#barmaid reader

A/N: Yes unfortunately I am addicted to writing Thomas Shelby slowly fall in love and have conflicted feelings and very fortunately for you guys there will be more smut in this one... also more angst? I love S1 Postwar!Thomas... additionally we will be ditching the soft I can fix him reader, BECAUSE I CAN let a woman be violent sometimes no...? ─── ꒰ 🪻 ꒱ ───

It was like he was in that strange dream all over again. Thomas remembered it as clear as day, really. It hadn’t let him go since he had come back from the war. He hadn’t been the same since, as though he left his soul buried somewhere beneath the mud and bodies of France.

During the war, in one of the tunnels, Thomas and his men were digging, a support beam collapsed, knocking him unconscious. He had a dream then, something he had put off as stupid nonsense his head had made up back then to escape the reality he was in.

But now? He felt like he was exactly in that dream.

He was back in Small Heath, walking down a quiet street, the sun was still out. A flower shop stood there, familiar, he had seen it before, but it hadn’t been open in a while. Outside, a girl stood, arranging flowers. 

She placed a pot of forget-me-nots onto a small wooden stool, which caused a bag of soil that was leaned against it to topple over. 

Crash.

Soil spilled over his polished leather shoes and Thomas went still. 

Slowly, he lifted his gaze, he blinked a few times, as if once again he had woken up from that dream he had. But now it was… real.

You let out a soft gasp as you turned, eyes widening when you saw the mess you’d made.

“Oh god– ” you breathed. “I’m so sorry!”

You grabbed a broom instantly, kneeling down to sweep the soul off his shoes.

Thomas didn’t move for a moment, stood frozen, not in anger but in … confusion? He couldn’t quite name the feeling. 

Slowly his gaze turned to watch you kneel there, finger curls falling over one shoulder as you swept frantically, apologising under your breath.

Slowly, he lifted his hand, stopping the broom mid-sweep, which caused you to look up, half expecting to be shouted at by the man. 

“I– I’m really very sorry, sir.” you said as you stood up again. “I can clean your shoes properly, no trouble at all. I really am sorry.”

Your eyes locked onto his, bright and sincere, he didn’t release the broom, nor did he say anything.

He just looked at you.

At the way the sun kissed your cheeks and caught that spark in your eyes. 

Then, quietly, his voice broke the silence,  low and rough.

“…Don’t be sorry.”

After a moment, his fingers loosened, letting go of the broom.

You let out a small, apologetic huff, a gentle smile returning to your lips.

“Were you hoping to buy something?” you asked. “I’ll give you flowers for free. Roses for your wife maybe?” You finished sweeping off his shoes, brushing your hands off on your apron before looking back up at him.

“…I don’t have a wife,” he said simply.

“Oh… I’m sorry,” you replied softly, quickly gesturing toward the shop. Today did not seem to be your best day. “Please, come in. I’m sure I can find something for you anyway.”

You opened up the door, pushing inside. Thomas hesitated a moment at the threshold of your shop.

With slow steps, careful, as if afraid he might break something he stepped inside.

The bell above the door chimed softly as it swung shut behind him.

His sharp blue eyes swept over rows of blooms, shelves crowded with colour and life, before settling on you. You were already busy among the pots and freshly cut stems, sleeves dusted with soil, expression warm as you turned toward him.

“What colours do you like?” you asked easily. “Would you prefer a bouquet, or a potted plant?”

He usually didn’t do flowers.

Has never bought any. Never felt the need.

The question struck him as… strangely intimate. Despite the fact that it was a rather simple question.

“…Blue.” he answered after a moment.

Not because it was really his favourite, he hadn’t thought about favourite colors in a while, but because blue reminded him of forget-me-nots.

And suddenly, they were all he could think about.

You hummed thoughtfully, pulling out a bundle of blue chicory before pausing. You tilted your head, studying them, then shook it with a quiet sigh.

“No… too much.” you mumbled, returning them to their place. “Just blue?” you asked again, leaning toward a cluster of hydrangeas.

Something almost like amusement flickered behind Thomas’s eyes when your nose scrunched in mild disapproval. It was gone as quickly as it came.

At your question, he nodded once, short and decisive.

His gaze followed your hands as you selected a hydrangea, its blue deep and calm. You turned it gently in your palms, considering it, then set three aside with a small nod of approval.

“Are you in Birmingham often?” you asked casually as you clip a few stems of pale blue delphinium.

Thomas looked a bit at the flowers around him, before answering in that low, steady voice of his.

“I live here. Small Heath. Born there.”

You glanced up, smiling. “Oh, that’s nice. I live just down the street from the shop, very convenient, really.”

You laughed softly to yourself, clearly more comfortable with conversation than he was.

“Hm… you’re really putting me to the test with all this blue,” you added with a chuckle as you dug through more options, adding blue salvia and poppies to the growing arrangement.

Thomas absorbed everything about you, your smile, the sound of your laugh, how easily you spoke to him like he was just another man off the street.

You added a few periwinkles, then paused.

“I’m sorry again about the soil,” you said, glancing up. “I still don’t know how that happened. Clumsy of me…”

You tilted your head, studying him and the bouquet like you were trying to decide if they belong together.  Thomas stood perfectly still, hands tucked into his coat pockets.

“Hm… one last thing, I think,” you hummed.

You returned with a small bunch of forget-me-nots, tucking them carefully between the other flowers. Then you wrapped the bouquet in soft pastel-blue tissue paper and tied it neatly, adding a small card.

“May I ask your name?” you asked.

Thomas stiffened just a fraction.

“…Thomas.” he said after a moment. No surname. Just Thomas.

He watched your face as you wrote it on the card, wondering if your name will sound as pretty as you look when he finally asks for it.

You smiled. “Thomas,” you repeated, handwriting quick and neat. Then you held the bouquet out to him.

“And again – I’m really sorry about your shoes, Thomas.”

Thomas took the bouquet carefully. The tissue paper felt tender against his fingers, and the scent of blue flowers rose between them.

He lowered his gaze to the bundle in his hands: hydrangeas, delphiniums, salvia… poppies.

And right at the center, forget-me-nots.

Something tightened painfully in his throat.

Your smile didn’t falter, but your brows knit slightly as you studied his silence.

“Is it… missing something?” you asked carefully, clearly unsure how to read the quiet man in front of you.

Too late, Thomas realized his stillness had unsettled you.

“…No,” he said quietly.

“It’s perfect.”

Your smile softened instantly, a faint blush blooming across your cheeks.

“I’m glad,” you said, relief clear in your tone. “I hope that makes up for the earlier mishap…”

“…More than enough,” he murmured. Then, after a beat of hesitation, “What’s your name?”

“I’m y/n,” you said with a smile, also leaving out your surname, you weren’t one for formalities anyway. “It’s nice to meet you, Thomas.”

You offered your hand.

Thomas set the bouquet down on the counter and reached for you.

His hand was big and rough, but his grip was careful, almost gentle, as though afraid to bruise something precious.

“…Nice to meet you.” he said gruffly, and this time, he meant it.

You shook his hand, smiling.

