#jj writes

"baby?" "i know, i know. that was bad. i didn't think it would go like that." "no, not that. just..." "toru?" "you know i'd never say anything like that to you, right?" "what? of course i know that." "okay. good. that was... just..." "oh my god, stop laughing!"

satoru gojo couldn't. the idea of treating you with anything but the utmost respect had him keeled over in laughter the entire way home.

kento nanami knew that a first impression was the only one he was going to get. so of course, he dressed up in his best suit, matched his tie with the color of your dress, and spritzed cologne onto his wrists.

you always matched his efforts. that was what he loved so much about you. that whatever he put into the relationship, you gave him just as much, if not more, back.

and was looking forward to meeting these friends he had heard so much about. they had gotten married around the same time as you, five years ago. kento nanami hoped he could get along with them.

he didn't know how he was supposed to do that when the aforementioned couple didn't seem to get along with each other.

"are you seriously liking pictures of other girls right now?" "i'm waiting for the food. it's not a big deal." "ugh, you're always like this! don't be rude to our dinner guests!" "we're not at home right now. this is a fucking restaurant. i do what i want." "put your phone down." "stupid bitch. i'm not doing anything you say."

kento nanami was astounded. shocked. taken aback. all the words in the world couldn't describe the utter horror that he kept plastered behind his blank expression.

he put up with it for about ten minutes, just to be polite. but after another cruel remark from the husband and a scathing reply from the wife, kento nanami grabbed your hand, slid a hundred dollar bill into the check, and dragged you out of the restaurant.

"that... didn't go how i thought it would." "you told me they were a happy couple." "because they seemed like one! you know---" "if they're a happy couple, then what are we?" "... the best couple in the world?" "right. so i'm taking you home and we're going to watch your favorite movie and order takeout because you didn't eat a single thing." "ken---" "never let me talk to you like that, okay, darling?"

because you were the one ordering kento nanami in the relationship. that was how it worked, and he was perfectly content with it.

choso was nervous. even on the drive there, you saw his hands shaking on the steering wheel, heard his shallow breaths. you caught his hands in yours and reassured him that everything would be just fine, and that they would love him just as much as you did.

"but what if they think i'm a bad husband? what if they tell you to divorce me?" "they won't think that, cho. they've only been married as long as we have. and trust me, i'll never divorce you." "promise?" "i promise. you treat me so well."

most of the time, when you told choso that, he didn't believe it. because there were always people better than him. but it worked the other way around, too. there were always people worse than him.

"why were you looking at that goddamn waiter?" "oh my god, not this again. stop being so insecure!" "i'm not being insecure. you were practically begging him to fuck you." "you need to use your eyes a little more and see that i was trying to be nice." "you don't get to be nice to anyone but me."

that line had choso literally dropping his fork on the plate, turning to you with his expression screwed like are we being for real right now?

"guys, maybe we should---" the other couple's arguing cut into choso's valiant attempt to broker a peace. your booth was drawing stares from the entire restaurant.

it was not a good night.

"oh my... god..." "cho, you look traumatized. what's wrong?" "how did he talk to her like that?" "well, not every guy respects their wife the way you do." "they should." "yeah, they really should." "now i feel like i should drop to my knees and kiss your feet." "you can do that when we're home, silly." "please let me."

because choso always worshipped the ground you walked on. and now he knew what exactly a bad husband really was.

toji fushiguro didn't want to go to any fancy restaurant all dressed up to meet some irrelevant background character in his life. but you were dolled up in your pretty makeup and god forbid he let you go out like that alone.

so he stuffed himself into a suit that stretched nearly everywhere and choked his skin just to watch you scarf down a stupidly expensive plate of noodles. toji fushiguro felt his credit card burning in his pocket.

more than that were the glares being exchanged from the other duo.

"why are you so quiet?" "you know why i'm quiet! why did you like that photo of your ex?" "why are you going through my phone? i told you not to do that!" "only men who have something to hide do that." "right, like how you were the hoe that cheated on me?" "that was once!" "yeah, and the kid isn't even mine. why should i pay for it?"

amidst their arguing, toji fushiguro reached across your lap for the backpack of tupperware you had packed. he started piling the leftovers into the containers, pretending not to listen to their conversation. he caught you trying not to laugh.

