judge so she didn't.

And she always greeted him with a smile whenever he would join her in the nursery or outside in the gardens, or when she would bring the boy to him before putting him to sleep.

This would have been the beginning of goodbye, only it wasn't.

When she visited home a few weeks later, she was met with the shocking news that her fiancé had married someone else and moved away with her to London.

The heartbreak was bad, but the shame was worse.

"I see.", Mr. Shelby said, when she sat in his home office in front of him, her cheeks wet as she tried very hard to keep her voice composed.

The sudden ending of her engagement meant she needed employment once more and it made her cheeks burn to ask for it.

Mr. Shelby sighed deeply, smoke escaping his lips.

"We have already found someone.", He mumbled, making her heart drop.

He was a good employer and paid well, but she couldn't blame him, could she now?

"However, the change wouldn't be good for Charlie. You may continue your employment here."

Relief made her sniffle once more.

"Now, now. No more of that, eh?", He insisted, getting up and walking around the desk.

From his own suit pocket, he produced his handkerchief and dabbed her cheeks gently.

"There. I know all too well how betrayal by someone you thought you loved hurts.", He said, his voice even softer than it normally was when speaking to her.

His hand lingered on the side of her face from where it had tilted her face upward.

It was so warm, and his eyes, those eyes the other servants claimed to be cold, were filled with nothing but compassion.

His thumb traced her cheekbone.

"But let me promise you this: while it is a hard lesson, it is a lesson you will never forget."

A lot of people had said a lot of things in the last few days, and she hadn't believed them. In a way, she didn't really believe that a man like him could have his heart broken too, but here he was, admitting it to her. And somehow she knew it was the truth.

He only removed his hand when Ms Burgess entered, visibly upset about some order of flowers.

Their wedding was shortly after Christmas and yet she wanted non-seasonal floral arrangements, which proved to be rather difficult.

"Congratulations, Mr Shelby.", She offered when she saw him in the corridor.

He turned in the spot, seeing her beam at him with the basket of clean laundry in her arm.

"What are you doing with that, eh?", He asked.

"Pitching in."

A lot of things had fallen off the edge in light of all the work that had to be done to make sure today would be absolutely perfect.

"That's not your job.", He reminded her.

Without another word, he took it from her hands.

"I'm glad to help. A lot of the maids are too busy.", She argued. "I'd feel awful if I didn't help at least a little bit."

Once she had placed the sheets in the large wardrobe in the corridor and the towels in the appropriate bathrooms, all absolutely perfect for the guests.

"I can take that now.", She assured him. "You are probably missed downstairs."

Mr. Shelby scoffed and shook his head.

"They can drink my champagne on their own."

So he followed her back in the nursery where she took over from Jane, the maid who had actually been supposed to take care of the towels. But she had been on her feet since three a.m. that morning so a little chance to sit and get a bite to eat was more than welcome.

"Sorry, Mr. Shelby.", She said at once.

"'s alright.", He assured her as he sat down on the other chair.

Still, Jane rushed to leave, leaving the three of them.

"Shall we show your father how well you are doing with your walking, Charlie?", She asked, kneeling down in front of the boy before turning to the father again.

"He can almost do it on his own."

Giving Charlie one hand of hers to hold, while the other was braced against the wall, he could hold his balance.

Then step by step, he moved forward towards his toy horse.

With a soft smile, Mr. Shelby crouched down too, opening his arms.

"Come here, Charlie!", He encouraged, making the boy change directions. That meant he had to abandon the safety of the wall.

Her hand went to his other hand, but Mr. Shelby shook his head.

"Let him try with one hand.", He instructed and so she did.

Charlie leaned heavily into her arm, but kept taking his steps, until he was in his father's arms.

"Well done. Now back again.", He instructed, offering Charlie only one hand to hold onto.

And once more Charlie made his way across the small space between them.

As she stretched out her hands, she glanced up and saw his eyes, focussed not on his son, but on her. And she smiled before focussing her attention back on that darling little boy.

The bad news came in the middle of chaos, although chaos seemed to be their constant state. Right after the wedding, the new Mrs Shelby was determined to start working on the foundation. While Mr Shelby’s money was the ticket into polite society, this work would keep them there, of that she was sure and so she poured every waking minute into it, and everytime she came to ask if perhaps she wanted to join her on a walk with Charlie or bathe or feed him, she was turned away. Some days, Mr Shelby saw him more than his mother did and that was saying something.

And so it was him she turned to, with the letter in hand.

He leaned back against the windowsill as he read through what her mother had written.

“How old is your aunt?”, he wanted to know.

“Thirty - six.”, she responded, wringing her hands.

“And now your mother wants you to go and help her?”

She nodded.

“She can’t possibly do the household chores with a broken hip, and rear four children, Sir.”

“No, she can’t.”, he said with a sigh before sitting down at his desk.

For a moment, he seemed to consider the implications, then he nodded.

“And you’d take that on? Four children and a household, all the while playing nurse?”

That wasn’t a difficult question at all.

“Of course, Sir! I don’t want to leave, but it’s family. That's what family is supposed to do."

Her words brought a hint of a smile to his lips.

“That is very kind of you.”, he told her, making her cheeks flush. “But the truth is, I don’t want to see you go. I think it would be bad for Charlie.”

All softness had gone from his voice and he met her gaze with the same determination she had seen him use with his brothers

She opened her mouth to argue, but he waved her off.

“But since I understand your situation, and the conflict it brings, I would like to make you an offer.”

Those demanding blue eyes met hers again and she shuddered in anticipation.

“I’ll pay for your aunt to hire some woman from the village to take care of her household and children. And I will increase your pay by 15% as I know you send all your earnings back to your family so that your mother won’t have to work so much. That increase would let her take another day off about another day a week, no? During that time she too can help your aunt.”

“Mr. Shelby-”, she insisted breathlessly, “that’s too much to ask! I couldn’t possibly accept that!”

But he only shook his head.

“Don’t you worry. You just stay right here and tend to Charlie. The costs of letting you go would be far higher, to all of us.”

She tried to argue once more, but he wouldn’t have it and instead sent her off with a small smile, feeling dizzy from her luck.

It was awful. No, it was worse than awful. It was horrific.

Mrs Shelby had been so proud, so happy when it came time to leave for the foundation dinner, only to -

She hadn’t believed it at first, not even when Mary told her. Only when bit by bit, the Shelbys came home.

It took three days for anyone to spy Mr. Shelby.

There had been strict instructions from his sister that no one was to talk to him, not even to offer their condolences. He wouldn’t want that.

There was some comfort though, as Charlie seemed blissfully oblivious to everything, babbling and playing, giggling whenever she sung “This is how the Lady rides” and bounced him on her lap. She had been doing that when she saw him standing in the door and profusely apologised, with a burning face and a tightening chest.

It had been on the mourning of the fourth day. He was wearing nothing but a working man's shirt and old saddleworn trousers, his eyes red and his cheeks sunken.

The poor man had lost his wife and here she was making his son laugh until he was breathless.

It just wasn’t right. It couldn’t be right.

But instead of scolding her, of screaming or even striking her for her inappropriate behaviour, he had only ever placed a hand on her arm to sooth her, crouched down beside his son, stroked his hair and asked her to continue.

It hadn’t been easy, at least not until Charlie was laughing again, but when she brought him up again, he had thrown himself into her chest, his whole body trembling with giggles.

But Mr. Shelby hadn’t minded. Instead, he had only watched, his hand staying on her arm, his eyes on his son.

“You’re a Godsend.”, he had called her on that fourth day before leaving, the hand moving to cup her cheek. And then he was gone.

But he returned on the fifth day, and on the sixth and seventh and on every day thereafter, joining her in the nursery.

Sometimes, he’d hold his son, sometimes he’d help her dress him or hold him or feed him. Sometimes he preferred to watch.

But he always returned.

For weeks it went like this, and she was the only person apart from his son, sister and aunt that he talked to. And the only adult he looked in the eyes while doing it.

She had seen him shrug off his aunt’s hand on his arm, while his own found her shoulder or back, brushed against her fingers as they exchanged toys or clothes, just as he never really met his sister’s eyes, while they didn’t shy away from hers.

A godsend, he called her, a blessing, a stroke of luck, once even saying that she was the only thing that still held all this together.

She had tried to argue, but he had insisted. She cared for Charlie and that was all that mattered now. He hadn’t allowed her room for argument in that, and in his situation, she couldn’t blame him for putting his son above all others.

“Without you, all this would fall apart.”, he had said and she hadn’t even considered leaving, until it was her only thought- from one night to the other.

It was the noise that woke her, the shouting and slamming of doors.

Her eyes darted to the door that connected her small bedroom to Charlie's nursery, before she remembered that he was staying with Mr. Shelby's older brother and his wife.

Wrapping a scarf around her shoulders, she stepped out of her bedroom in search of the cause for this commotion.

In the chilly darkness of the corridor, she could hear them long before she could see them, arguing in the hall.

"Listen to me- eh!", Mr. Shelby roared, but stopped talking as soon as he heard her approaching.

She could see him standing close to the foot of the stairs, wearing crumpled trousers, his bare chest revealing tattoos she had never known him to have, his dark hair ruffled.

Her eyes followed his outstretched hand to a woman who was standing in the middle of the hall.

She had never seen her before but it wasn't difficult to place her, after all, a Russian Duchess as a houseguest made the rounds quickly.

She was wearing Mr. Shelby's coat and little more, her messy dark hair fell down her shoulders, her dark makeup was slightly smudged and her black eyes shone in the darkness.

"Oi,", he called out, "Back to bed, now!", He ordered and she was about to obey, when the Duchess laughed and stretched her arm out, and in it she held a gun, casually as if it was a pen.

All air was knocked from her lungs and she froze.

"You there, pour us a drink!", She insisted.

Her heart thundered in her chest, as she felt hawkish dark eyes locking in on her.

When her dark lips turned into a smile, she felt her stomach coil.

"No, get back to bed!", Mr. Shelby insisted.

Her eyes darted back and forth between them. She knew his word was final, but he wasn't the one with the gun.

"I told you to come here!", the Duchess snarled, her voice strained with impatience.

Her chest tightened as she felt frightened tears come to her eyes.

Her whole body trembled as she took a few uncertain steps forward, not daring to take her eyes away from the woman.

She had barely reached the middle of the stairs, when Mr Shelby stopped her, blocking her descent with his body as his hand found her waist, feeling her body tremble.

"Go to bed.", He told her. "Go."

"She has a gun.", She whimpered, blinking the tears away.

"You should listen to her, Tommy!", the Duchess giggled.

While glancing down, she saw her twirl her hair around the gun as if it was nothing.

"You know in Russia, the lady of the house took care to have pretty maids and ugly nannies.", She chirped, as if this was as casual a setting as a lesson in good manners.