“I hope you enjoy the flowers! If you keep them in a vase with water by the window, they should last about a week.”

Then you laughed softly.

“And if you ever need more… well, you know where my shop is now.”

Thomas nodded, absorbing your instructions. Keeping flowers alive for a week was the most domestic thought he’d had in years, he was certain of that.

He picked the bouquet back up and tucked it against his side, suddenly aware that he didn’t want to leave yet.

“…I’ll come back.” he said simply.

You let out a small, amused huff.

“I hope so,” you replied, moving back behind the counter to the pot you’d been cleaning earlier. “Have a good day, Thomas.”

He gave one last nod and turned toward the door. The bouquet rested securely against his arm, its blue hues catching the light.

It was mid day, some day in late winter. None that anyone would usually consider as notable. The Garrison was filled the way it always was.

The smell of stale beer clung to the wood. Smoke drifted in pale curls beneath the lamps, their amber glow resting low against walls. Glass chimed softly.

Thomas Shelby entered the familiar scene. Despite his unceremonial entrance, the room shifted around him, as it always did. Shoulders straightened, voices lowered, glances slipped over to the man that effortlessly commanded attention.

He carried exhaustion in the lines of his face, a weariness that didn’t belong to him, not usually. Still, he said nothing. He never did.

His eyes moved instead.

They found you behind the bar.

You were new. He knew that much. Someone had mentioned it in passing, between meetings and horses and stacks of pounds. He hadn’t listened fully, mind with more important things.

But now… 

Now you stood in the warm glow of a hanging lamp, wiping down a glass, the light caught in your hair like dust in gold. You moved with precision, aware of every patron, every call, every clink of crystal. There was something about you that… irritated his memory. Itched a spot in the back of his head that he hadn’t thought about in a while. Or at least pretended he hadn’t.

Grace.

He approached the counter, the wood cool beneath his knuckles as he tapped it once to catch your attention.

You looked up.

“What would I have to do to know your name, lass?” he spoke.

Mr. Shelby.

You had heard of him long before you ever set foot behind this bar. Everyone had. Warnings, whispers, don’t anger him, don’t stare, don’t ask questions.

You adjusted your apron, smoothing it down with nervous fingers. Your hair slipped over your shoulders as you lifted your chin, eyes bright despite the slight bit of nervousness that made your heart beat faster in your chest.

“I am Y/N…” you said gently, your sweet smile decorating your lips. “Y/N L/N.”

Thomas studied you in silence.

There was naïveté there. In the way you smiled. In the way you met his gaze without knowing what it meant to hold it. An angel’s face.

“Y/N,” he repeated, slow. Testing the shape of it.

“A pretty name for a pretty girl.” His gaze lingered on you, unapologetic. Taking in the curve of your waist, the line of your shoulders. You felt heat crawl up your neck.

“Thank you, Mr. Shelby.” you nodded, clearing your throat. “Can I get you something to drink?”

A man down the bar raised two fingers, gesturing that he would like to ask for another drink. You nodded to him automatically. You were good at this, aware, efficient, anything one could ask of a good waitress.

Thomas noticed.

“Whiskey,” he just said.

You nodded and turned to prepare it. Behind you, he slipped into the private room where Arthur already sat, newspaper spread wide across the table.

Moments later, you knocked.

“Your whiskey, Mr. Shelby.” you called from outside, creaking the door open gently.

Thomas sat beneath the low lamp, cigarette between his fingers. Arthur glanced up first, then Thomas. His eyes found you again, slow as before.

“Come in.”

You stepped inside, placing the glass in front of him. He took it, sipped, never once breaking eye contact.

“Can I bring you anything else?” you asked politely, eager to make a good impression.

Arthur, who had been watching the exchange with a raised eyebrow and his brother's reaction, leaned back with a knowing smirk. “Ohhh.”

“No,” Thomas said without acknowledging Arthur’s comment. “But you’ll stay.”

His voice was low, firm, not quite an order but close enough to make it clear you weren’t leaving unless he dismissed you.

“Mr. Shelby, I really should get back to-” you said, clutching the empty tray to your chest.

“Y/N!” the barman called for you, “Hurry up!”

Thomas’s jaw tightened, “Let the others handle it.”

Arthur coughed into his fist to hide a laugh.

You hesitated, but reluctantly nodded, there was no arguing with the Thomas Shelby, at least not from what you knew about him. “Yes, Mr. Shelby.”

“Sit.”

You obeyed, sitting in one of the empty chairs, folding your hands neatly in your lap. Thomas’s eyes followed the motion, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes at your compliance. He took another slow, contemplative sip of his whiskey, studying you.

Arthur was grinning openly now.

“How old are you, lass?” Thomas asked.

“Twenty-four, sir.” you answered properly with a polite smile. 

Too young.

Arthur couldn’t resist a comment, “Bit young, innit, Tommy?”

You blinked in slight confusion, “Too young to be a waitress?”

Thomas and Arthur exchanged a quick glance, before Arthur burst out laughing.

Thomas kept his composure, clearing his throat. “No. Too young compared to us.” He pointed between himself and his brother without taking his eyes off you.

“Is that an issue?” you asked softly. This job was all you had now, so losing it was nothing you were looking forward to, especially during your first week.

Thomas continued to study you. Your expression, choice of words, politeness. The innocence in your voice was almost cruel. “You don’t understand, do you?”

“I don’t think I do, Mr. Shelby.”

He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair before he gestured with the other, cigarette between two fingers. “It’s… experience. Maturity.” You nodded, “I see…” you hummed, “If you’re asking if I’m married or promised, I’m neither.” you explained.

Thomas took another gulp of whiskey, quiet not, while Arther was clearly struggling to keep his mouth shut.

Thomas shot him a slight glare, knowing his brother, it was guaranteed that nothing good would come out of that mouth. He turned his attention back to you, “You’ve... had lovers?” he grunted, the question slipping out before he could stop himself.

You felt your cheeks heat up a bit, a rosy blush creeping at the side of your face, as you stood up promptly “I… I fail to see how that’s relevant to my job.” you said in flustered protest.

“Y/N!” came the call again, fortunately for you.

You opened the door, “It was nice talking to you, Mr. Shelby.”

Then you were gone.

Thomas cursed silently as you walked away, his mind feeling strangely foggy from the short interaction.

Arthur, on the other hand, chuckled heartily when the door closed behind you, “Smooth, brother!”

The day after she left your house, your mother couldn’t shake the feeling sitting in her chest.

She had tried.

Tried to busy herself with the usual things, cleaning, folding laundry, preparing tea.

But the image kept returning to her.

Your kitchen. That man standing there. The revolver lying on the table beside his cap.

And you… standing between them, your voice quiet and pleading.

Your mother sat at the small table in the house she shared with your father, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long since gone cold.

She had already lost one child.

Henry’s photograph sat on the mantle across the room. The uniform he wore in the picture still looked too big for the boy he had been when he left for the war.

The boy he would always stay.

Your mother’s eyes lingered on the photograph longer than she meant to.

Her son had died in war, when he had so much else in life to accomplish. To see. To live.