"did you pack everything?" "yeah. pretty sure they didn't notice their garlic bread being taken." "i don't think they noticed anything at all." "hey. doll. here." "what?" "take it." "you want me to take a picture or something? i have my own phone, you know." "i know. just... take it. hold it or something. look through it. i don't know." "aww, is this because of---" "don't do that. just to show that i love you enough to tell you everything."

well, mostly everything. the only thing toji fushiguro was hiding from you most of the time was his boundless love for you, his wife.

suguru geto wanted to spend time with you. just you. but when you asked him to go on a double date with another married couple, he couldn't just say no, now could he?

maybe he should've. something was probably burning. maybe it was the awkward tension sparking the air in the booth.

"you're still mad about the argument we had in the car before we got here, aren't you?" "woah, look at this! braincells finally working? fuck yeah, i'm mad!" "i already apologized!" "your apologies don't mean shit to me! you don't mean shit to me!" "then why'd you marry me, huh?" "cause you got me pregnant before i could even finish college, dumbfuck." "watch your tone." "watch your dick before i cut it off."

suguru geto could tell why you were friends with this woman. she was feisty. but she didn't love her husband. not in the way you loved yours. not in the way you loved him.

so because the fire wasn't burning hot enough, he added fuel to the flame.

"is everyone enjoying their food?" "suguru! shut up!" "what? we take these lovely people out for dinner and don't ask if they're enjoying themselves? that seems rude, don't you think?"

the other couple stared at him. you glared at him. most of the time, it seemed like the world was wholly against suguru geto.

"they probably hate us now." "no, the wife was grinning at you." "i told her to get a divorce." "good idea. hopefully he crashes into a car on the way home." "suguru! you can't say that!" "yeah, i can. any man who treats his wife like that deserves nothing more."

suguru geto believed that with all his heart.

ryomen sukuna didn't actually care about any of your friends. if they hurt you in any way, they would find what was coming to them. but he heard about them enough.

so he didn't understand why he had to actually go out and meet them.

ryomen sukuna was expecting a boring night. boring people. boring food. the epitome of boredom if it wasn't an abstract concept.

he wasn't usually wrong. but when he was, it was in the best ways. just after he finished screaming at a waiter to get you some water (and a short lecture from you about being kind to people), the entertainment for the night hit.

"why aren't you a gentleman like that?" "excuse me?" "see? she asked him for water and he immediately got to work." "you're capable of asking for water yourself." "don't you know what chivalry is?" "don't you know how to use your damn mouth?" "you didn't hold the door open for me, or pull out my chair! and he did!" "well, good for him, does he want a cookie?"

ryomen sukuna was grinning by the time the couple stormed out of the restaurant, leaving the two of you alone in the booth with the check. you called the waiter over to pay for it.

"that was great." "sukuna, we don't joke about people's misfortunes." "i like them. you should invite them over sometime." "oh god, you're crazy."

crazy enough to show you that ryomen sukuna was indeed, the gentleman you insisted he wasn't? hell yeah.

a/n: soooo yes gang i saw a tiktok (my favorite place on earth)

likes and comments always appreciated! lovely dividers by omi-resources!!

You knew him before. The sweet boy who was innocent and unscarred. At first, he hid from you too. He thought you’d see the new him and run and hide. Think he was a monster.

He turned away from you at every corner. Avoided you even when you came to his room after he was able to go home after the accident. Carl was just released from medical, and the moment you heard, you rushed to his house.

Yet, he kept his back to you and refused to take a glance at you. No matter how bad he wanted to.

No matter how bad he wanted to look at you— into your colored eyes and melt into them like he always had before.

He wished he could forget the way he told you to leave, how you quietly begged for him to let you in. How you turned and ran out of his house.

Carl pushed you away, thinking it was for the better.

But you were stubborn and never took no for an answer.

One night, you knocked on the front door. You were over the hiding. You felt like you were losing your best friend.

Even in Alexandria where there were neighbors and people every turn you took, you felt alone.

Carl was the only one who understood you.

You stumbled back when Michonne answered the door. You hadn’t expected it. “Y/N?” Michonne raised her brows, lightly furrowed in concern and curiosity. Wondering what you were doing here, especially at this hour. It must’ve been at least 8PM.

You opened your mouth to speak before closing it to swallow deeply. “Uhm, is Carl here?” You muttered out.

A knowing smile rose to Michonne’s lips. She should’ve known.