It made her heart beat so fast she feared it would rip through her chest. Either that or give out forever.

But it was a desperate, almost painful hope that made her look up through teary eyes at the only other person in the room, the only person that might save her.

He’d tell her she was wrong, he’d take the gun from her, he’d make her stop.

Mr. Shelby's jaw tightened, but he kept his distance, his eyes following the gun.

"The only men who had pretty nannies were the widowers. That way there were no problems."

"Come on!", Mr. Shelby insisted, practically pushing her back up the stairs, while blocking the Duchess from sight, his hand burning in her back and arm.

But he couldn't stop her from hearing the other woman's venom.

"I do wonder why you hired your pretty little nanny far before your wife died."

"Go, go. It's alright.", He promised, as they came close to the top. "Go to bed. I won't let her bother you."

She ran the last few steps, and as soon as she was around the corner she pressed herself against the wall, but even that didn't still her trembling hands.

Move, she told herself. Go. Hide. Do as he said.

But her body had developed a will of its own, trembling like a leaf and frozen to the spot, as if all its strength was focussed on not crying out in fear or sobbing in desperation. She clasped a hand over her mouth and tried to calm her breathing.

She could still hear them arguing, the Duchess teasing and Mr. Shelby trying to calm her down.

"I thought it was me you wanted to dress up as her but it was that little thing up there all along.", She heard and her hand muffled her whimper.

It was as if the Duchess had ripped open a drawer of her memory and had spread their contents all over the floor, forcing her to pick them all up again, look them over and rearrange them.

Only on second glance, in this light, they all looked different, not explicit but doubtful.

He had always been a good and kind employer, but what if there was some truth in what the Duchess had said?

What if there even was a hint?

It wasn't right- it couldn't be right.

And she couldn't allow herself to be pulled in.

So she had kept an eye out, wrote her letters, a few to the announcements in the papers, and another to him to explain her reasoning.

It was easier to write than saying it to his face. But of course, she couldn't hope to evade him forever.

Mr Sheoby came while they were spending some time outside, sitting in the open air on a thick woollen blanket, both her and Charlie bundled up against the lingering yet fading winter cold.

The first flowers had begun to come out now, and not even this place could escape the wind of change that carried spring each year.

Beside her, Charlie was busy playing with the little wooden cubes, happily babbling to himself. That made it hard- harder than it should have been.

She heard the steps before she saw the shadow, easily identifiable to her. She still could not meet his eyes, even if it was rude.

When she didn't react to his satisfaction, he decided to clear his throat.

"Might I join?", He asked impatiently.

"Of course, Mr. Shelby. I'm sure you son would like that."

He sat down far too close to her for her liking, the fabric of his trousers almost brushing against her knee in the process.

Instead of paying attention to Charlie, he simply stared at her.

She didn't do him the favour of looking at him. She couldn’t. Her cheeks were burning with shame.

"I gather you received my letter.”, she whispered, taking a deep breath to brace herself for whatever was to come now.

"Good.", She said, staring straight ahead, to the trees and the river that lay beyond.

"I've decided to reject it."

He said it without anger, without malice. At best, he sounded annoyed that he had to deal with it in the first place, like she had somehow stretched the limitations of his patience with her request.

"You can't reject a resignation.", She insisted.

"Well I fucking do.", He said, sounding more exhausted than angry.

She took a shaky breath and focussed on the treeline. Her hands had begun to tremble again and so she clutched the fabric of her dress.

"I understand, you're upset and you have every right to be but you are needed here.”

“I want to leave.”, she insisted.

Her voice cracked and she glanced away, clutching a hand over her mouth.

But she refused to cry in front of him.

"I understand.", He said, surprisingly gentle. "I understand your wish to leave, but I can't let that happen. So I'll let you draw up a number, any number, and I will see it in your account or your family's account by the end of the week. As high as you like. You could set them up for life if you want to.”

She felt like the ground had shifted under her once more and she was falling again.

"I am not a thing to be bought and paid for.", She hissed. "I am a person and as a person, I have the right to decide and I have decided not to continue my employment here."

With you.

He stared at her with that unreadable expression of his, those cold, unyielding eyes burning into her soul.

"Are you finished?", He asked, sounding almost bored once more. "Good."

She felt her heart clench as his words.

"I won't allow you to abandon Charles and that's the end of it.", he merely stated.

"It's not yours to allow!", She said a little louder than she had intended, her voice thinning as her resolve slipped more and more.

Charlie's head peaked up and he looked to her, his own summer sky blue eyes staring at her.

"I will leave, Sir, and never come back.", She told him.

His jaw muscles tightened as he stared at her profile, his piercing gaze burning itself into her skin just like the memories of that night that burned themselves into her soul.

"I have to go now, but when I return, we talk."

"There is nothing to talk about.", She whispered as he got to his feet.

"We will talk when I return tomorrow.", He said sternly, before walking off.

Only Mr. Shelby didn’t return.

She had her suitcases packed and went down to the kitchens to retrieve the sandwiches Mrs O’Sullivan had promised her for her journey when she heard the whispers - Mr. Shelby was dead, beaten to death by thugs in the street.

It had shocked them all to their core, leaving them in paralysed uncertainty, and her in tears not for the man, but the little boy upstairs. Both parents dead within months was a harsh fate to suffer.

The truth had come later, in the form of Mrs. Thorne who had told her the truth of it. Mr Shelby was very badly hurt and might die. When she found out of her plans to leave, she had begged her to stay given the seriousness of the situation. Once they knew what would become of Mr. Shelby, they could decide what to do about a replacement.

And so she stayed, for Charlie’s sake. Otherwise he’d be left entirely without any constant person in his life and she couldn’t do that to him. But she should have done.

She had agreed with Mrs Thorne that she would stay until a decision for her replacement could be made and that meant until Mr Shelby was well enough to look through candidates again, which he actually began to do.

Once she saw that, she made preparations to leave in two weeks time.

Five days before her departure, he called her into his office.

"Have you found a new nanny for Charlie?", She asked, after sitting down across from him just like he had bid her.

Mr. Shelby shook his head.

"There's not much time left before I leave.", She told him.

His response came ever calm, ever cool.

"You won't leave."

Her heart skipped a beat.

"Mr. Shelby, we've been through this.", She said.

Too many times.

Slowly, Thomas Shelby turned back from the window and faced her, nodding towards a dark red file on his desk.

"What is that?", She asked.

"Take a read.", He said, leaning back and observing.

She felt her heart thunder as she reached for it, fearing for whatever would be found inside, but to her surprise it was a letter of enrolment to one of the best schools for young girls in the country, a school of higher education with excellent recommendation and frightening prices.

This letter was confirmation between the school and Mr. Shelby that the payment for the full enrollment of her sisters until their respective ages of graduations had been paid for.

She stared up at him wide-eyed but before she could form any response he nodded towards the folder.

“Keep reading.”, she demanded.

She turned the page and skimmed the words.

Next, she found another letter, this time to a name painfully familiar to her, a name she had heard all her life and one she had up to this point associated with kindness and generosity, with understanding of their situation.

It was the name of her landlord, or rather the man that owned the land her family lived on and farmed.

And unlike the previous letter, this deal had been sent and answered, confirming that the ownership had been transferred from him to Mr. Shelby, with an agreement not to inform the tenants and asking what was to be done about it- if they really had to remove them from the property.

The authentic signature was like a stab to her stomach and the blood in her ears began to rush.

As she had read, Mr. Shelby had moved across the desk to lean against it.

"You see that there are two ways this can go?", He asked, calmly, as her chest began to tighten.

Her lip began to tremble and she forced her burning eyes shut.

“As long as you stay here, your sisters will be taken care of. Your mother won’t need to pay a dime in rent while I will make sure they have every comfort and renovation they could possibly want. Or…-”

He needn’t spell it out.

His hand found her shoulders in an almost reassuring manner, as if he was the source of her comfort and not the sole cause of her troubles.

He took the file from her shaking hands, placing it back on his desk amongst countless others- another box ticked business deal completed.

"I knew you'd understand."

The way he sounded, filled with not just pride but relief, made her sick to her stomach.

He continued holding her shoulders between his hands as if to ease her tension, letting her look out at the vast lands of the Arrow House Estate. She had once liked the fact that one could look for miles and see nothing.

"You belong here.", He told her as if it was meant to assure her.

"Please, Mr. Shelby.", She whispered, whimpered even as her tears began to fall.

“It’s not right. It’s just not right. Let me go home. Please.”

He only sighed in response, so she tried once more. She had to.

“There are a thousand women like me, better suited to the task. Please Sir, think of your wife. She wouldn’t want-”

His grip tightened so suddenly it made her wince as he pulled her up to stand, spinning her around to face him.

She saw anger flash in his pale blue eyes, and froze as he placed a single fingers on her lips.

“Don’t.”, he said softly, and yet she wasn’t so foolish as to miss the warning that lay in them.

“You know this is for the best.”, he assured her, gentle once more as he began to stroke the tears from her cheeks.

When she shook her head, he held it between his hands until she couldn’t do so anymore.

"Why me?", She dared to ask, forcing the words out through trembling lips. “I have nothing I could offer you. Please!”

He seemed almost amused by her answer and gave his response in the way one would talk to a child.

"Because you are untouched by all the dirt, by all the filth. No blood on your hands. You are so pure."

She didn't feel pure now.

She felt filthy, body and soul.

Hot tears began to spill once more and instead of being appalled or angry, he pulled her into a tight, almost comforting embrace and let her cry, while gently stroking over the back of her head.

I should have left long ago, she thought bitterly, her fingernails digging into the palms of your hand. I should have left when you were weak and wounded and dying. I should have left and never looked back.

But she hadn’t. She had been too weak, too soft. And now it was too late.

"I know you're upset.", He soothed. "But I think you understand too. You know this is what's best for everyone. After all, I couldn't have you breaking Charlie's heart."

End.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed and as always I'd love to hear your thoughts!

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Tommy

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#tommy shelby #thomas shelby #dark! tommy shelby #dark!tommy #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby x reader #dark!tommy shelby x reader #dark!tommy x reader #dark!thomas shelby x reader #tatiana petrovna #dark!tatiana #tommy shelby imagine #thomas shelby imagine #valentineswritings #peaky blinders #i'd do anything to make you stay

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notyour-valentine · 1 year

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I thought you mig appreciate this brainrot and I CANNOT remove it from my head so I shall shove it in your asks

Little Aemond having a friend-a lady friend, but just a friend. They meet sometimes, hidden away, both from the ones trying to tear them down, commiserate and share company.

Because they have eachother, it makes life better.

And one day the girl is grumbling, crying, upset, because she was told she'll never find a husband. She doesn't even fully understand what it means to have a husband, yet, only that it's vitally important for a woman to have one. And Aemond clasps her hands and swears that he'll marry her, he promises. He swears it.