Now her daughter was standing with a man who carried a gun into her little kitchen like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The thought twisted painfully inside her chest.

Now she sat there wondering if that had been a mistake, to leave you there with him.

Your father sat in the other room reading the newspaper, unaware of the storm building quietly in his wife’s mind.

She could lie.

She could keep the secret.

But the thought of it weighed heavily on her.

Your father believed in order, in the law.

And she had seen enough in your kitchen to know you were standing somewhere far outside the lines of what would be seen as acceptable.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the cup.

She stood up suddenly.

“I’m going to the church,” she called softly toward the other room.

Your father just nodded, not looking up from the paper.

Outside, the sky was grey and low, the streets damp from rain.

Your mother walked slowly toward the small church down the road.

The doors creaked quietly when she pushed them open.

It was empty.

She stepped forward and sat down in one of the pews near the front, folding her hands together.

‘I already gave you my son, lord’ she thought bitterly.

She bowed her head.

“I don’t know what to do…” she whispered out loud finally.

“My daughter… she’s involved with people she shouldn’t be.”

Her hands tightened together.

“I can’t lose her too.”

The words cracked slightly as they left her mouth.

She closed her eyes.

“I can’t lie to my husband either… Please, lord, give me an answer, I can’t… I can’t do it on my own anymore…”

The heavy church doors opened quietly behind her.

She didn’t turn, but just bowed her head lower.

“Please, lord, why won’t you hear my prayers anymore?” she asked quietly.

Someone moved down the aisle slowly before slipping into the pew directly behind her.

The wooden bench creaked faintly beneath his weight.

Your mother startled slightly, but kept her gaze ahead.

Only after a long moment did she glance over her shoulder.

When she saw him, the color drained from her face.

Thomas sat behind her, gaze fixed ahead, past her.

His voice was quiet, almost respectful.

“I’m sorry to disturb you in church, Mrs. L/N,” he said.

She stared at him for a moment, the conflict already visible in her tired eyes, but she spoke anyway, “Just Ava is fine…”

Being referred to by her last name always left a bit of a strange taste in her mouth.

Instead, his gaze drifted briefly toward the altar before returning to her.

“I imagine you’ve got questions, Ava,” he said.

Her hands tightened together.

“You were in my daughter’s kitchen…” she said quietly.

“Yes.”

“And there was a gun on the table.”

“Yes.”

The honesty of it seemed to shake her more than if he had tried to deny it.

Her voice trembled slightly.

“My husband… he’s a good man. He keeps our city safe.”

“I know the type.” Thomas nodded once, making no remark about his distrust and unfavorable opinion in the police.

“I can’t lie to him,” she continued softly. “But I can’t… turn my own daughter over to the police either.”

Her eyes shone faintly with unshed tears that burned hot in the corner of her eyes.

“I don’t know what to do.”

Thomas watched her carefully as her head sunk a bit, like the suffocating world was folding her in.

Then he spoke again, “Your daughter means a great deal to me.”

“Does she?” she asked, only half convinced, but the honesty in his words made it hard for her to deny.

“More than I could admit in most places,” he confessed.

“But I give you my word,” he added quietly. “I’ll take care of her, whether you approve of it or not.”

Your mother lifted her head gently, looking at his face as she searched for the truth in it. Or perhaps reassurance.

“And the things you do… the life you live,” she said. “That will not harm her?”

Thomas didn’t answer immediately, instead he leaned back slightly, letting out a slow breath.

“The world is a dangerous place… a cruel one.” he said finally.

“I think you, out of all people, should know that very well.” Thomas said, it made her stomach twist and turn heavily at the implication.

Silence settled between them, as your mother stared toward the altar again, eyes reddening with the sudden small tears that left her eyes.

“I cannot throw my daughter to the dogs,” she sniffled, “And I cannot lie to my husband.”

Thomas leaned forward slightly again.

“Then you’re a good woman,” he said quietly.

His voice was calm, comforting.

“Good women worry about doing the right thing.” he added.

She looked down at her hands, tears blurring her vision at the edges.

“I cannot go on like this…” she admitted.

Thomas’s gaze flicked briefly to the cross above the altar.

“You’ve already suffered enough,” he said.

“You lost your son in the war. You’ve raised your daughter. Protected her as long as you could.”

He paused.

“You’ve done your duty.”

The words seemed to settle heavily in the quiet church and in her chest.

“And good women go to heaven.”

Your mother’s shoulders trembled slightly.

She closed her eyes for a moment, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.

“I only want my children to be safe,” she whispered.

“And I promise you… I’ll see that she is.” Thomas said.

Your mother nodded slowly.

After a moment she stood.

Thomas remained seated as she walked past him toward the door.

She paused briefly beside him.

“Take care of her,” she said softly.

Thomas nodded once.

“I will.”

─── ꒰ 🪻 ꒱ ───

peaky blinders taglist . . .‧˚꒰📞꒱༘‧

By the time Thomas woke, the light spilling through the curtains was far too bright, far too high in the sky to be early. He groaned slightly as he shifted, the healing wound in his side pulling tight beneath the bandages.

The bed beside him was empty.

For a moment, he just lay there, staring at the ceiling, blinking the sleep and the haze away.Then his gaze flicked to the clock.

Past noon.

“Right…” he muttered under his breath.

You were probably already at the shop. That’s what he told himself.

You had been working extra hard recently, almost as if a bit of the light had found its way back into your life.

He dragged himself up, dressing slowly, pain flaring now and then through his side.

By the time he stepped out into the street, cap pulled low and coat thrown over his shoulders, he was already planning the rest of his day, seeing he had slept through most of it, most of the pain.

The walk to the flower shop was familiar, now a routine, almost. He expected to see you through the window before he even reached the door.

But when he got there…

He stopped.

The shop was dark.

The sign in the window read CLOSED.

Thomas frowned, stepping closer, peering inside.

Nothing. There was.. nothing in the shop anymore. No plants, no flowers, no pots.

No you.

His jaw tightened slightly.

That wasn’t right.

He pushed the door open anyway, the bell above it chimed as it always did as he stepped inside.

“Y/N?” he called.

Nothing again.

His chest tightened, just slightly.

His gaze dropped, catching on the small pot just by the entrance.

Forget-me-nots.

He turned abruptly, exhaling sharply through his nose before turning back toward the door.

Your house.

You had to be there.

He made his way there, but the closer he got, the worse the feeling became.

Outside your house, a motor car was parked.

Filled with boxes, pots, plants…your things…stacked neatly like they were being… moved.

Thomas stopped dead in the street.

His expression shifted instantly, his eyes narrowing as something cold slid down his spine.

He pushed through the gate without hesitation, boots heavy against the little path.

“Chloe–” he said as the dalmatian came to run towards him, barking happily, tail wagging like nothing in the world was wrong.

Thomas dropped to one knee automatically, his hand finding her head, scratching behind her ears.

“Where is she, eh?” he mumbled, more to himself than to the dog.

After a moment, Thomas was up again, knocking against the front door.

Impatiently he waited about two seconds before deciding that this took too long.

He pushed down the handle but it didn’t budge.