She nods, “Yeah. He’s upstairs in his room.” She opens the door wider, “Come on in.”

A relieved smile takes over you once you step inside, wishing her a small thank you.

Quickly but as quietly as you could, you make your way up the stairs and go down the hall to meet his bedroom.

The door was closed but a small light shined underneath the door, signaling he was still awake.

You stood in front of his bedroom door, hesitant. Should you knock? Just walk in? Shout out it’s you? But what if he just bids you off. . again.

Finally, after standing there like a stuck idiot, you push away the thoughts, raise your fist and knock. You don’t speak yet, just listen.

Then, you hear his voice, “What?” Sounded like a teenager, annoyed by his parent checking in on him. It almost makes you laugh.

You raise your fist to knock again, your voice coming out small a second later, “It’s me. . . Y/N.”

As if he couldn’t tell instantly from the moment you spoke. The same voice he’s missed since the last time you tried to talk to him.

It goes quiet. More quiet, if that was possible.

“Go away, Y/N.” He displayed his voice angry but inside the room, it sent his heart two steps back at the thought of you being on the other side of the door.

His words hurt you, making your chest ache. But you couldn’t leave now.

You wouldn’t.

“You can’t keep shutting me out, Carl.” You said, more confident than before. “Can I come in?”

A quick, “No!”

You let out a soft groan in frustration. You reached for the door handle, “I’m coming in!” As you open the door, you hear shuffling near the bed. You make your way into the familiar bedroom.

Your eyes scanned the posters on the wall, the stack of comics on the floor and the sight of it all made your heart skip a beat. Because the room was him.

All the things he loved and made him himself.

Then, your eyes led to his bed. There he was.

Like before— he sat at the edge of the bed, back towards you, shutting you out. It made you sigh.

He didn’t move. Stared down in his lap, sitting on the bed. His hat was off, discarded to the other side of the room.

His hair was brushed, and you could see the white bandage peeking out between his hair that wrapped around his head.

“You have to face me eventually.” You whispered, still stood near the entrance of his room.

No response.

You sucked in an inhale and stepped forward, “Please, look at me.” You pleaded, your voice wavering.

It killed him. The sound of your voice. As if your heart was breaking like his.

You dared to step closer, sitting on the opposite side of the mattress. He felt the dip and even though you weren’t touching him, you being so close nearly sent him crazy.

You were so close. Yet, he was too afraid to turn and see you, touch you, or even speak.

“Carl. . .” You whispered. “I can’t stand this. Being apart. It’s been weeks, Carl. Look at me, please.” It’s been weeks since the breech at Alexandria, since Ron shot him, since you cried on his bed side when he was unconscious.

It felt like longer since he started to shut you out. Since the day Rick invited you over to cheer up his spirits and Carl ignored you and told you to leave.

You wanted your best friend back.

You wanted him back.

“You’ll think I’m ugly.” His voice came out cracked, raw. Your heart skipped a beat at his voice— a sound you’ve missed even if it was different.

You shake your head, forgetting he can’t see you, “I won’t.” You didn’t hesitate, “You were always handsome to me.”

If it was any other time, he would’ve blushed. Instead, he let out a scoff. He didn’t think anything about him was handsome. Not anymore.

Your gaze drifted in your lap, your hand sliding from the mattress to your lap. An idea struck your mind.

A soft smile rose to your lips before you gripped the white sheet that scrunched up at the foot of the bed. In one swift movement, you threw it both of your heads.

Carl’s eye widened, off guard by your movements. “It’s okay. Don’t you remember when we used to do this?”

As kids, back at the first camp in Atlanta, you were all alone and his mother, Lori, took you in. You slept in their tent, shared rations, and were treated as if one of her own.

This also meant endless sleepovers for you and your new friend, Carl Grimes.

At night, while his mother slept, you’d climb onto Carl’s clot and he’d pull the blanket over your heads, hold the bright flashlight between you and tell scary stories back and forth.

And when you got too scared, he’d hold your hand and remind you that it wasn’t real, that he’d protect you. No matter what.

A soft smile rises to Carl’s lips as he recalled the memory.

“I’ll close my eyes.” You said, “Just look at me.”

“Want to feel your gaze on me again.”

Before he could agree, you fluttered your eyes closed. At first, you didn’t hear anything. Not a movement or a sound from him.

But you waited patiently for him.