And she giggled, and promises to marry him-the two forging a little pact-their own engagement.

But time tears them apart-and when she returns, they are both grown, and have changed.

But Aemond hasn't forgotten. And he plans to uphold his promise.

I know this isn't what you asked for, but I loved the idea so much I ran with it and created a little headcanon - I hope you don't mind and I hope you enjoy🤍

Your Protector ~ Aemond Targaryen x childhood friend! Reader Headcanon

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Warnings: implication of sexual assault, bedding ceremony, body insecurity, expect canon confirming tone and mention of violence

Words: 1508

If you were his friend back then, when he had little to no friends, before he was respected for his dragon, he would never forget it and your friendship

Of course, after gaining Vhagar, he'd be respected more, also by his brother, but he'd always be loyal to you

Woe to Aegon if he started talking poorly about you, and to anyone else

Before he'd have found sneaky ways to exact revenge on the people who caused your tears but now, with Vhagar, he is downright terrifying.

But dragon or not, when your family moved away from Court, he cannot stop them. Years pass, but his memory still remains

Politics is a cruel game, and before long he hears whispers that you are to return to court only to be engaged to another Lord's heir. It is a good match, securing you a title and position, but at the same time it is a name Aemond is all too familiar with - one of Aegon's oldest companions

He has visited the brothels on the street of silk more than the sept- loud, demanding, uneducated, greedy and sloppy, the kind of man Aemond had taken good care to stay away from.

He drops his name to Aegon, who is more than happy to share details of years of escapades, detailing in great length the fun they had out drinking and whoring.

One story is enough for Aemond to make up his mind that he is unworthy of you, three cements the fear that a marriage to a brute like that would break your spirit before the year was out. By the fifth tale, he is certain that he cannot allow this wedding to take place under any circumstances.

Only a few days later, you return to court all grown, the perfect lady. And what a show your supposed intended puts on, an image of gallantry and chivalry, only to debate with Aegon about which ways to have you on your wedding night first, delighting in the fact that you were known for your modesty and thinking about all the ways you could be shocked

How best to break her in, they call it, as if you were nothing more than a horse to tame and breed. It brings bile to Aemond's mouth and it takes all his self restraint not to lash out right then and there

The next day, he goes to you. When you had parted, you were of the same height, maybe even a little taller, but now he towered over you. Never before had he been more self conscious about how intimidating he could appear, not knowing if your quiet nature was fear, or those years of lessons and instructions by your Septa

He tells it to you without sugarcoating it, the reality of the man you were going to be engaged to, the way he spoke of you, the way he would treat you (leaving out only the vilest of plans he had made with Aegon)

To his surprise, you show little to no reaction, before reminding him with a sigh that your house needed allies, that it would be a good and advantageous match for you and your family, a necessary one and the best you could find

It enrages him how little you fight against this marriage, how you didn't seem to mind that your family was leading you like a lamb to slaughter, dooming you to a life of unhappiness

"'Tis the fate of all women, Aemond.", You said, calling him by his name instead of his title for the first time in years

That may be so, but it wouldn't be yours. He wouldn't allow it to be.

Unlike with you, he makes no attempt to hide how frightening he could be while speaking to your father to inform him of your intended's inadequacies. In his reaction he sees that all this was not new to him.

Aemond has never killed a man, but he has never felt closer to the deed than in that moment.

"Of course,", he added, staring at the wine in his cup, "this betrothal would be a sin.", Knowing how gods-fearing your family was

"She has already promised herself to another, swearing on the Seven-Pointed Star in the Royal Sept. Forcing her to break it could well anger the Gods"

Granted, the oath had been taken without any book in the rough vicinity of the building but that wasn't the point, and it was enough to sway his hand

The next step was to deal with his mother. She and his grandfather Otto had already been plotting - a Tyrell, or a Redwyne, maybe a Lannister, but Aemond doesn’t ask. He informs them of his decision, and while he hated seeing his mother cave to the whims of her own father, her husband or even Aegon, he feels relief when she doesn’t fight him on this.

His grandfather Otto is less than happy, but Aemond is not Aegon, and he cannot intimidate him, and he knows better than to try, after all he is their most important and powerful ally

The final step was the most difficult - you

When informed of the change of circumstance, you fall silent, your face unreadable to him, sending waves of doubt crashing over him. You hadn’t minded his scar as a child, but it was a different thing to accept a deformity as his in a friend and in a husband - what if he indeed frightened or disgusted you?

It doesn’t matter, Aemond decided, he was doing this to protect you at any means necessary, so he takes your hand and swears to you that he would marry you, giving you more protection and a higher position than any other unmarried man in the Seven Kingdoms could provide. He also swears that he would never make demands of you in any way, even if it meant being husband and wife in name only

Your father’s presence destroys any attempt at an honest response from you

Seven days is the shortest possible gap between a formal betrothal and a wedding in the faith and they are the longest and most aggrevating in Aemond’s life.

The day of the announcement, your intended had a fit of rage, confirming to him that placing extra guards around your rooms was a good idea.

The remaining days are kept up with planning the spectacle that according to his mother and grandfather, the people deserved.

On the seventh day, you are married, and as he places the red and black cloak of House Targaryen over your shoulders, he glances at the crowd, seeing the disapproving face of his grandfather, and the dark glare in his brother’s and your former intended’s eyes.

As your husband, he can protect you from most anything, but not the bedding ceremony, no matter how hard he tried beforehand. He doesn’t humour the women and instead finds his bedroom with long strides. He doesn’t like strangers touching him in any case, and a glare of his keeps those that do run after him at bay.

The relief he feels at finally seeing you is short lived. Your wedding dress is in tatters, your hair dishevelled and your eyes are wide. He doesn’t miss Aegon and his friends in your closest entourage.

But as soon as you crossed the threshold you are his, and not even that imbecil of a brother and his friends dared to move beyond that. He had half hoped they would try.

You find his side as quickly as possible, and takes note of the way you seem to hide behind his body

When the doors close, you breathe a sigh of relief and lean your head against his back.

That is when finally, after all these years, Aemond pulls you in for an embrace. The last time you were of a height, now his chin rests easily atop your head.

For a long while he just holds you in silence, his mind running wild with plans for vengeance, but that could wait until tomorrow

Gently he removes what little remains of your wedding dress and instead helps you into the dressing gown the maids had provided for the next morning.

Then he sits you in front of him and untangles your hair, removing the remaining pins and combing out the braids.

That is when you begin to talk, about the past, about what happened in the years since your parting. He talks of studies, dragons and Helaena and her children, you talk of your siblings, the gardens, the little green bird you were gifted for your eleventh nameday that you called Vhagar too, who awaits in your chambers

Aemond listens more than he talks, and combs your hair even after it is long untangled

Then, as the hour grows so late it turns early, Aemond pulls back the covers and draws his dagger

“I won’t give them any reason to doubt our marriage.”, he simply announced as he rolled up his sleeve. A cut up there would be more inconspicuous and would not be found easily, providing the blood necessary to prove the loss of your maidenhead

Before he can cut his flesh, your fingers wrap around his wrist, reminding him that there are other ways to ensure the blood on the bedsheets

“We are married now, Aemond,”, you say, “So let us be married.”

End

Part II (Wedding Night)

Thank you so much for reading - I hope you enjoyed and would love to hear your thoughts!

#valentineswritings #valentinesheadcanons #hotd #house of the dragon #Aemond Targaryen #Aemond Targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen / reader #aemond targaryen & reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen & you #aemond targaryen / you #aemond targaryen imagine #hotd imagine #house of the dragon imagine #protector

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notyour-valentine · 8 months

Text

Welcome to Downton, Mr Shelby 12 ~ Tommy Shelby x Crawley!OC (Series)

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Summary: Just a lot - we have places to go with this story

All my writing is produced by an adult and created with an adult audience in mind (18/21+). You are responsible for your own media consumption.I do not consent to my work being translated, copied or posted elsewhere on this platform or any other.

Wordcount: 5400 words

Part 12

Charlotte.

His head snapped up. All this time he had thought, he had been talking about Mary, but Charlotte?

How?

She was still practically a child. It simply wasn’t possible. How could she even come into contact with someone like that?

"I will do what I can to protect your cousin from harm.", He assured him, his grey moustache quivering, "however the safest way would be to remove her from Shelby's sphere of influence in it’s entirety.”

He pronounced every word with a sharpness.

“Can I trust you to do that?"

"Of course you can.", Matthew hissed. The man’s tone had been as insulting as his accusation shocking.

She was family too and he felt responsible for her, for all of them. Being the heir did not only mean that he would one day own the title and the estate, but he would also be the head of the family, tasked with protecting them all. And even if he wasn’t, she was still his family - Goodness’ sake!

After the Inspector had left, all and any idea of lunch at the club had evaporated as he immediately began to make inquiries, calling in favours and asking for references - anything and everything that could be found out about Mr Thomas Shelby from Birmingham.

"As quickly as you can, please."

The days of waiting on responses were gruelling and left him agitated and unpleasant. Since he knew in advance, he simply prolonged his London stay until he had to return to Downton, and even then he did not wish to leave the papers in the office in Ripon and so he brought them home with him.

A part of him wanted to act immediately, felt like running up to the big house, taking Charlotte aside and telling her, warning her, but then he realised that she would not know any of it.

She would know the charming handsome man Campbell had described as luring women in. And she wouldn't believe him, at least he couldn't be sure. If he couldn't convince her at once, she could go to him to ask him, or to confront him, and then who knew what could happen.

So Matthew needed evidence, concrete, indisputable evidence that would convince her enough to make her stay far away from that man.

But the more he found out, the less he understood.

There was no record of his birth, no criminal record, nothing- until he went to France.

It was as if he appeared in 1915, a man grown and ready for war.

There was no criminal record after the war either, no mention apart from a newspaper article that described him as partaking in a protest in Birmingham where they lit a bonfire with the King's portraits.

In the article he was quoted as talking about how the men loved and served their king but that they felt abused by the new police tactics- headed, incidentally, by a Chief Inspector Campbell.

So this might be personal.

Matthew didn't remember much of criminal law, but he knew that personal matters always muddied things.

And then, he tried to look at his businesses. Companies had to be filed, which was comparably easy to find, or so he thought.

The first was a bookmaking company with a gambling licence from 1919 for the races. It was quickly followed by some factories and a motorcycle and car business, focussing on trade, all established in the following year.

But to find his way through that web took time and energy. Companies owners by other companies owned by other companies- it was like walking through a labyrinth with moving walls.

It also made the paperwork on his desk at home pile up to astronomical levels.

Matthew looked up as the door clicked open.

"I thought I'd bring you some tea.", His mother said with a smile.