Locked.

“Fuck.” he cursed and stepped back, already moving before the thought fully formed, heading around the side of the house to the kitchen window, the faulty one.

The one he’d used before.

With practiced ease, he forced it open and pulled himself inside, ignoring the protest of his wound as he dropped into the kitchen.

You turned at the sound of him breaking in, you were standing in your kitchen, holding a box of garden tools in your arms.

“Oh,” you blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Thomas..?”

The relief hit him so fast it almost made him dizzy. Or maybe that was the many movements he shouldn’t be making with a healing bullet wound.

For a split second, he just stood there, breathing, taking you in like he needed to make sure you were real.

But the feeling didn’t settle.

Because the lorry was still outside.

Because you were still … packing?

“Why’s your shop closed?” he asked, stepping closer now, “Why’s there a lorry outside your house?”

“Are you leaving?”

You blinked a few times, in disbelieve he would even think that.

“I was–” you began but you were cut off.

“Oi, Y/N, where d’you want me to put the–”

John stopped mid-step in the doorway, a box of brightly colored bouquet paper in his arms. His eyes flicked between the two of you.

“Thomas?”

Thomas raised his eyebrows, this was… nothing he expected to find.

“Someone better start explaining,” he said, it rarely happened that Thomas was this confused.

You exhaled, setting the box in your hands down with a soft thud.

“I sold the shop.” you said simply, like that would explain everything.

It didn’t.

“–With the help of John,” you added, glancing briefly toward him.

“What…?” Thomas said in sheer disbelief, “You sold the shop?”

John shifted slightly, adjusting the box in his arms. “I thought it was stupid at first too, but–”

You cut him off, already stepping forward, your fingers wrapped around his hands.

“I bought the motor car outside!” you said, excitement breaking through everything else.

That made Thomas blink again in disbelief.

Once.

Twice.

“You bought a bloody… car?” he asked, softer than before.

You nodded quickly, your smile widening.

“I’m moving the shop into it,” you explained, a bright smile on your lips, “A mobile flower shop, if you will… I can go to all the markets, set up there and reach even more people!”

Thomas stared at you. At the way your eyes lit up. At the way your whole face changed when you talked about it.

“You’re bloody insane, you know that?” he muttered, but there was no real bite to it now.

“I couldn’t quite do it on my own,” you added, softer now. “So I asked John for help.”

John huffed a quiet laugh behind you. “Had a couple conditions, mind,” he said. “First… Esme gets to help with it, you know women and… their past times…”

You rolled your eyes.

“– and second,” John went on, glancing toward Thomas now, “when we’re in thick trouble… we use the car. Move men. Guns. Whatever’s needed.”

You nodded once, completely unbothered.

“Considering I’m a Shelby-to-be,” you said lightly, a small grin tugging at your lips, “I think that’s a fair deal.”

Something flickered across Thomas’s face at that.

Shelby-to-be.

His jaw shifted slightly, and he looked at you for a long moment before shaking his head, a soft breath leaving him as that smile finally broke through.

“So you and John are partners now, eh?” he said, one brow lifting in mock disapproval.

You stepped closer, closing the space between you without hesitation, your fingers curling lightly into his shirt as you leaned up.

“Oh, come on,” you murmured, brushing a quick, teasing kiss against his lips. “You know you don’t mind it.”

Before he could answer, you were already tugging at his hand.

“Come on,” you said, bright again, pulling him toward the door. “I’ll show you!”

“Watch out!” John called after you. “She’s a horrible driver still!”

Thomas huffed under his breath as he let you drag him outside.

The sunlight hit you both as you stepped out, and you turned immediately, gesturing proudly toward the motor car parked out front.

“Ta-da! My own motor car!”

Thomas folded his arms across his chest, studying it for a moment.

Then his gaze shifted back to you.

He stepped forward, closing the distance, one hand coming to your waist as he pulled you gently against him.

And then he kissed you.

“Fucking brilliant, you are,” he breathed against your lips.

You smiled into it, your hands settling against him, your eyes bright as they lifted to meet his.

“I try my best, Tommy…” you teased softly.

A quiet laugh left him, real, low and warm, one that you had almost never heard before.

“Try?” he smirked, his forehead brushing yours. “Darling… you succeed.”

─── ꒰ 🪻 ꒱ ───

peaky blinders taglist . . .‧˚꒰📞꒱༘‧

You had returned to your shop a few days after the Kimber incident.

There was still plenty to clean. The place had been left in a miserable state.

Your ribs still protested every time you bent down, and the bruising along your cheek pulled, but you ignored it and kept working.

It helped to stay busy.

Day by day your shop and you yourself looked more put together. The swelling and bruises faded, your flowers bloomed again.

Apart from a quite stubborn pot of forget-me-nots.

One late afternoon you were wiping your hands on your apron when a voice suddenly called from the doorway.

“Delivery for Y/N L/N!”

You looked up immediately, surprised. For a moment you just blinked at the man standing there before stepping toward the entrance.

“That’s me…” you said.

The man handed you a bouquet of flowers. Wildflowers, gathered together in rough twine, wrapped in soft blue tissue paper.

“Oh… thank you,” you said, taking them from him.

He tipped his head and turned to leave. Only as he stepped back into the street did you notice the hat on his head was a flat cap.

Your stomach twisted faintly.

You closed the shop door, locked it even and carried the bouquet back to the counter. It felt oddly heavy in your hands.

A small card rested between the stems.

You pulled it free.

“Canal Bridge 5 am - Your army dreamer”

Army Dreamer…?

It had to be… Thomas, no?

You stared at the card for a long moment before beginning to unwrap the flowers.

And then something slipped free.

The metal hit the wooden counter with a heavy thud.

You froze.

A M1917 4" Barrel revolver lay between the scattered wildflowers.

Your heart began to pound as you stared down at it.

Of course it was Thomas. Nobody else would send you flowers and a gun.

Your thoughts raced as you stared at the card again… Canal Bridge. Five in the morning. Was he asking you to meet him there?

You sighed and rubbed a hand over your aching temple.

“Oh Thomas…” you muttered quietly.

This was ridiculous, and dangerous, and very reckless… but it was so… ‘Thomas’.

But what other choice did you have?

You closed the shop, carrying the flowers and the revolver home with you.

Once inside, you locked the door behind you. Then the windows, drawing in the curtains.

The revolver sat on your kitchen counter where you’d placed it.

For a long time you just stood there staring at it.

Your hand moved almost without thinking as you picked the revolver up again. The weight of it settled heavily in your palm.

Still, after a moment, you slipped it carefully into your purse.

A rather restless night followed, and by early morning you found yourself leaving the house, almost excited.

The city was still mostly quiet at that hour, a bit of rain falling upon the still damp streets.

You were dressed differently today.

No soft florals or light colours like you usually wore. Instead, a dark grey skirt and a plain white blouse, simple.

Inside your purse, your fingers occasionally brushed the cold shape of the revolver. The weight of it still felt wrong.

Thomas was already there when you finally arrived under the canal bridge.