Then, he shifted under the sheet and faced you. You felt it. His familiar gaze.

His eye softened upon seeing your face. Eyes closed, lips in a slight frown, strands of hair brushing your long eyelashes.

He couldn’t help but gently push back your hair, his thumb brushing against your skin. Long enough to make your skin shiver. Long enough to make your lips curve up a little.

“You’re here.” You whispered.

He smiled soft and vulnerable, “Yeah.” He breathed out.

Minutes passed under the sheet, not a lot of words between each other but the soft touches. He shifted closer, your knees brushing, and his hand inches away from yours.

The only sounds that was heard was the steady breathing from the two of you.

“I want you to see me.” He whispered, breaking the silence. Your breath hitched but you didn’t open your eyes yet.

You nodded slowly.

“Keep your eyes closed.” He instructed quietly. You did.

Carl slowly unwrapped the bandage around his head. You could hear his breathing becoming more shaky as he did.

He was afraid. He didn’t want to lose you but if he didn’t show you, he was afraid he’d lose you anyway.

Once he removed the bandage, the wrapping landed in his lap as he exposed his empty eye socket to your closed eyes.

Carl let out another shaky exhale before he spoke, “Okay. Open your eyes.”

You took a second before your eyes fluttered open. Firstly, your eyes blurred, blinking trying to get used to the lighting before it zoned onto him. Your best friend. The warm light shined through the sheet, creating a glow around him.

He watched as your eyes scanned over his face, his features, his new feature. Your eyes shimmered with unshed tears. Then, he watched a smile take over your mouth.

It confused him at first.

Then he realized, you weren’t making fun of him. You didn’t think he was ugly or monstrous.

You were looking at him.

Not his missing eye— the real him.

You held a sort of adoration as you looked at him. Like you stumbled across a beautiful painting in a museum and couldn’t tear your eyes away.

As he realized that, his own tears grew in his eye.

Slowly, your hand lifted and your thumb caressed his cheekbone. “You’re beautiful.” A soft laugh bubbled out between his cries.

You thought he was beautiful. Even now you did. You never treated him differently— not something to be fixed or taken care of. If anything, you saw more. More than he ever did about himself.

The next thing you knew, you leaned in slowly, your lips brushing his when you glanced up at him asking silently for permission. He nodded, his adam’s apple bobbing.

You took the incitative, leaned in fully and pressed your lips against his.

On cue, Langdon strides in, surveying the room with his cold, vacant doctor-stare. When his eyes land on you, they crinkle at the edges. Not with joy, but in mockery. He approaches, tutting and saying your name. 

“We have got to stop meeting like this.” In one deft movement, he pulls back your lanyard and takes another look at the patient. Standing behind you, his breath fans against your neck.

“Hold compressions,” Robby orders.

It takes a few more rounds but finally, the patient starts awake and you shudder with relief. You snatch your badge out of Langdon’s hands and he nods, giving you a mock-salute. 

“You're welcome.”

Shaking your head and biting back a laugh, you ignore him all the way to the lockers. “You’re lucky it’s the end of our shift.” 

“Oh yeah, and why’s that?” 

“Because,” you say, opening your locker’s door right in his face and shutting it with a snap. “If I had to be around you any longer, you’d be sitting in one of those beds.” 

“Ouch,” he teases, rubbing an imaginary wound over his heart. Your eyes linger on his fingers, on the dainty little beads of his daughter’s friendship bracelet. That final detail makes you shake your head, and walk a little faster away from the building.

“Somebody chasing you?” Langdon has to jog to keep up with you, hands in his pockets. 

“Sort of,” you answer, leaping over a suspicious puddle. Langdon glares back at it as if he means to give it a stern talking to. You chuckle. “You know, I think I can make it to the bus stop on my own.” 

“Sure, but then you'd have to go without my riveting conversation.” Even when he barely gets a laugh, Langdon remains undeterred. “So, what’s the rush?”

You grimace. “Have you always been so nosy?” 

“Have you always been so secretive?” 

“Touche, Clark Kent.” 

He grins at the nickname but continues shooting expectant glances. 

“If you must know.” You’re forced to pause at a traffic light, jabbing the button with your elbow. “I’ve got a bus to catch.”

“That doesn’t really answer the question, you get the same bus everyday.”

“Which you know, because…?” 

He pauses beside you, shrugging and looking around as if he expects a passerby to give him a good excuse. “I drive past this stop everyday. You’re hard to miss.”