"Thank you, Mother.", He said, offering her a tired smile.

She put it down on the desk, her eyes glancing across the paperwork before she picked up a page from what the war office had sent him, detailing his outstanding report of his exemplary war record that earned him gallantry medals.

"Huh.", She said surprised, before placing it back onto the table. "Charlotte never said Mr. Shelby was a war hero."

She said it in passing, almost casually, before she walked over to open the window.

"Charlotte knows Mr. Shelby?", He asked, his heart thundering in his chest.

A small part of him had - up to this point - held out the hope that it had simply been a mistake.

"Of course she does. I told you about the charity initiative she has joined? It is his initiative. Didn't I mention his name?"

Matthew's gaze danced through the room as he was desperate to hold onto something - anything - other than the terrified feeling in the bottom of his stomach.

"Whatever's the matter?", She wanted to know. "Are you ill?"

"No,", he whispered, running his hand through his straw blonde hair. "I am not ill."

He cleared his throat and tried to avoid his mother’s piercing gaze, but to no avail.

“Matthew, I wish you would talk to me.”, she asked gently, sitting down on the sofa and inviting him. “It is no good to keep your grief locked in like that. Lavinia-”

“This isn’t about Lavinia!”, he snapped a little harsher than he had intended.

He didn’t want to talk about Lavinia, not to his mother and not to anyone and the very last thing he needed right now was a mention of his own greatest personal failure when he was trying to prevent another.

“What is it about then?”, his mother asked.

Matthew paced up and down the room, trying to think of what to say, knowing the wording was key. He didn’t have proof yet, and if it got out before he had that proof, there was no way of knowing what would happen. It was like being in France all over again - every moment could prove lethal but one simply had to move.

“I have heard things about Mr. Shelby that concern me.”, he finally said.

“What things?”

Matthew couldn’t say, not now at least, not until he had it in indisputable black and white.

“The point is, it is not a man Charlotte should be in contact with. For her own good.”

His mother raised her eyebrow. “For her own good? What harm could there possibly be in working for a charitable foundation?”

If that so called charitable foundation even exists. If it isn’t just a ploy to lure her in. If the man she works for wasn’t a criminal. At least according to Campbell.

“The cause does not matter. She should not be anywhere near him whatsoever!”

His mother’s jaw tightened.

“Matthew, this isn’t like you. You can’t just tell her where she can and cannot go!”, she scolded as if he was the one in the wrong here.

“Well someone has to forbid her and if that person is me then so be it!”, he insisted, his chest heaving with heavy breaths.

His mother, however, seemed to be completely calm.

“Don’t you think you are overreacting? I don’t know what you’ve heard but Charlotte seems very taken with him and frankly, I admire him. But if you are unsure, perhaps we could invite him for tea.”

“Him?”, Matthew asked, his voice sounding breathless and foreign to his own ears. “For tea?”

Isobel Crawley nodded. “Charlotte does not want the family to know the extent of their workings just yet. She fears that Robert would put a stop to it.”

Oh how very soothing.

Matthew bristled. Things were far from good if he already had her keeping secrets from her father.

“I don’t want you helping her anymore. No covering, no helping her get away. Nothing like that, do you hear me?”, he demanded.

“Matthew, you are getting rude!”, she snapped right back, her cheeks flushing.

He raised his hands and took a step back.

“You’re right. I am sorry. I didn’t mean to sound that harsh.”, he said, “but Mother, this can’t go on.”

“Whyever not?”, she asked impatiently. “You make such a fuss but refuse to tell me why!”

Because I can’t tell you yet.

“Perhaps I should just talk to her.”, he thought out loud.

I needn’t mention all of it, just perhaps find her a distraction, a new occupation to keep her busy. She was a good girl and far easier to sway than Edith or Mary.

The longer he thought, the more the idea of a distraction seemed suitable. Perhaps he could try and find a different man for her to be interested in, a decent fellow from a good family. She deserved that. Cousin Violet would have a list ready by sundown and he could work with that.

Yes, a distraction might be the very best thing.

Besides, he still had time. She was busy now preparing for the Wrinnington Ball next week, and shortly after was the races they would all be attending with Sir Richard. While Matthew knew these social obligations would cement the path of his future, he was not overly fond if them, but if they kept Charlotte busy and bought him time, he had to cherish them more as simply a necessary evil.

He thought of her even when he wasn’t thinking of her, simply put. Even in business meetings and while going over reports, she was never far from his mind, lingering in his thoughts like a dancer in the wings before a performance, awaiting what would soon take place in front of a packed audience, with blinding lights shone upon it.

And there it was again, the doubt, the guilt, the worry.

He had planned it out, had decided it long ago, had overthought and approved the plan, his plan.

It didn’t matter now, it shouldn’t matter, nothing should, because he had thought everything over, everything but this.

She trusted him.

She had trusted him, had trusted him longer than he realised, but the moment she fell asleep in his presence, her head slightly slumped, her chest rising and falling slowly, her hands resting in her lap-

It didn’t matter how or why, it mattered that she felt safe enough around him to allow her exhaustion to overcome her, to let her eyes flutter shut. She trusted him not to harm her, not to put her in danger.

Thomas Shelby couldn’t remember when someone had last trusted him so, without him demanding or ordering or threatening.

Even his own family members were beyond reluctant and persistent, often complying only because there was no alternative, or simply stopping to resist.

She had trusted him blindly, stupidly, the way only a person could who had experienced the world as a pretty, harmless place.

His men had trusted him, Tommy thought, back in France, though they had not trusted him, but rather their Sergeant Major. They had trusted him because they thought they knew him, because it was easier to follow the command if it came from a familiar face, in a known tone, but that made it no less deadly.

Men were dead now because they trusted him.

Dead in the mud, dead in the field hospital, dead in the canal and the streets of Birmingham - and dead in their prisons.

The boy had trusted him too, the one playing at being an outlaw, with a wooden gun and a holster made by the woman who did what mothers do.

He had trusted Tommy to protect him, to keep him safe and from harm and now he was buried like he had once been, only under far firmer, drier ground.

Sometimes, now, when he dreamt of that horrid night, of the creaks and cries of bursting beams, the frightened calls of his comrades and the deafening silence, he saw himself there, and Arthur and John, and Freddie and Danny and the rest of them. Sometimes, when he dug, his hands clawing at the earth, he turned to find the face of the boy right next to him, his eyes wide and still filled with fear, as if he was yet a few heartbeats away from death, as if his heart was still thundering in a feeble attempt to get the blood where it needed to go.

And if it wasn’t the boy and the mud, it was the shovel and whispers of German.

When he was awake, he could fight ehm with whisky and occupation, but in his dreams, he forced himself to think of her, of the loose strand of hair that fell in front of her eyes, somehow escaping both hat and hairties, a rare mishap in the perfection and poise she normally portrayed.

He could conjure the image even in his sleep, even in his nightmares. And in them, like she had in life, she was so calm, not even the noises coming from the darkness would startle her.

Breathe with her. Just breathe with her.

And he did. In and out, in and out.

The shovels were still there, but they wouldn't disturb her. She just kept sleeping and he kept breathing.

In and out. In and out.

To his shame, he found himself focussing on that every night before he tried to sleep, no matter where he was, which bed he was lying in, he always brought her with him.

He had tied her fate to his by parading her around in front of Campbell like a prized racehorse and as revenge, she held the key, the only key to salvation in her silk-gloved hands, the same he had tainted my mere association.

He had seen hell in France, and now he had created his own purgatory.

His plans, those he had made in sleepless nights, now finally came together but there was no satisfaction, no relief, no joy, even though it was going well, too well, really.

Tommy should have known that it was only a matter of time until it all went up in flames.

But like a house of cards, it all came crashing down in a matter of hours.

He had been at May’s, for the horse, and a distraction. He had things to get out of his system, probably. And there was no harm he could cause, not with May.

But before they got anywhere, really, he got that call.

Michael arrested in Birmingham.

Arthur arrested in London.

Billy dead, shot, and pinned on Arthur.

And Solomons and Sabini united against him.

It had been too much in too short a time and when he saw the smug smile under that hideous moustache, he knew. While he couldn’t pin it on Campbell, not entirely, he knew he had his fat little hands involved.

He called it insurance, of course, but it was nothing but retaliation, a strike back to punish him after aiming to humiliate him with Charlotte, or a test to see how quickly he would pull the strings he had threatened him with.

If he had aimed to call Tommy’s bluff, it had worked.

Despite his icy fear, despite Polly shouting at him to get Michael out, he couldn’t bring himself to make the call, to Downton or her uncle in the ministry.

All he could think of were May’s words.

You think your people are ruthless? Try mine.

He would have tried, he could have tried, but not with Charlotte. And the realisation cut deeper than he thought it could.

But failure always stung, still the mere thought of his original plan turned his stomach to the point where he knew he couldn’t come face to face with the girl, and instead skipped out on the meeting with the hospital staff for the foundation that had been nothing but a scam to lure her in originally.

The detailed, neatly written report she had given him was a sweet salt in the wound. Like always, she was trying so hard. She had done so from the very beginning and by now she was good at it.

He could spot the wit in her writing, the cheeky tone she used to describe one doctor’s reaction, almost mocking him for how he treated her as a near-deity due to her title, something she used to her advantage. To their advantage.

Tommy remembered her uncertainty, the refusal of payment for fear she would do more harm than good, and now?

There were things in motion, plans set to work, good plans, that would improve the lives of thousands. He had planted a rotten seed in burnt soil in the name of a scheme, but somehow she had gotten it to bloom either way.

Sweet, foolish Charlotte.

If she had been any less good, he would have had no qualms to fulfil his original plan, and now he was leaving all that behind to protect her. Payment, he found himself rationalising, for all the children who would profit of her work.

But beyond that, while getting his affairs in order in case his Epsom plan failed, he found himself thinking of her again, of how she talked about her father, her family, her duty to them, her uselessness with money, her utter dependence on them, and the risk her sister had taken in setting herself loose from it.

It must’ve worked, though, for her sister and the chauffeur, but Tommy knew a great deal of fools who let themselves be lured in by love. If her chauffeur loved her any less, she’d be stranded and penniless in a country not her own, disowned by her family and lured in by promises of love.

Charlotte had been lured in too, by Tommy and his schemes. Who was to say there wouldn’t be another one to try it for other reasons?

And was there not the risk of someone in his family blabbing? Polly, he thought, if he didn’t get Michael out quick enough would be on the next train to York, knocking on Downton’s door and threatening to bring the whole place down and Charlotte with it. She wouldn’t hesitate, hell, she had already demanded to know why he hesitated to feed her to the wolves to get Michael out of prison.

Even if he didn’t fail, there was still a risk of Polly pulling a stunt like that, one that would ruin Charlotte, one that could see her disowned and out on her own.