He had been leaning against the wall, cigarette hanging from his lips, as always. The moment his eyes landed on you, something in his shoulders eased.

He pushed off the wall and began walking toward you, his gaze taking in your appearance as he approached.

“You’re here,” he said quietly.

You nodded.

“Of course I came… my army dreamer,” you huffed softly.

Before you could stop yourself, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.

Thomas reacted instantly.

His arms came around you tightly, as he buried his face against the side of your neck. You felt his breath against your skin as he inhaled deeply.

“Fuck… I missed you,” he muttered roughly.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, “Are you alright?”

“I’m okay,” you said softly, lifting your hands to brush your fingers over his cheek. “How are you? Did you get into any trouble with the coppers?”

Thomas exhaled through his nose, covering your hand with his. His thumb slowly rubbed small circles over your fingers.

“No trouble yet…” he lied smoothly.

You leaned in and kissed him gently.

“What… what is this meeting even about, Tommy?” you asked quietly when you pulled back. “I told you it’s not good if we see each other right now… and the letter… the gun…”

You had so many questions. Thomas looked away for a moment, jaw tightening.

“I know,” he muttered. “I know. But we needed to talk. Alone. Just this once.”

“Thomas… you sent me a gun.” Your fingers tightened briefly around your purse. “Please, tell me what’s going on.”

“I…” he began, voice rough.

“I’m in trouble,” he said finally. “We’re in trouble.”

Your stomach twisted.

“With who?” you asked quickly. “With that Kimber bloke?”

Thomas gave a harsh breath through his nose.

“Kimber’s the least of it right now…”

He hesitated only a second before saying the name.

“Campbell.”

You frowned slightly. “Who… who is Campbell?”

“Copper inspector…” he hissed. “The bastard who’s been breathing down my neck for months.”

His eyes locked onto yours.

“He wants the Peaky Blinders gone. And now that he knows about us…” Thomas shook his head slightly. “He’ll use you.”

Your heart skipped.

“He knows about us?” you asked quietly. “I promise you, Thomas… I told nobody.”

Your eyes searched his face desperately.

Thomas shook his head again, jaw clenched.

“Doesn’t matter. He knows now…” His grip loosened slightly, exhaustion creeping into his voice. “Fuck if I know how.”

He ran a hand over his face briefly.

“Point is… he’ll use you to get to me. And if your father’s working for him…”

Thomas cut himself off briefly.

“That gun’s for protection. Just in case.”

“For protection?” you said nervously. “Thomas… I don’t even know how to shoot. I can’t–”

“I know,” he interrupted.

His fingers lifted your chin gently so he could see your eyes properly.

“You’ll figure it out, but it’s a last resort,” he said quietly. “Just take it. And for Christ’s sake, be careful.”

“Okay… I promise I’ll do what I can.” you nodded slowly.

You hesitated for a moment before you spoke again, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier that my father’s a copper.”

Thomas’s jaw tightened immediately. For a split second, something flickered across his face… doubt. It stabbed deeper than he wanted to admit.

Because the idea that you might betray him… it felt like a knife twisting somewhere in his chest.

You noticed it instantly.

“You believe me… right?” you asked quietly. “That I’m on your side?”

Thomas stared at you for a long moment.

Searching. Looking for any hint of deceit.

But you only looked back at him with that same soft, honest expression that had undone him from the beginning.

He sighed sharply.

His grip on your chin softened.

“…Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah. I believe you.”

You swallowed, unsure whether to feel relieved or hurt that he’d hesitated at all.

“So… what now?” you asked. “Do I just… not see you until this is over?”

“Yeah,” he said roughly. “We gotta lay low. Just… give me time. You gotta trust me, alright?”

You bit your tongue to stop the protesting words rising in your throat.

But you nodded.

“Alright… I trust you.”

Thomas’s eyes softened just slightly, his fingers brushed along your jawline again.

“Good girl.”

“There’s… one more thing I need you to do.”

You looked up at him immediately, waiting.

“Keep that gun on you. At all times.”

It wasn’t a suggestion, but an order.

You swallowed, “Alright… I promise.”

“I mean it, Y/N,” he added, his voice lower now. “I need you safe. I can’t–”

The words caught somewhere in his throat.

His jaw tightened instead, and his fingers pressed slightly harder against your shoulder, almost painfully so.

Your lip trembled before you bit it down, your eyes suddenly burning.

Before you could stop yourself, you wrapped your arms around him once again.

“I promise,” you whispered, your voice tight. “I swear.”

Thomas held you tightly, almost desperately. You felt his face bury into your hair as he inhaled slowly.

For a moment neither of you moved.

It felt painfully good being held like this again.

But it also felt like goodbye.

“Promise me you’ll also be safe,” you whispered quietly against his shoulder.

He let out a quiet breath through his nose and pressed a rough kiss against your temple.

“I’ll try.”

You lifted your head slightly and pressed a kiss against his lips.

“If you ever need anything…” you whispered into the kiss, “you can always come to me.”

You stepped back after that, though every part of you wanted to stay exactly where you were.

“Thanks….” he said with a nod.

You clutched your purse a little tighter before giving him a small wave, your chest heavy.

“Goodbye… I… I see you.”

Then you turned and stepped out from beneath the bridge.

You wondered how long it would be before you saw him again.

Behind you, Thomas remained exactly where you’d left him.

─── ꒰ 🪻 ꒱ ───

peaky blinders taglist . . .‧˚꒰📞꒱༘‧

@drunkcigarettes-jpg @lucellu @hagarsays

The flat was quiet now.

Moonlight slipped through the window, painting the flat in that greyish blue hue, scattering across the crumbled sheets and the now scattered clothes on the floor. 

For once, Thomas did not dream of mud-filled trenches or endless tunnels collapsing around him.

Your body was curled against his, one arm draped loosely over his chest, your hair spilled across his pillow. Chloe now slept quietly at the foot of the bed, occasionally twitching in her dreams.

It was a good night.

Morning crept in slowly. Pale sunlight filtered through, the soft glow brushing across your face and making your nose twitch faintly.

You stirred with a quiet sigh.

Thomas woke first, as he always did.

But instead of the usual cold weight pressing on his chest, there was only something unfamiliar.

Peace.

His eyes moved to you.

You were still asleep beside him, breathing softly. And for a long moment he simply watched you.

Then he reached up, brushing a loose strand gently away from your face.

There was no rush this morning. No urgent business yet.

Just this.

Your eyes opened slowly, blinking against the light. For a moment you looked around in confusion before memory returned.

Thomas’s flat.

You turned your head slightly toward him.

“Morning, Thomas…” you mumbled, your voice still thick with sleep. Your expression scrunched up into mild pain as a headache announced itself.

Thomas immediately noticed the wince on your face.

The hangover.

Without a word, he reached for the glass of water he had left on the nightstand the night before.

“Here,” he said, handing it to you.

Then he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your temple.

“Whiskey’s a bitch when you’re not used to it.” His voice was rough from sleep, but gentler than usual. 

You sighed dramatically, rubbing your forehead.

“My head…” you groaned, taking a careful sip of water.

The coolness helped immediately. You leaned back against the pillows, breathing out slowly.