“Again, I say: nosy.”  

He ignores you, scratching behind his ear. “So, you need a ride.” 

“I can wait for the bus.”

“Or,” he shrugs again, “I can give you a ride.” 

You swallow back the childish joke that’s just itching to jump out and readjust your bag, frowning at the twinge of pain in your shoulder. Langdon doesn’t miss a beat, holding his hand out.

“Let me take that.” 

“I’ve got it.” As you step forwards, he blocks your path, arms held up in surrender. 

“You’re not gonna let me help?”  

You’re not sure why he wants to. The understanding, you thought, was that this friendship runs on a delicate balance of familiarity and professionalism. Joking, jabbing, borderline flirting, is all safe if it’s happening behind the hectic walls of the Pitt. It's a stress tonic, it keeps morale high. What it doesn’t do, is cross any lines. 

Instinctively, your hand shoots up to shoo him away again, but you pause. You do need the ride. Already, tonight’s planned outfit is doomed to be void of accessories and your hair will have to forgo any of the styling options you dreamed up last night. There won’t even be time for a pre-date snack. You groan. 

“Sure,” you say, trying to tamp down the fluttering in your chest. 

Langdon even insists on helping you carry your bag upstairs. He takes your key, opens your front door for you, ushers you inside and offers to make you a tea, coffee, anything you want. 

“So, your date tonight,” Langdon starts, dropping your things on the sofa. “Is he…you know. A boyfriend, or what?” 

While he scoops coffee into a mug, you get to work. As you change, you rush between rooms frantically, calling over your shoulder or yelling responses to each other. “Never met him. We’ve been set up. My friends think it ‘could be good for me’, or something.”

He waits for the coffee to brew in the living room, standing with his hands braced behind the sofa. “You disagree?” 

“I don’t need a boyfriend.” 

His gaze swivels as you hobble back and forth with curlers in your hair and one heel on. You wave a hand in his direction, decidedly ignoring that, if he wanted to, he could’ve left by now. 

Langdon nods, brow furrowing. “Do you want one?” 

You wave your hands again and keep staunchly quiet. Now, you’re strutting around in both heels, rifling through your sofa cushions to find a lipgloss you could swear was last seen in this room. Langdon watches in polite silence, presumably for as long as he can stand, before asking, “Do you need any help?” 

“I’m fine, Frank. Thank you. Ah ha.” Inexplicably, the lost lipgloss is strewn between an armchair’s fuzzy cushions. You pull it out and stride back to your room. Getting ready at record speed, you messily unwind the curlers from your hair and flip your head back and forth. When you leave your room, Langdon is still hanging around and you still have enough time for a budget-saving snack, in case the date is a cheapskate. 

“You want some ramen?” 

He blanches. “Ramen?” 

“I don’t know, something light. In case–” You’re interrupted by your phone buzzing from the sofa. Langdon looks down like it’s calling him names and you pick it up, scrolling frantically. There’s no real reason to be nervous, to be so sure that bad news is coming. Worrying can’t stop it, and it can’t protect you from the sinking disappointment when you open your messages and it’s staring you right in the face. When you notice Langdon stirring, you cringe away from him.

“What?” he asks.

You grimace back at the phone, then roll your eyes. Neither gets rid of the weight of rejection, curdling acidic at the base of your throat. You roll your eyes again and force a laugh. “He’s not coming.” 

“What do you mean?”

You hold your phone up absently. “Uh, the guy, my date. He can’t make it or something.”

“Or something,” Langdon deadpans.

Shrugging out more forced nonchalance, you read straight from your phone. “Sorry, have to cancel, my buddy’s having car troubles and I said I’d help him out.”

“Sounds plausible.” 

A sarcastic response of your own sits on the tip of your tongue, but you’re interrupted by the kettle boiling. It’s just a distant, bubbling hiss, but the shock brings a spurt of tears to your eyes. 

“Hey,” Langdon begins. You shake your head and turn away, hands cupping your own face when he immediately starts to follow. 

“I’m fine.” 

“You’re crying.” 

“I’m not.” 

“Then turn around.”

You let out a growling sigh. Embarrassed, you face him and shrug, equal parts exasperated and expectant. It seems like he’s about to say something but even when you turn your palms up and raise your eyebrows, he keeps his mouth shut. About twenty minutes ago, this was fun. Now, unreasonable as it may be, you’re starting to feel a little rejected. 