Because of me, Tommy thought, because she thought she was helping me.

It was yet another reason to keep him up at night, that allowed him to work until dawn if need be, longer than any other.

"Tommy, I'm going home.", Lizzie said, peeking her head into his office and waking him from his thoughts.

"Yeah. Go home, Lizzie. You should have gone hours ago.", He mumbled without looking at her., and diligently avoiding looking at his watch.

He’d have to give Lizzie a few notes extra.

"I was waiting in case you needed anything…", she said, her painted fingernails red against the black of his door.

I need Arthur back. I need Polly's son back.

I need peace with the backcountry boys again.

I need the clubs and the warehouses back. I need a bullet for Solomons and for Sabini and another for Campbell.

I need a fucking solution for everything.

He took the final sip of his whisky.

I need sleep.

His eyes wandered over to where Lizzie was still waiting.

She didn't say it out loud, but the offer stood all the same.

He covered his face with his hands and rubbed his closed eyes with his fingertips.

Why the hell not, eh?

If he couldn't find rest, he might as well find release.

He locked his office door and followed Lizzie towards the stairs. There was no talking, for there was no talking needed.

Lizzie knew what Tommy wanted - what Tommy wanted from her.

But that was just it, wasn't it?

His feet stopped and he watched her descend and with every step she took, with every step he didn't, he felt the miles of distance between them more than before.

She turned, looking up at him, a silent question written all over her face.

"Good night, Lizzie.", He said softly, before returning to the office.

He hesitated, his hand hovering over Lizzie's phone just like it had over his earlier.

But then he picked up.

The operator had connected him comparably quickly.

"Painswick Residence London.", The butler said. It was a familiar interlude and each time he thought that he really had to get her her own telephone. But by now he knew her too.

"Thomas Shelby. I need to…", he broke off, taking a deep breath. "I'd like to talk to Charlotte please."

He was surprised at how tired his voice sounded.

"The young Ladies and Lady Rosamund are not in residence."

"Where are they?", He asked. "Back at Downton?"

He could call there as well, but she was supposed to be in London. She had said so herself. Or maybe he had missed that too.

"No, Sir. They are attending a costume ball at Hasting's House."

Tommy scoffed, looking into the darkness outside the window.

Of course she's at a fucking ball.

He could almost see her, dancing under the glittering lights of a ballroom, diamonds around her neck and a tiara in her hair with not a care in the world as she was spun around by some red-faced lordling.

"Should I take a message, Sir?", He asked. "Although I doubt she will respond before tomorrow."

"No, thank you. Goodnight."

After he hung up, he unlocked his office once more and poured himself another drink.

Fuck.

Tommy braced himself on the desk and let his head hang.

It wasn't too late to go after Lizzie, or to find someone else who he could make do with.

Or maybe he could go to the yard and take one of the horses out until the sunrise came.

But he didn't want to fuck, not even to clear his head.

So he picked up the phone again. The voice on the other side was the same. “I changed me mind,”, Tommy said. “I do want you to take a message for Charlotte.”

The butler cleared his throat.

“And what precisely would you wish me to convey to Lady Charlotte, Mr. Shelby?”

He had begun the drive south in the earliest hours of the morning, after less than a few hours of sleep, arriving at Ada’s both unannounced and in the middle of the night.

But the night gave him time to make up his mind. In a way, it already had been, but at the same time, it removed all doubt.

In a week, he could be dead, a body rotting in the ground, with the only worth remaining in what he left behind.

Ada’s boy, John’s children - those matters were sorted now. The letter to the New York Post was written, in the hands of Ada.

The business would be in good hands with her and Polly.

That only left the foundation, and Charlotte.

After an early breakfast with his sister, who looked a proper bohemian with her silk robe and expensive coffee tastes, he left for Hyde Park.

By now he knew her mornings were when she was most flexible, and the park was close enough for her to meet him there. And she did, thankfully, alone. One could never be sure with her and her family.

When she came closer he could see beyond her cream coat that revealed just a hint of her pink dress underneath. The colour matched the shoes and the ribbon on her hat, of course.

All these little details he had grown to expect from her.

“Good morning.”, she greeted, offering him a warm smile that couldn’t hide the slight shadow under her eyes.

“Long night?”, Tommy asked.

She tilted her head from side to side, a slight blush creeping up. “Oh you know how it is.”

He really didn’t, but he didn’t want to push it. “Are you well?”, she asked, a line of concern forming between her brows.

“Well enough.”, he admitted as they began to walk. Well enough for a man that could be dead soon.

She huffed slightly, but she didn’t pry- not with her words at least. Her eyes dug into him from the side as if she wanted to see through his skull and into his thoughts.

That’s not a place you want to go, love.

“Is there anything I can help you with?”, she asked softly.

He shook his head.

“Whatever it is, I hope it improves soon.”, she said, giving his arm a little squeeze.

She leaned into him slightly, as they walked, passing nannies pushing prams, and little children running at their sides, a few men rushing to jobs, and a few women taking morning strolls. One could walk through this part of London during this time. Not even Sabini or Solomons dared to get their men into these areas- her areas. That was what calmed him. She at least was safe- safe from the Jews and the Italians and even fucking Campbell.

He had been considering asking her to take Ada and the baby in, just for the Derby day. That way they would be out of harm’s way in case…

She might even do that for him, but Ada wouldn’t go, not to her. He cursed her politics and the stubbornness they both shared. Ada would ask questions, questions he couldn’t answer. And the last time he had told her to get to safety she had stepped right into No-Man’s-Land, with the baby.

By pure luck, it had worked. But this time around it was more than Billy Kimber.

“I have some papers for you to sign.”, he finally said, stopping at one of the many benches by the fountain after glancing at his watch. She only had little time and would soon have to return in time for the train to Downton.

“Papers? Now?”, she asked surprised.

“Not much.”, he assured her,as he pulled forth three folded documents from the coat pocket.

Charlotte had to step closer to read them.

“Tommy, I don’t understand.”, she said softly, looking up at him. “Power of attorney?”

“Yeah.”, he said, holding the pen between his fingers.

“The money for the hospital and the other projects are already set aside, but I’ve slotted some more for the running of it. It should go smoothly.”

“But why?”, Charlotte asked wide-eyed.

“Don’t worry.”, he assured her. “It’s just in case.” “In case of what?”, she demanded to know.

In case my plan doesn’t work.

In case Campbell outsmarts me.

In case I die and I never see you again.

“In case I will be temporarily absent and decisions have to be made for the good of the foundation.”, he lied.

“Without consulting you?”, Charlotte asked, glancing at the paperwork once more. The uncertainty was ever present in her voice. “Yeah. You’ll be able to make calls on your own.”

This was the whole point of it, of granting her power and ensuring that the work of the last few months didn’t go arry. If he had to leave this world, then he would at least leave it with something decent behind and the only person whom he could entrust with that part of his legacy, was her. “Surely it would be better for that trust to be placed in Mrs. Gray or Mrs. Thorne, or even your sister in law.”

Likely.

“They are your family.”, she insisted. “This is as much your project as mine. We built it together. You know the workings better than anyone and you are the only one who actually knows how to run it.” She didn’t look convinced.

“I trust you Charlotte, and I want you to…”

To continue this in case I’m gone.

“I want you to sign. Just so I can rest easy, eh?”

She pursed her lips but she took the pen and signed all three papers.

“Thank you.”, he mumbled, as he took both pen and papers off her again.

“Was that why you were so worried?”, she wanted to know. Tommy decided to nod.

And he also chose not to tell her of the amendment to his will. Karl and John’s children would benefit from the trust fund. The family from the rest.

He chose not to tell her about the houses in Kensington, Mayfair and Belgravia which he had bought- large houses in good areas that she could rent out for a profit. They would bring in a good amount of rent money that should keep the foundation more than afloat as well as giving her not only security but also some form of independence if she ever decided to need it.

That would be his last gift to her, if it came to it. That, and the letter he had already written, kept in the other pocket, separated from her only by the thin material of the other coat pocket.

He already had the stamps on it, and the address, just waiting to be sent in case.

Four pages, he had written. Four fucking pages, scribbled down at Ada’s breakfast table like a madman.

It was the longest letter he had ever written and yet still felt so painfully short. There was so much more he wanted to talk about, so much more he wanted to tell her.

“Tommy, are you quite well?”, she asked, her hand reaching up, just barely brushing against his cheek. They were so warm.

A part of him warned him not to do it. But the louder voice inside him said fuck it.

He had put all his affairs in order, had sorted everything out. Now all the letters had been written, all the papers signed and all the preparations taken.

He could well be a dead man walking, Epsom drawing ever nearer, and a dead man had no time for regrets.

He may never get the chance again.

And so, with the papers back securely in his pocket, he reached for her cheek, feeling the warmth and softness of her skin as he leaned down to capture her lips with his.

Thank you for reading - I'd love to hear your thoughts

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notyour-valentine · 2 years

Text

The Boy in the Window 25 ~ Tommy Shelby X Reader (Series)

[Masterlist] [Series Masterlist]

Chapter Summary: (Y/N)'s stay at the sanatorium renders a lot of new experiences and truths, not just for her but for all of them.

Notes: It seems this story didn't want to let me go, so it is a long one. I do not consent to my work being translated, copied or posted elsewhere on this platform or any other.

Warning: Canon conforming mention of violence. Illness. (18/21+). Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Expect spoilers for Peaky Blinders Season 1-4.

Wordcount: 7419

Part 25

[Previously]

There was something innately calming about the sound of the waves.

Again and again they brushed against the shore with the steadiness of a calming heart that had been beating since the beginning of time.

People came and went, even countries and kingdoms did, but the sea just kept coming.

Despite all her reluctance, (Y/N) was glad she had come here.

She now knew why poets and painters could spend hours staring at the infinite horizon. When the sun set, it was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen, turning the entire horizon golden red.

The air was different too. If she had thought Arrow House an improvement from Birmingham, this was another sphere.

In truth, she hadn’t believed it would actually come to pass, not until they actually stepped onto the boat that would carry them away.

And then there was no return.

Dr. Wood had been rather broad with his offers.

They, and especially their costs, had seemed impossibly daunting to her as all she could think of were the household budget she had calculated her life on for the last seven years, but Tommy dismissed it all immediately.

“We don’t care about how much it costs.”

She would have argued vehemently against it, because she cared a lot, but for him money wasn’t even worth discussing.

Tommy had shot down Margate as soon as it was mentioned, and even Torbay was not up to his standards.

Since the summer was coming to a close, he feared it might be too cold on the English coast for some of the very lengthy and rather daunting list of treatments, most of which she couldn’t even pretend to understand.

But that only left foreign offers which were equally frightening as they were expensive.