“Thanks, Thomas…”

At the end of the bed, Chloe gave a soft whine, her tail thumping once against the mattress.

Thomas glanced down at her and nodded to himself, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

“I’ll take Chloe out,” he said. “And get you breakfast.”

He paused slightly as he reached for some trousers.

Domestic things like this were new to him, but strangely enough, they didn’t feel wrong.

You pushed yourself up a little straighter in the bed, brushing your messy hair out of your face.

“That would be lovely,” you hummed softly. 

Thomas leaned over once more before leaving, pressing another kiss to your lips.

Then he grabbed Chloe’s leash and stepped out into the quiet morning.

The streets of Small Heath were calm at this hour. The air smelled faintly of coal smoke and fresh bread from the nearby bakery.

After a short walk with Chloe and stopping by the corner stop, he returned to the flat.

The two of you ate together in the quiet kitchen, and later, Thomas walked you home so you could freshen up.

At your door, you both lingered a moment longer than necessary.

Then you parted ways.

Thomas headed toward the betting shop and the endless work waiting for him.

And you walked toward your flower shop.

You would open a little late that morning, but that was better than not opening at all.

You slowed as you approached your shop, noticing three men standing outside the door.

Your steps hesitated for only a moment before you continued forward, keys already in your hand.

“Oh– sorry,” you said politely as you reached the door, fumbling slightly with the lock. “I’m not open yet.”

The shop itself looked untouched, the windows intact, the familiar scent of flowers drifting faintly through the glass.

Still… something about the men felt wrong.

One of them stepped forward.

“I’m Billy Kimber.”

The name seemed to hang in the air as if it was supposed to mean something important.

You glanced at him briefly, then returned your attention to the stubborn lock.

“Well,” you said simply, “I’ll be open in a bit, Mr. Kimber.”

For a moment, his smirk faltered at how utterly unimpressed you sounded.

He stepped closer.

“We’re not here for flowers, love.”

The message was clear.

This wasn’t a friendly visit.

“Alright,” you said, pushing the door open at last and stepping inside. “Then what can I help you with?”

You weren’t entirely sure who they were, but something about the name Kimber felt vaguely familiar.

Maybe you had seen him at the races last weekend. Or maybe the Shelby brothers had mentioned it.

Kimber followed you inside without invitation, lighting a cigarette as he walked.

He exhaled the smoke deliberately in your direction.

“We know you’re fuckin’ Thomas Shelby,” he said.

The vulgarity made you wrinkle your nose slightly.

“I am not ‘fucking’ anyone.” you replied calmly, gesturing vaguely at the language as you moved behind the counter.

Kimber scoffed loudly.

“Don’t play stupid,” he snapped. “Everyone knows Shelby’s been parading you around like some pretty bitch.”

He flicked ash carelessly onto the floor.

The intimidation was obvious now.

You tilted your head slightly, considering him.

“I see,” you mumbled.

You began arranging a small bundle of flowers on the counter as if the conversation were entirely ordinary.

“Bringing a woman around isn’t exactly uncommon, Mr. Kimber.”

You glanced up at him, your voice remaining calm.

“If you are looking to speak to him, I’m quite certain you can find him.”

Kimber’s expression darkened instantly.

He hated being dismissed.

Especially by a florist who seemed entirely unimpressed with him.

“Where is he?” he demanded suddenly, slamming his hand against the counter.

The vases rattled softly, petals trembling.

Behind him, his men shifted uneasily.

Your heart jumped sharply in your chest.

But your expression remained steady, even if it took all your courage

“I don’t know,” you said.

It wasn’t a lie.

You genuinely had no idea where Thomas spent his days.

Kimber clearly didn’t believe you.

In a flash, his hand shot out, grabbing your wrist roughly and pulling you forward from behind the counter.

“Listen here, you little bitch,” he growled.

“We ain’t leaving ‘til we get an answer.”

The grip was rough enough to hurt, his fingers digging painfully into your skin. You bit your lip, forcing yourself not to snap back at him.

“I told you…” you said through clenched teeth. “I don’t know.”

Before you could react, he yanked you forward until your face was inches from his.

“Wrong fucking answer.”

SMACK.

The sound cracked through the shop like a gunshot.

You let out a small yelp, stunned more by the shock than anything else. Then pain exploded across your cheek as his hand backhanded you. Your head snapped to the side, the taste of blood blooming instantly on your lip.

“What–” your voice trembled as you looked back at him, eyes wide.

“That’s what happens when you lie to me,” he said coldly, clearly pleased with himself.

Then suddenly his hand tangled in your hair.

Dazed, panicked, your hand reached blindly for the nearest object.

Your fingers closed around something heavy.

A brass letter opener.

Without thinking, you drove it forward.

Straight across his shoulder.

“FUCK!” Kimber roared, instantly releasing you as blood began soaking through the cut in his suit.

He staggered back, clutching the wound, his face twisting with fury and disbelief.

The other two men stepped forward immediately.

And it became utterly clear to you that the situation had exploded into something far worse.

You stumbled backward, scrambling behind the counter as tears burned in your eyes. Your head throbbed, your cheek aching, the entire world suddenly spinning too fast.

You had never been in a fight like this.

Never anything close.

Kimber pressed his hand against his bleeding shoulder, shouting at his men through clenched teeth.

“GET HER!”

One of them grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking you forward.

The other drew his fist back.

The punch landed square against your face.

Pain burst through your skull, forcing a cry from your throat as tears spilled from your eyes.

“Get off me!” you shouted, struggling wildly.

Your cheek was already swelling, blood dripping from your nose as the shop around you dissolved into chaos.

Kimber leaned against the counter, watching through the pain with a cruel grin.

“Teach the Shelby bitch some manners!” he sneered.

One of the men drove his knee hard into your stomach.

The blow to your stomach forced the air out of your lungs so violently that your body simply gave up.

You dropped to your knees.

A broken gasp escaped you as you folded forward, clutching your stomach.

You didn’t even know why this was happening.

You had no idea what Thomas Shelby had done.

No idea that he had been fixing Billy Kimber’s races.

Kimber crouched in front of you, grabbing your chin and forcing your head up.

Your vision blurred with tears as he made you look at him.

“This,” he snarled, “is ‘cause your fucking punter’s been stealing my business.”

His grip tightened painfully.

“And now you’re gonna tell me where he is.”

You shook your head frantically, tears streaming down your face.

“I don’t know where he is, please–”

Your words turned into a sob as he yanked your chin up, forcing your head higher.

“I really don’t know!” you cried. “I swear–I don’t–”

Kimber’s expression twisted with irritation.

The truth ruined his game.

Then suddenly,

“What the fuck is going on in there?”

A voice came from outside the shop.

A man from the neighboring store stood in the doorway, drawn by the shouting and the crashing.

Kimber whipped his head toward the door, irritation flashing across his face.

The neighbor was just some old shopkeeper, thin, nervous, clearly regretting his curiosity already.

“None of your fucking business!” Kimber barked.

Then he turned back to you.

“Last chance,” he growled.

“Where’s Shelby?”