“Why are even you still here?” 

He slowly pushes up from the sofa, blinking rapidly. “I…Do you want me to go?” 

“No.” You groan, hands running down your face. 

“Should I get your coffee?” 

“No, it’s fine.” 

“Do you–”

You hold a hand up to silence him, trying to come up with a polite way to get rid of him. It would be easier if he wasn’t looking at you so wide-eyed and eager, if that strand of hair wasn’t hanging over his forehead, so primed to be romantically swept away. If he wasn’t being so nice. 

“What do you need?” he asks, finally. You groan again, shaking your head. 

“A day off,” you joke. Still aiming for nonchalance, you mutter the next one under your breath. “An orgasm. Or two.” 

Langdon’s face drops for a split second, expression buffering. Then, he blinks away his shock. “Let me take you out.”

“What?” 

“You wanna go out, right? If this guy won’t, let me do it.” 

Now it’s your turn to buffer, mouth snapping open and shut aimlessly. 

“I was already gonna be your ride there, right?” You don’t remember agreeing to that, but he’s not done. “I’ll take care of everything. I’m not sure where he was taking you but there’s this Italian place downtown–cliche, I know–you’ll love it.” 

As he talks, he runs a hand through his hair, grabs your handbag off the sofa and takes the first jacket hanging by your front door. He checks that you’re following and gives you a certain, reassuring nod. 

“Fuck that guy, alright? Let’s have the best goddamn night of our lives.”

As you’re pulling into traffic, thick, dark grey clouds threaten the humid kind of rainfall that ruins your hair and makes it hard to breathe. It may also be the tears threatening to fall. Langdon’s sweet, really, but it’s hard not to feel a little guilty. Beside you, he hums and taps the steering wheel, clearly pleased with himself for fixing yet another one of your problems. In truth, he’s only making them worse. Tonight sort of had an express purpose, which his presence makes impossible. You spend the entire car ride sending him awkward glances, hands fidgeting in your lap. At some point, you’re gonna have to tell him to go home. 

He pulls into a parking complex, practically abandoned by the time you get to a floor with availability. Booming thunder rolls in the distance as you stumble out, limbs suddenly gelatine. Langdon has to lend you an arm to keep you steady out of the car park. More thunder, and a swell of nauseating anxiety behind your sternum. Today’s stress–the week’s stress, if you’re honest, the last few month’s–is catching up with you, fast. Irrational apprehension seizes in your gut and you cling to Langdon’s arm. 

“We should go.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I don’t think this is a good idea.” 

He frowns softly, but doesn’t drop your arm. In fact, as you try pulling away, he only clings harder. “Hey, remember what I said? Don’t let that asshole ruin your night.” 

You shake your head. “It’s not about him.” 

Only, it is. Shaking your head some more, you let out a coarse laugh. You’re a doctor, for christ’s sake. You save lives and even when you can’t, you stare death right in the face. Bad days don’t paralyse you; they can’t. Normally, it’s because you get a little help: from friends, one-off dates or recurring flings, colleagues willing to vent over a few beers. All that, though, is precautionary. You’re not supposed to need help, or much of anything at all. The realisation of anything less is humbling at best. At worst, it’s humiliating and because you can't catch a break, this just has to be the worst case scenario. 

Langdon’s hands are cupped around your cheeks. Palms warm and broad, you only notice you’re crying when he lifts them from your face to rub your shoulders, where goosebumps are sprouting in the sudden chilly breeze. The barrage of questions you’re expecting never comes. Instead, he simply pulls you to his chest, wraps his arms around you and whispers against your temple. 

“It’s okay. You’re okay, I got you.” 

You bite back more tears but your shoulders still shake, though you can’t tell whether it’s your sobbing or a bout of shivers. Langdon runs his hands over your arms again, expression pinched. Rain trickles, then picks up, pattering against the cars at the parking complex's edge. 

“Chilly, huh?” 

“It’s fine, we, uh…” you pull away, gesturing vaguely. “We should…” 

“Go downstairs?”

You shake your head. 

“Go home?” 

“I don’t know, I think…I don’t know.” 

“How about we sit in the car?” he chuckles, “Let you figure it out somewhere warm.” 

Shut in the car, it actually does become a little easier to breathe. Langdon sits beside you, still cooing. 