She had tried to argue for England once more, but Tommy had presented an immovable case for a different location, which had startled her into stunned silence.

She would have thought no man that had ever been to France would ever look favourably about the country again. Not Tommy, apparently.

That had left them with another problem.

She thought his pick had given her a way out, after all, travelling with two small children was one thing, but doing so in a foreign country was a whole other thing entirely.

And she wouldn’t have a way of communicating with the doctors and nurses and other people there. Neither she, nor Frances or Lisa spoke a word of French.

His “Well I do.”, had disarmed her completely, but he had only shrugged off her disbelief. “At least that way you won’t have anyone talking behind your back.”

And now here she was, staring out into the Mediterranean sea.

When he had said that money was irrelevant, she should have been warned.

Even on the boat she had a bedroom larger than any room in her old house in Small Heath, with every comfort afforded to them.

There even was a proper dining room with white tablecloths and silver cutlery for them to use, although nothing baffled her more than the fact that they thought it a good idea to have them use real glasses on a boat.

Emma and Charlie weren't the only children travelling in first class but apparently the only ones most other passengers had seen eat at the same table as their parents, but there was no way she'd let them out of her sight on a boat- not for a single moment.

Unlike Charlie, Emma shared her sentiment, and hardly ever let go of either her or Tommy for more than a minute.

And Lord help them if anyone even thought of leaving her visual radius for some undisclosed location-

They were all glad to have dry land under them once more, but for varying reasons.

The place Tommy had chosen made her want to cut and run immediately.

Yes, it was a sanitarium, with a whole army of doctors and nurses standing by and even a few professors.

But at the same time it was like one of those luxury hotels with the red carpets and balconies in front of the entrance- or at least she imagined them to be.

After all, which hospital had butlers and footmen? Had chandeliers in the dining room? Black tie dinners, a concert hall and a casino on the grounds for entertainment and already prepared accomodation for lady's maids and valets?

But it still was a medical facility, and so on the first day she had a thorough examination, after they had spent the first night in the villa- yes, villa- on the grounds of the sanatorium which was just for their use only and had housed many a titled guest before them, although catered to by chefs and waited on by servants to the point where Emma tugged at the arm of the man waiting at the door, asking him rather bluntly if he didn't have anything better to do than just stare at the opposite wall.

Not only did they provide food and service, (Y/N) was also met with an entire closet of robes, gowns and bath clothes, but throughout their stay she hadn't touched those.

She had fought tooth and nail but Tommy had insisted on sorting them all out with an appropriate wardrobe and it was far easier, she found, to accept these things if they were given by him and not some stranger.

A great many things were easier with Tommy around. He was also with her for the examination, not only as a translator, but also as a guardian.

She hated it, hated being fussed over, being treated like a fragile little thing or a child, despised the way they were only ever so kind and ever so forthcoming it seemed a little bit dishonest, or it would have done if she didn’t know that Tommy held his hand (and his money) over her, over them all.

The fact that there were no other children to be seen anywhere, and that they, as two unmarried people were given leave to practically live together without even an eyebrow raised told her one thing above all else: they had been grounded by a lot of money.

On the second day, after a schedule of treatments was worked out, he introduced her to an English speaking nurse called Clèmence, that would have been paid a lot of money to attend her exclusively and work as a translator while he kept the children entertained throughout the day.

Despite taking on that task, he still made sure to check in on her whenever he could, let alone question her thoroughly once they joined paths, as well as thoroughly reading through all her medical reports while conversing with the doctors and the nurses daily.

She didn’t miss how he always tipped the lower workers until their eyes shone, and she wasn’t as foolish to think he was merely paying for carrying bags, holding doors or rubbing her feet.

Apparently one could buy not just information but loyalty too, it seemed, as he left nothing to chance.

It wouldn't surprise her if some worker kept a secret log of the times she had coughed to hand in to Tommy at the end of the day.

Every time she saw yet another bill slip from his fingers, her chest tightened.

None of this came cheap, in fact, she knew it would cost him a small fortune, and that was just the money, and not the fact that he was here with her, because she had been too afraid to go at it alone.

So it was in guilt that she bit her tongue and let them do whatever they wanted, whatever he encouraged.

They put her in salt baths, or in others were there steam rose until her hair got all frizzy. They rubbed oils and creams on her chest and back before placing warmed stones on it. They rubbed her hands and feet (although she had no idea how that would help her lungs) and had her inhale all sorts of greenery until her eyes burned and her nose ran, which according to them was a good sign as it meant “It is loosening the infection, Madame.”

She did not feel very much like a Madame, nor did the idea of it loosening the infection seem as preferable to her when she was blowing her nose at near by-minute pace.

They didn’t stop there, no, there were scented bandages, massages, and even some ghastly little pool of water that only ever reached below her knee and was freezing cold which they made her walk through no matter how much she shivered - for her circulation, apparently, and encouraged her to spend time walking by the sea (an activity Tommy and the children greatly approved of, which made it a lot less tedious).

To her own surprise she caught herself that even Cyril would have enjoyed this.

She would have - could have complained, but in truth, she could see it working.

In a way, bit by bit, day by day, all the warm baths and steaming sessions had melted a weight off of her shoulders, had freed her from the invisible rope around her chest and calmed her racing mind.

For the first time in forever, she found herself sleeping through the night and waking up with energy instead of exhaustion.

It was a strange thing to experience, one she could not put into words.

But she missed the children, even if she had them before breakfast and after tea.

She was with nurses and doctors, while they were out there somewhere with Tommy, having a proper holiday.

It was restlessness more than anything that drove Tommy out of the confinements of the sanatorium with the children.

The first few days he had spent at the beach, ever the perfectionist, until both children could swim to his satisfaction, returning them with wide smiles, dry hands, sun kissed skin and the sweetest kind of exhaustion after an entire day in the waves.

Then, once they were sufficiently proficient, he took them out on a boat one day, exploring the smaller caves at the coastline, just out of view.

“There were so many crabs, Mummy!”

“Hundreds and hundreds!”

On the days where they weren’t in the water, they collected sea shells and on the next, drove holes in them with heated needles and made a string.

The day after that, they returned form having been fishing with some bounty that Tommy refused to hand over to the cook and instead insisted on grilling themselves.

He even taught them how to remove the bones in one bit.

(Y/N) mashed the fish up all the same with her fork to make sure neither Emma or Charlie would even risk swallowing a bone.

Sometimes he’d take them further away from the sea, like the time they went grape picking or the time Emma returned to her saying that they had ridden a donkey and Charlie assuring her that his father had said perhaps they’d get one too.

Every day, for them, was a new adventure with Tommy’s guidance, and while it made her heart swell more than she would have thought possible it did hurt that she wasn’t a part of all these memories they were creating.

She had thought Tommy would get bored, eventually, but it seemed to be the opposite. He sometimes told her of his plans before hand, the things he wanted to do, the places he wanted to take them, what he wanted them to know and learn.

All these things, she soon realised, where things he had learned on the road, experiences shaped by his own childhood and in passing them on, he seemed younger than his years, and day by day she saw more of the boy next door in him, even if it was only in flashes, and only ever when it was the four of them.

“It was a proper castle, Mummy, not a palace!”, Emma insisted over dinner, her food not nearly as interesting as the story she could tell her.

“Because castles are for battle.”, Charlie said. “They’ve got bigger walls and a drawbridge and teeny-tiny slots from where they’d shoot the arrows out of!”

“And - and there were armour a long long time ago there were real knights there, with swords and horses!”

The story about the tourneys had captured both their imagination incredibly and dominated the dinner conversation for almost it’s entirety.

“That sounds like quite the wonderful day you’ve had.”, she admitted, before nodding to the two unfinished plates of food. They had to eat before it got cold entirely.

They had not even considered the black tie dining room for more than a moment, as there stiffness and silence ruled.

And in what world would they prefer that to Emma and Charlie’s excited chatter?

“I’m quite jealous.”

Tommy shrugged slightly.

“If you’re good we might take you with us on our next trip.”, he quipped, watching her from across the table.

“I am being good!”, (Y/N) insisted. “I’ve done everything they’ve said and let them do everything they’ve wanted.”

“Didn’t do the salt cave.”, he muttered under his breath, tapping the ashes of his cigarette into his ashtray.

“Well that’s different!”, (Y/N) argued. “There’s no point in that!”

His eyebrow shot up.

“It’s only worked for hundreds of years.”

She glared at him and huffed.

“Tommy - it’s ridiculous. I just can’t imagine that there is any use in me sitting in a salt cave.”

“What’s a salt cave?”, Charlie wanted to know.

“It’s a cave made from salt.”, Tommy said.

Charlie stared at him for a moment, but then his narrowed eyes glanced at the table salt, squinting suspiciously.

“That salt?”, he asked.

Tommy nodded.

“But that’s soft! You can’t make walls that soft!”

“Apparently they are.”, (Y/N) said. “A whole cave filled with salt and they want to dump me in the middle of it.”

To make her point, she took the little silver salt spoon and shoved it right in the centre of the bowl, where it remained standing.

Emma and Charlie stared at the tiny spoon for a second, before she looked up as she grinned.

“Like they do with the fish at the shops?”

“Yes.”, (Y/N) agreed with a chuckle. “Mummy’ll be just like a pickled herring by the end of it.”

Both children laughed, but Tommy didn’t think it was funny in the slightest.

“The salt makes the air different and that’s good for the lungs.”

Another pastime of his, while the children were sleeping, was ploughing through medical works and research.

“So me sniffing salt would have the same effect?”, she joked, but Tommy only threw her a dark glare - until his face suddenly softened.

He leaned over, a glint in his eyes.

“How about you do the salt cave and then we’ll all go on a little trip.”

(Y/N) hummed, trying to control her facial reaction.

She didn’t see the point, and the process of spending the better part of an hour stuck in a literal cave was far from appealing, but at the same time she burned to see something else rather than the sanatorium and the waves, even if it was just for a day.

“Can we go to the salt cave too?”, Charlie wanted to know, twisting the silver spoon.

“I suppose so.”, Tommy said with a shrug.

It looked, well, it didn't really look like anything, or at least not like something she had ever seen before.

The front part had the appearance of a hotel lobby, with a large desk and a waiting area. Of course, if one was travelling with Tommy Shelby a waiting area was not necessary.

They had been expecting them.

"Right through there.", Tommy translated as a man dressed all in white, accompanied by two women, and guided them further into the earth and away from the sunlight.

"You don't have to come.", She assured Tommy, watching his eyes glance back to the exit.

"Someone has to watch the children.", He mumbled, staring at his feet.

The lanterns reflected on the white walls, which were void of any natural light source, giving the entire corridor an unnatural golden glow.

There was another room, where (Y/N) was asked to take her hat off so that she could be more comfortable.

Then they were led through to the cave.