You could barely focus through the ringing in your ears.

Your entire body hurt. Your head spun.

“I… I don’t know,” you sobbed weakly. “Please… I promise I’m telling the truth…”

Kimber stared at you for a long moment.

Then he shoved you hard.

You collapsed onto the flower shop floor among crushed petals.

“Pathetic,” he hissed, then spat down on you.

He nodded toward his men.

“Let’s go. We’ll find Shelby another way.”

On their way out, the thugs kicked over more vases, smashing them across the floor as they passed.

The message had been delivered.

They didn’t need answers anymore.

The door slammed shut behind them.

Silence flooded the shop.

Only your ragged breathing filled the room now… along with the slow drip of blood hitting the wooden floor.

You lay there trembling, your face swollen, your nose bleeding, your lip split open.

The neighbor cautiously leaned into the doorway.

He looked at the destruction.

Looked at you.

But he didn’t step inside.

Not after seeing the men who had just left.

The door creaked slightly as he pulled back again, unwilling to involve himself.

And you remained on the floor.

Your chest tightening with a horrible thought that began to creep in.

Maybe you really were useless.

Weak.

Just some stupid woman caught in something far bigger than you ever understood.

You lay there for what felt like a long time.

Roses, peonies, lilies, orchids. Crushed beneath shattered glass and smeared with drops of your blood. The sweet scent of the flowers hung heavy in the air, almost sickening now.

Your breathing came in uneven pulls as you curled slightly on the floor, one hand weakly pressed against your aching stomach.

Everything hurt.

The world still spun faintly around you, the ceiling blurring each time you tried to focus on it.

But the worst thing wasn’t the pain.

It was the quiet.

You had been powerless to stop any of it.

Your fingers curled weakly into the scattered petals beside you.

They hadn’t even spoken to you like you mattered.

Not really.

To them you hadn’t been a person.

No.

You had been something else entirely. A woman.

The Shelby bitch.

Their voices echoed faintly in your head.

Not once had they treated you as your own person.

Only something that belonged to him.

Something useful.

Something that could be hurt.

Your chest tightened painfully.

You had never been asked who you were.

Only what you were to Thomas Shelby.

Where he was.

What he was doing.

What you could give them about him.

A small, broken laugh caught in your throat, turning into a quiet sob instead.

Maybe that was all you were in this world now.

Not Y/N.

Not a person with her own life and little flower shop and simple dreams.

Just a woman.

Your hand trembled as you pressed it against the floor, trying weakly to push yourself up.

The petals beneath your palm were soft.

Delicate.

Crushed easily.

Just like you.

And the thought settled deep in your chest, heavy and cold.

You were but a woman.

And in their eyes… that had never meant much at all. ─── ꒰ 🪻 ꒱ ───

The Garrison emptied throughout the night.

By the time the door was closed and the lamps were dimmed, only you remained.

It was nearly one in the morning. The pub had settled into a silence that felt like great relief to your slightly sore muscles, broken only by the whisper of your broom against the floor and the soft hum of a tune under your breath.

You didn’t notice him at first.

Thomas stood just inside the doorway, cigarette in hand, watching.

He hadn’t meant to come back. Not exactly. He’d told himself it was business, habit, nothing more. But her … 

You.

So here he was.

You glanced up and stilled your motion of sweeping the floor. “Mr. Shelby…” you said softly. “We’re closed, but… can I help you?”

He leaned into the doorframe, his eyes on you with an expression you couldn’t quite read. “Just making sure you were finished up alright.”

A small laugh left your lips, “I’m fine, sir. This isn’t the first pub I’ve closed.” You hesitated, then nodded toward the bar. “Would you like one last whiskey? While I finish?” you offered, still unsure what he came for.

Something in his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. He pushed off the doorframe, walking over to the counter, his steps in polished shoes echoing in the empty pub.

“One last glass.” he muttered, taking out his pocket watch, checking the time out of habit.

You moved behind the counter, taking the whiskey you already knew he usually asked for. The bottle caught the dim light as you poured. When you slid the tumbler across, his fingers brushed yours.

It was nothing.

“You don’t have someone waiting for you?” he asked quietly.

“No,” you said easily, “I live alone.”

The word alone sat between them for a second.

“You never get lonely?” he asked further. Thomas leaned against the counter, his eyes on you as you stepped out from behind the counter and continued your broom sweeping.

You shook your head, “Not really… I like to read. It keeps me company.” Then, softer, she countered with a question: “Do you get lonely, Mr. Shelby?”

The glass halted midway to his lips.

“Lonely.” he repeated with a scoff, “I’ve got family. Business.”

A pause.

His jaw tightened, he found it infuriating that you so easily played with words that weren’t yours to ask.

“Clever girl,” he muttered. “Asking things you shouldn’t.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Shelby.” you said quickly. “I didn’t mean to be rude.” You glanced at him and his whiskey by the counter, then back to the floor. You cleared your throat, switching topics as you didn’t want to agitate your employer any more. “Thank you for checking on me. I really am happy working here.” you noted with the same smile as before. 

He watched you sweep, a few strands of loose hair slipping over your face.

“Someone needs to look out for you,” he said, his voice gruff. He lifted the whiskey glass up again, finishing the last sip of the amber liquid. 

You smiled faintly, “I suppose so.”

When the floor was clean, you folded your apron and set it aside. Pulled on your coat. Turned off the lamps.

“I’m done for the night.” you announced, waiting for Thomas to either remain or leave as well.

“Yeah,” he said. “Time to head home.”

You chuckled, walking over to the door, “That’s usually what I do.”

You fiddled with the keys of the Garrison in your hand, glancing over back to him

“Are you leaving too, Mr. Shelby?”

He nodded, following you to the door. With long strides he stopped in front of you. Close enough to smell you, rose, vanilla and a hint of jasmine.

“I’m leaving too” he nodded, before adding “I’ll walk you home.”

You blinked a bit in surprise, you didn’t expect him to offer to walk you home, “Oh- Thank you, Mr Shelby but I’m fine there is no need to-”

“It’s late,” he interrupted you. “Too late for a girl like you. I’m walking you home, end of discussion.”

You had already suspected it wasn’t an offer but a command, you pressed your lips together and only let out a defeated “Yes, sir.” He held the door open for you, you locked it behind you. Outside the night swallowed you both in its biting dark cold.

You had already returned with Thomas to the city by nightfall the next day.

Since you had come back you didn’t spend a day apart from Thomas, even though he was busy planning their last strike on Kimber, he seemed much more present in your life.

The day of the Black Star finally came, the Garrison Pub was filled with men quite early that day.

Smoke hung thick in the air, glasses clinked. While it was clear the Shelbies expected victory today, the tension beneath it all was impossible to miss.

You stood near the back tables with Polly and Ada, your hands wrapped loosely around a glass of whiskey.

Across the room, Thomas stood with his brothers and the other men, talking through the last instructions for the race.

“The Lees will be at the track already,” he said calmly.

Arthur nodded.

John leaned back against the wall, arms folded, though his eyes flicked briefly toward you.