It was a strange place to be in.

The walls, of course, weren't smooth or polished but entirely covered in rough, glittering salt.

There was something otherworldly about this place, about the way the air smelled, and the lights flickered.

It was beautiful but in an unnerving sort of way, like some parallel place in a fairy tale world where humans like them had no place.

"Oh Mummy!", Emma gasped, her eyes wide and round as plates as she tried to take everything in at once.

The same awe was written all over Charlie's face as his hand found hers.

They had to move around some salt pillars to reach the loungers that had been prepared for them.

Four of them were ready, although both children would be able to fit on one easily and she doubted Tommy's would see use any time soon.

"They want you to sit down and take off your shoes.", He translated.

"Emma and Charlie too?", She asked, looking around at the children.

Charlie was running his fingers over the wall, feeling the textures while Emma was taking a more direct approach.

Her head snapped around when she heard Emma gag and cry out, seeing her jumping on the spot up and down, her face torn in agony.

"Mummy- it's really all salt!", she wailed

Stretching out her tongue she clawed at it with her fingers.

"Emma!", She gasped, deserting her place and running over to her daughter who was still gagging and coughing.

One minute she wasn't looking and her daughter had to go and lick the wall of the age old cave.

Her eyes swam with tears and she feared she would throw up all over the sparkling white salt.

While she rubbed her back, Tommy was barking orders.

It was strange hearing a language that was spoken in a brighter, more melodic voice by all those other people around her being twisted around his rough way of speaking.

A moment later they returned with a glass of water.

"Rinse your mouth!", She instructed, guiding the glass to her lips.

"Like when we're brushing teeth - good girl."

Emma pulled a face and began jumping up and down as now the taste of saltwater instead of just salt filled her mouth.

She hadn't thought of that and with nothing for her to spit into, (Y/N) told her to spit it into her hands.

A moment later, Tommy crouched down next to her with a bowl for the water Emma had spat out and a towel for her to dry her hands with.

It took three more rinses for the salt to get off of Emma's tongue and even then she was weepy.

"Well I don't really know what to tell you, my darling,", (Y/N) confessed, stroking her cheek. "What else did you expect?"

Emma pouted and leaned into her.

"Here.", Tommy muttered, digging in his pocket and pulling out a few caramel candies.

"This should help."

"Can I get one too?", Charlie asked.

"Course you do, my boy.", Tommy said, handing it to him.

Emma unwrapped it and handed Tommy the paper unceremoniously, who made it disappear in his pocket.

"Right, are we all good now?", He asked.

Only then did (Y/N) glance at the three other people in the cave who had been watching all this mayhem unfold.

It made her cheeks burn as she quickly averted her eyes.

Best get on with it now.

Once they were sat on the loungers, the nurses began to wrap a scarf around her shoulders a few times, covering her all the way up to her neck, before helping her lie down. Then they took the blanket and wrapped her legs in it tightly until she felt rather idiotic.

One blanket each was enough to wrap Charlie and Emma up, who giggled.

"We look like caterpillars!", Charlie giggled, wiggling around.

"None of that,", (Y/N) warned, "I don't want you falling off."

Especially since none of you can use your hands.

Although there was some truth in Charlie's words.

She did feel like a caterpillar.

The recommended silence lasted a decent five minutes before the children got bored.

"I packed my bag,", (Y/N) announced over their squirms and complaints, "and in it I packed my favourite straw hat."

Emma took over immediately.

"I packed my bag and in it I packed my favourite straw hat and sweeties!"

Then it was Charlie's turn.

"I packed my bag and in it I packed my favourite straw hat, sweeties and the story book!"

And so round and round they went.

But as the game went on, she didn't miss Tommy becoming ever more restless.

He had refused to be bundled up like the rest of them, and was only sitting on the side of the lounder. Bit by bit his breathing had gone heavier, even if his eyes were locked on the floor.

Smoking wasn't allowed in here but he was twisting the silver case between his fingers, fighting the desire.

It took her longer than she would have thought to be able to free her arm, or at least her hand from their bindings.

"Your turn!", Charlie reminded her.

"My turn?", (Y/N) asked, slightly startled.

"I packed my bag and in it I packed my favourite straw hat, sweeties and the story book, cake, chocolate cake, hot chocolate, some tea, Duffie, Mrs Tatters, a blanket, Cyril, a horse, a blanket-"

She stared at Emma as her memory broke off.

For three seconds she tried to think, but her mind was blank. Then Emma giggled.

"You're out!", She announced.

"What did I forget?", (Y/N) asked, glancing at Tommy.

"I packed you, Mummy!", She giggled, before running down the list.

"I packed my favourite straw hat, sweeties and the story book, cake, chocolate cake, hot chocolate, some tea, Duffie, Mrs Tatters, a blanket, Cyril, a horse, Mummy, all of us and the fire rocks.", Emma concluded.

"Tommy?", She asked softly to get his attention while Charlie eas beginning his list.

While Emma ran through it as if taking a single breath would break the spell, he took his time.

Tommy's eyes snapped up immediately, and the shine in them startled her, but once he realised there was no threat, he exhaled softly and swallowed hard.

"C'mere.", She asked, shifting slightly on the lounger in a very inelegant and rather humiliating fashion, to make a bit of room.

Slowly, he approached her.

"Duffie, Mrs Tatters, a blanket, Cyril, a horse, Mummy, all of us and the fire rocks and a big fluffy pillow!", Charlie concluded, while Tommy sat down on the edge.

It dipped under his weight.

Slowly, she laced her hand with his, feeling the slight trembling that he had tried to hide by playing with the lighter or clenching them into fists.

"It's perfectly fine if you want to wait outside."

Although he inhaled sharply, he shook his head.

"'m staying.", He promised, giving her hand a little squeeze, and holding on just as tightly. But his eyes roamed around the closed ceiling.

He was silent, and apart for the shaking in his hands, completely still, but she knew there was a war waging in his head.

Bringing the children had been a bad idea, because otherwise he wouldn’t have had to be here.

So she tried a different approach.

With a sigh, she rolled her head to the side, glancing down at their handiwork.

"The things I do for you.", She told him with a cheery voice. “Look at me - all wrapped up like a pastry about to go into the oven.”

Tommy glanced down the length of her body and reached over to tuck one side in a little tighter on her other shoulder, pulling it up to her neck.

"You should rest - that’s what they said. Rest or sleep.”, he reminded her. “I'll make sure they're not licking any walls in the meantime.”

(Y/N) sighed in deep exasperation.

"That was certainly something for the memory books.", She mumbled, glancing at where Emma and Charlie were still packing imaginary bags.

The corner of Tommy's lip twitched in promise of a smile.

Then he stroked that strand of hair out of her face which had been irritating her slightly, but was impossible for her to remove due to the wrapping.

He let his hands linger on her cheek.

"Close your eyes, I’ll watch them.", He promised, trailing his thumb over her cheek while she did the same with her own on his knuckles.

“And who’ll watch you?”, she asked, although her eyelids were getting rather heavy.

All these morning swims they had her doing made her welcome the afternoon rests.

“Well,”, he said, “I can always wake you up eh?”

That didn’t sound all too believable to her, more like a trick to get her to close her eyes, but when he began stroking her cheek in that calm and steady rhythm, it grew more difficult to fight.

Up and down, he stroked, up and down. Up and down.

Until sleep claimed her.

Tommy kept his promise, although not before consulting with all the doctors and nurses amd Clémentine.

But once permission had been granted, he saw no reason to delay.

The South of France was populated by large villas, hotels, and country clubs, or at least that was what he had thought, but within just a sort drive away from the compound, Tommy took them to a different sort of place.

It was a small fishing village, with narrow roads that reminded her of home, only that Small Heath had never been so clean, and to her the light brown stone walls and the orange-reddish rooftops were beyond charming, especially since the city didn’t overwhelm her.

It wasn’t too large or too expensive or too strange.

It was a small city for small people that wouldn’t make her feel inconsequential.

He had chosen it well.

The size, scale and tranquillity of the city (and the fact that there were no cars allowed) allowed them to let the children run a little ahead, as long as they always waited at the corners.

While Tommy stuck to his usual dark suits, even if the Southern heat forced him to abandon the jacket, he had gotten the three of them appropriate summer wardrobes, which for her meant a good dozen white and pale dresses with wide brimmed hats she had tried to reject, but he would hear none of it.

Now, they kept her face in the shade, which was a relief, while the light fabric didn’t feel suffocating at all.

For little girls it meant smaller hats and pale dresses. She didn’t fail to notice that Emma often wore a different dress when they returned to the one she had set out in, undoubtedly making either Tommy or the poor washer women regret ever having put her in pale dresses, but now she looked like a little angel, with the white dress, straw woven hat, and matching white ribbons that were tied around it.

With Charlie it had been a little more difficult as the boys fashion was still all sailor's uniforms and there was no way Tommy would allow his son to walk around like a navy soldier.

So Charlie was dressed like a right little gentleman, with shorts of course, but a shirt and vest of his own, even if his jacket hung right next to his father’s over his right, while she held onto the left one.

He had offered her his hand to help with some rather dangerous looking cobblestones and after nearly walking the entire street the realisation dawned on her that neither she nor he had pulled back, and by then there was no point anymore.

They strolled around for a bit and entered the church, where she helped the children each light their candles, the way they always did, while Tommy watched.

A little later they had some refreshments in the shade of some jasmine trees, with Charlie and Emma sharing a slice of apple tart, and trying to compete for the amount of “Merci”s they could fit into the brief interaction with the waiter.

By the end of their short stop, they had the entire staff wrapped around their little finger and offered the children a sweet on their way out, while praising them being well behaved for “English Children” (according to Tommy’s translation).

Then they strolled down to the harbour, where vendors not only sold fish and seafood, but also their craftswork, sweets, honey and other produces.

“I should have brought a basket.”, she said as she saw all the little stalls.

“I can buy you a basket.”, Tommy offered, nodding towards a spot where someone was weaving their own.

“No thank you!”, she quickly said, but she smiled at him.

Since there were more people around here, both children needed to hold their hands again as they made their way down the line of little stalls.

Before long Emma proudly sported a bag of sweets which she had only received on the premise that she won’t have more than one until after lunch, while Charlie had begged for his father to buy him that one large seashell which made the sounds of the sea - “Really, Dad - listen!”

He wasn’t disappointed.

At the next stall, another thing caught Emma’s eye.

“How come they’re round and these aren't?”, she asked.

The man was selling pearls, and while a part of his stall sold them already set as earrings or necklaces or bracelets, another part showed them still unset, with even the possibility of picking out a bunch from bowls, those that were deemed imperfect.

One bowl was for the round pearls, the others for those in different shapes.

“Do you know how pearls are made, Emma?”, Tommy asked.

“They’re made?”, she asked suspiciously. “They’re not stones?”

He shook his head.

“Do you remember when we took the boat a few days ago, when we went to that tavern with the oar at the wall? Where we had mussels to eat?”

Her head snapped around at that.

“You two ate mussels?”, she asked them surprised.

“They’re a bit squishy.”, Charlie told her “and Dad had to get them out of the shells for us.”

Did he now?

“The shells are like the home of the mussles and sometimes a little bit of sand gets in and sand feels itchy, doesn't it? So to stop it from itching, the mussels put layers and layers and layers of softness and bit by bit it gets all smooth and pretty.”

He let Emma and Charlie both think on that until he continued.

“Depending on the sand and where it is in the mussel, the shape changes. That’s why every single pearl is unique and none is like the other. Even when you look at the necklaces, no two pearls are the same.”

To bring down his point, he held up one of the singular pearls and showed them a little niggle.

“So if anyone ever tries to sell you a string of pearls and they all look and feel exactly the same, you know they’re trying to cheat you. If it’s just perfect its not real.”

“Truly? Every single one?”, Emma asked.

“Go have a look at the strings.”

They set to work immediately, analysing every single one in regards to shape and colouring.

“Goodness,”, she said softly as he joined her. “I didn’t know that.”

“Now you do.”

“Think I should get one for her? A necklace or a bracelet?”, he asked after a while.

“For Emma?”, she asked.

He nodded, but she shook her head immediately.

“Don’t say it’s too expensive.”, he argued preemptively, “they’re far cheaper here than they are in England.”

“Well, it’s not just the price,”, she insisted under her breath. “Emma’s five. She’s far too young for precious jewellery. She’ll lose it put it on Mrs Duffie or her dolls or maybe even the pony.”

The thought made him smile just barely.

“We can’t give her pearls until she’s eighteen, or sixteen at the earliest. She’ll have to understand and know how to take care of it properly.”

At that moment, she was called away again as one pearl apparently looked a little bit like a muffin.

They continued to stroll through the market but Tommy trailed behind slightly, the jackets in one hand, and the bought goods in the other.

Later, when the children were running circles around an orange tree, she joked that they’d probably sleep until noon next morning, but all she got in response was a mumbled “Probably.”

The thought it was perhaps the heat or the exhaustion or even boredom. It bothered her, but she couldn’t ask with the children around.

They reached the sanatorium rather late, but by the time she had the children washed and ready, they had prepared some dinner which Tommy had turned down in favour of a walk.

So it was just her eating with them and putting them to bed.

Her prediction had been right and they fell asleep even before she had finished the first song.

(Y/N) sung it to the end nonetheless, before kissing each child and leaving their shared bedroom.

The jacket resting over the back of the chair told her, he must’ve returned and she saw him but a moment later, standing on the balcony and staring out at where the waves were coming in timeless certainty.

Again. And again. And again.

The stars reflected on the shiny surface in hundreds little silver dots. The only red one was that of his cigarette as he brought it to his lips again and again.

His sleeves were rolled up again and his other hand was shoved deeply into the pocket of his trousers.

“The children are sleeping.”, she told him.

For a few seconds there was just silence, with only a nod in recognition of her words.

When nothing more came, she swallowed.

“Alright,”, she sighed, “I’m going to bed too.”

She had only just turned, when he spoke again.

“Wait.”, he asked, flicking his cigarette off of the balcony as he spoke. “I need to talk to you.”

“Oh?”, she asked, as her heart began to thunder.

Tommy stepped back inside and sat down on the sofa, arms braced on his knees, and his fingers twisting.

The sight was long familiar and made her swallow hard.

But all she could do was sit down next to him and wait.

It took a while for him to gather his courage to speak.

“You know,”, he began, staring at his feet, “these last few days, when I was with the children, or even today when they mucked about with the waiters, they keep thinking-”

He cut himself off and shook his head, running a hand through his hair.

“Why did you say what you did at the pearl vendors?”, he demanded to know, changing his approach so quickly she had trouble following.

“What?”, she gasped.

“Why would you say that?”, he repeated, a little calmer this time but no less desperate.

She raked her brain for what she could have done wrong, or said to hurt him.

Emma and the pearls, she thought.

He had been trying to do something nice and she had shut him down.

“I’m sorry.”, she said quickly, “I didn’t mean any harm, I just thought she was a little too young to have pearls of her own.”

His jaw clenched.

“So that’s why you said it? When she’s sixteen - like a figure of speech?”

Now she was entirely lost, and she felt herself getting upset too.

“Well no. I said it because at sixteen she’ll be old enough to take care of pearls. I know you have the money but that doesn’t mean you should be wasteful and for me giving a pearl necklace to a child is wasteful!”

He shook his head vehemently and reached over to take her hands in his.

“No, no that’s not - that’s not what I’m saying. That’s not what I’m trying to say!”, he mumbled, holding onto her hands.

“Then what are you trying to say?”, she asked.

The silence hung between them like a wall, and only he could breach it.

For a moment she thought he wanted to pull his hand away, but he changed his mind and held hers tighter.

“It’s a long time until Emma’s sixteen.”, he finally said. “That’s over ten years, (Y/N).”

She stared at him, his ruffled hair, his shining eyes, the way he alternated between taking open mouthed breaths like he had just run a mile or clenched his jaw to the point she feared it would snap. Even his cheeks were flushed.

“I don’t understand.”, she admitted.

He swallowed hard once more.

“You said we can’t give her pearls until she’s sixteen.”

(Y/N) stared at him in disbelief.

She had said that, had said every word then just like she understood them now, but the eye opening meaning he sought to put in his words escaped her.

“What are you trying to tell me, Tommy?”, she asked.

He huffed impatiently and averted his eyes once more.

“I need to know if you just said that or if you meant it… if it really is something you want.”, he said.

Mean what?

But before she could speak up, he already continued, the muscle in his cheek twitching.

“Because it’s what I want.”, he whispered, so softly the night breeze might have drowned it out if she hadn’t been hanging onto his every word.

“Because I want to be around when she’s sixteen, and Charlie too.”, he confessed, and once he had started, he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

“I want to see them go to school and university and all that other stuff we didn’t get to. I want to see them grow up. I want to - I want to look out me office window and see them race their horse sup the drive way even though you told them not to. I want to meet the people who they will become. I want all of that, and everything along the way - the good, the bad, all of it.”

His eyes met hers and they shone with tears.

“I want to be there, (Y/N), do you understand?”

“Of course you do.”, she said softly, speaking up against the lump in her throat as she offered him a small smile.

“No!”, he argued, “not of course. Not of course!”

Tommy shook his head once more and shifted until he was facing towards her, even if he couldn’t meet her eyes.

“When I wake up,”, he whispered, “I think about them - about what we’ll do today, about if they’ll like it. I think about watching them play, and hearing them laugh. About what things I should teach them and wonder how quickly they pick up on all that, about watching you watching them.”

He took a shuddering breath.

“I wake up and I know I get to do all that a- and it makes me want to get up.”

Tommy drew trembling circles in the palm of her hand.

“It’s been a long time since I wanted to get up in the mornings.”

Now, finally, she understood, and her eyes began to burn.

He took a shaking breath.

“Since I did it because I had something to look forward to and not just because I had to or because everything will fall apart if I didn’t, but because I wanted to.”

Oh Tommy, she thought and wanted nothing more than to pull him into her arms and hold him, but he wasn’t finished, and she didn’t dare interrupt him, not now.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he gathered himself again, at least to the point where he could look at her again.

“So I need to know,”, he said, the voice of the businessman returning, “I need to know you’re alright with that, with me…with me being involved, me teaching her things, me holding her, because it is what I want, but I also know I’m not much good, (Y/N).”

He had to clear his throat before continuing. “Not nearly as good with her as you are with Charlie or in general and I’m not half the man her father was, but I want to be there. O-only if you don’t mind.”

“Why would I mind?”, (Y/N) asked, her hand reaching up to cup his cheek, but he pulled it away, returning it to her lap.

He wanted matters settled and settled properly with the same dedication he showed his other ventures.

“Because you know what I am- how I am.”, Tommy reminded her. “It’s not an easy life to live around me. And it won’t be the same as it would be with someone else.”

“I know.”

That was all she said and these two little words made his lip tremble again.

But he needed more, more confirmation, more certainty.

Tommy almost buckled over at her words, taking deep and calming breaths as he ran his hand through his hair again.

“Fuck,”, he mumbled - “that was harder to ask than I thought it would me.”

That made her smile.

“Why?”, she asked, stroking a strand of hair out of his face.

This time he let her.

“Because I was afraid you’d say no.”, he told her blankly.

“I need something, (Y/N), something to hold onto, to drown out the noise when it gets loud again - I need something to come home to and-”

He broke off and shook his head.

“I need a home. Charlie needs a home and for all this time it was just a fucking house that might as well have been a backroom in some inn. I need something to come home to, but I want it to be you.”

She had opened her mouth to respond but he cut her off before she could speak.

“You and me.”

“And them.”, she reminded him, nodding towards the door to the children’s bedroom.

He lifted his gaze and nodded and for the first time during their conversation she could spot some sense of calm wash over him, not enough to drown out the worries, fears and confessions he had held within him and placed in front of her, but enough to dilute them bit by bit.

“It’s not just that. I- I want it to be us again.”, he said, giving her hands a little squeeze. "I need you to know that but I understand that things have changed, I've done things too and - well. I understand if you prefer it to be a different way, the way it's now with us as friends or... or whatever this is now or anything else, I'm alright with that."

He broke off to let himself breathe.

"Being around them, being around you - that's all I want.", he whispered, "in any way you'd have me.. You don't have to decide nor or ever, just...just so you know."

He had been so honest with her, pouring out his heart, probably more than he would have thought he would at the beginning of their conversation.

It would be unfair if she just left it at mere acceptance, because acceptance wouldn’t be right, not nearly, to capture the relief nor the way her heart had threatened to burst out of her chest unable to handle all the emotions his words had caused to stir inside her, good and bad.

Besides, what if she wanted him to know?

“Tommy,”, she said softly, making his head turn back to her. “I want it to be us too.”

The End.

I would like to thank every single person who has read, liked, shared and commented on this story. While I had a rough idea of where I wanted to go, you all knowing or unknowing had a hand in the way this story and the characters in it developed! Without your encouragement, I never would have managed to finish a story, which in total has over 117 000 words. I had such fun creating these characters and their stories, the way I've always had with writing, but no one prepared me for the amount of fun it would be to see other people react to this story.

So I want to thank you all for letting me experience the story through your eyes!

All my love,

Val

P.S. These four were my companions all throughout this summer, so while we probably all need a little break from each other, it would be very rude not to pop in from time to time, even if its just for a oneshot or headcanon or something

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