Since the Campbell incident… or well, since the very beginning he had been distrusting you.

Your eyes drifted to him now.

Before any of them could say more, the pub door burst open.

One of the younger boys rushed inside, breathless.

“Kimber’s men,” the boy shouted over the crowd of men. “They’re on their way!”

Silence fell across the pub.

Thomas didn’t seem to panic, as always expertly shoving everything down and bottling it up. Someone had to keep a clear head after all.

“How many?” he asked.

“Don’t know exactly. But they’re coming fast.” the boy answered quickly.

A quiet curse left Arthur, but Thomas’s eyes flicked briefly toward Polly.

“They know,” he said. “The Black Star Day plan.”

A heavy pause followed.

Ada straightened immediately, cradling Karl in her arms as he began to fuss a little.

“Then we stop them now.” Polly insisted.

Thomas shook his head, “The Lees are already on their way to the racetrack.”

He looked around at his men.

“Without them… we’re outnumbered.”

“So what’s the plan then?” Arthur snapped, jaw tightening.

Thomas reached for his coat, and pulled it on.

“The plan,” he said evenly, “is we meet them anyway.”

The room moved instantly. Men grabbed guns, caps, jackets, then gathered all by the exit, like soldiers eager for battle.

Before they left, Thomas glanced briefly toward the back of the room.

Toward you.

It was only a second. But it lingered.

Then he turned away.

“Let’s go.” he said, and the men filed out quickly.

Boots echoed harshly as they stepped into the street.

Very soon the Garrison fell utterly quiet.

Only you, Polly, and Ada remained.

Ada paced immediately, running a hand over little Karl’s back.

“This is insane,” Ada muttered, “They’ll kill each other out there.”

Polly took a drag of her cigarette as she sat down by the bar, “That’s what men do.”

Ada promptly stopped pacing around, “I’m not letting them.” she huffed.

“Don’t be stupid!” Polly warned her, grabbing her arm before she could take another step.

Ada pulled away and insisted, “I’m stopping it.”

She placed Karl in his stroller, tucking him in neatly.

You shook your head in agreement with Polly, “You’ll get yourself killed.” you added.

You weren’t against interfering, but with a baby instead of a gun? You weren’t so sure of that…

“I won’t!” Ada snapped.

You bit your tongue at the tone, for a moment you said nothing before you stepped forward.

“They won’t shoot if I’m there,” Ada insisted, “They’re not monsters.”

Your hand moved slowly toward your purse.

You pulled out your revolver.

Both women looked at you.

You held it out to Ada.

“Take it.” you said.

Ada blinked at the weapon then at you, “You might need it,” you said quietly.

She hesitated before accepting it, your fingers closed briefly around hers.

Ada gave you a small, grateful smile before rushing out the door with Karl in his stroller.

The pub went silent again.

Polly watched the door for a moment before exhaling slowly.

“Well,” she muttered. “That girl’s got Shelby blood in her whether she likes it or not.”

You sank down into one of the chairs next to her, you pulled out a cigarette as well, lighting it with a match.

Polly poured herself a drink, taking a long sip of the bitter whiskey before she glanced over at you.

For a moment, she said nothing, just watching you.

“Tell me something, love,” she said at last.

Your eyes flicked up to hers.

“Do you still love him… like you did that day at the races?”

The question settled heavily between you as you remembered how she had so easily seen through you.

‘You love him.’ she had declared, and now she had to ask if it was still true.

You didn’t answer right away, taking a long drag of your cigarette instead.

That night felt distant now, like it was a life time ago. Back then it had been simpler. Or at least, it had felt that way.

Now there was nothing simple left.

“I… I love him,” you admitted quietly, “But it’s not the same.”

You looked up at her then, something conflicted in your expression.

“There’s too much now. My mother… my father… all of this.” You gestured vaguely, meaning the violence, the blood, “I don’t even know who I am in it anymore.”

“And still,” you continued more softly, “I keep choosing him even when I don’t always understand why.”

Polly nodded slowly, like none of it surprised her.

“That’s because love doesn’t stay the way it starts,” she said, her voice low but certain.

“People like to pretend it does. They remember the easy parts, the way it feels in the beginning, when it’s light and exciting…”

She leaned back slightly in her chair, her eyes still fixed on you.

“But that’s not real love. Not the kind that lasts. Real love… it changes shape whether you want it to or not. And one day you wake up and realize it isn’t soft anymore… it’s something heavy. Something that costs you.”

You felt your chest tighten at the thought.

“I don’t know if I’m built for that,” you admitted quietly.

Polly’s expression softened, not with pity, but with understanding. She remembered being your age, young and still with so much ahead to face.

“No one’s built for it,” she said simply.

She took a slow sip of her drink before setting it down again.

“You become it. Or you don’t. That’s the only choice you get.”

You sucked in a sharp breath.

“And if I don’t?” you asked, almost under your breath.

Polly followed your glance, then looked back at you.

“Then you walk away,” she said. “But you’ll always wonder,” she added. “Whether you left the one thing that made you feel alive in a way nothing else ever will.”

You didn’t respond, because you didn’t know how to.

“Just make sure, if you stay…” Polly said, holding your gaze, “it’s because you choose to. And…not because you think you’ve got nowhere else to go.”

Outside on Garrison Lane, the two gangs faced each other.

“STOP!” Ada shouted.

The two gangs, standing on opposing sides of the street, turned to look at Ada marched down the lane, with her stroller.

Straight between the two gangs.

“Look at yourselves!” she shouted.

“You’re all someone’s husbands! Someone’s fathers! Someone’s son!”

Her eyes moved across the men.

“You’re going to leave families, wives and children behind just to die in the street over this feud? Now, most of you were in France. So you all know what happens next.” Ada continued, then gestured towards her brothers and Freddie,

“I've got brothers and a husband here... but you all have got somebody waiting for you. Now, I'm wearing black in preparation…”

“I want you to look at me. I want you all to look at me!” she raised her voice again.

“Who'll be wearing black for you? Think about them. Think about them right now!”

Silence followed, the men seemed to all glance at each other for a moment.

“And fight if you want to, but that baby ain't moving anywhere. And neither am I.”

“Well,” Kimber muttered. “Can’t very well shoot a woman holding a baby.”

He lowered his gun.

For a moment it looked like the fight might actually end.

“She's right, you know. Why should all you men die? It should just be them who's caused it.” Kimber snapped, then his hand moved suddenly.

His gun flashed up again.

A shot rang out.

Thomas staggered backward.

Before anyone could react Danny leapt forward to shield him.

Another gunshot.

Danny collapsed to the ground.

“Ada move!” Arthur shouted.

Thomas clutched his chest where a bullet had entered, but he raised his revolver still.

One shot.

It all happened so fast it was hard to make out, but Kimber dropped instantly.

Thomas lowered the gun slowly.

“Enough.” Thomas said through gritted teeth.

“This fight is over, Kimber and me fought this battle one on one. Go home to your families.”

For a long moment no one moved.

Then Kimber’s men lifted the body and retreated down the street.

Blood darkened the cobblestones.

─── ꒰ 🪻 ꒱ ───

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