“Alright, alright. I’m not your daughter.”

“Sorry,” he says, sheepish. “Force of habit.”

It gets quiet and you let it, relishing the steady hum of rainfall and whooshing wind. The longer you sit, the weather only gets more and more intense. Even if you wanted to now, you’re not going anywhere. 

“What are you thinking?” 

“Nothing.” You groan, shoving your face into your hands. “Tonight was supposed to go so differently.” 

“I know, I’m sorry. I really did want to fix things, though.” 

Your posture straightens and you fix him with an almost accusatory stare. “Why?” 

“I don’t know,” he fidgets, “it seemed like you were having a rough day.” 

“And you thought I needed you to fix it?” 

“Is there anyone else?” He asks the question to his hands, left thumb pressing into right palm as he massages his nerves away. 

“I don’t need anyone else.” Your breath hitches. “I don’t need anyone, period.” 

“But you could use someone. We all could, right?” 

“Don’t you have enough of your own shit to worry about?”

“Don’t you?” 

By now your shoulders and thighs are pressed together, both of you somehow shifted to the middle seat. You look up at Langdon, his pale blue eyes darting around your face. 

“So, I could use you.” 

“Yeah.” His hand is on your thigh and you don’t remember leaning closer, but his heartbeat beats urgently against your shoulder. “You could.” 

Without allowing yourself a second of rational thought, you lean even closer. A single movement of reckless abandon and your lips are smashing into Langdon’s, his arm curling around your waist and pulling you into his lap. 

“Is this a good idea?” you whisper into his mouth.

“Does it feel good?” 

You nod, rolling your hips onto his.

“Then let's think about it later.” 

He cups your face and kisses you again, softer this time, his tongue gently pushing through your lips. His hands caress a grounding pressure into your body. First on your thighs, then your back, then the back of your head as you grind into each other. You’re already desperate for him to undress you, but can’t tell how hard he is until he groans into your mouth, hips stuttering. 

“God, you know–I never thought it would happen like this.” 

Appalled, you pull away. “You’ve thought about this?” 

Langdon only pulls you back with more pressure. His kisses trail from your jaw to your neck. “All the time. Can I take this off?” He gently tugs on your dress, then shakes his head and slides his hands up your skirt instead. “Actually, keep it on. No sense in you getting all dressed up for nothing.”

You run your hands over his chest and his breath catches when your fingers hit his nipples. His hips grind further upwards, as if it hasn’t occurred to him he can fuck you for real. You send his question back at him, tugging on his jeans’ zipper and he groans. 

“Uh–I can’t.”  

“Why?” 

“I don’t, uh…” He gestures around the car, then at his crotch. 

“No condoms?” Avoiding eye contact, he nods. You giggle, grabbing his wrists to move his hands further up your skirt, when his fingers graze your underwear, you lean in. “I guess you’ll just have to practise some self control then, huh?” 

You urge him to slide off your underwear and you unzip his jeans. Pulling him free from his boxers makes his jaw hang open and his hands clench around you absently. 

“What–fuck–what do you like?” he asks, as you pump him up and down slowly. 

“Well, for a start, this.” You tease his tip against you, dragging him through your increasing wetness as he watches, jaw still slack. When his hips start to jut forward, you open your legs wider and press against him, so that he’s as wrapped up as possible without being inside you. Langdon’s breath hitches and his hips roll automatically, chasing more of your warmth. 

“Yeah? Just this?” He bites his lip and watches as you grind on his tip, then sink down to his balls, always sliding on just enough of his shaft to drive him crazy. “You want anything else? Want me to play with your tits?” 

You moan and he takes the hint, rubbing one nipple with his thumb and kneading around the other, getting torturously close, then massaging in the opposite direction. 

“Does that feel good? Want anything else?”

All you can do is whimper as his tip catches on your clit. You bite down on your lip, hips still working frantically, chasing as much of him as you can get. Langdon’s arms wrap around you more tightly and he bucks into you, straining with the effort of staying on the outside. 

“Shit, that’s it, right there. Fuck, you’re so wet, I–fuck–I could do this all day.” 

Still biting back moans, you bury your face against his neck and he tuts. “No, no, don’t do that.” He cups your face and brings it level with his, looking you straight in the eyes with his thumb catching your lip. “Lemme hear you baby, come on. Tell me how it feels.” 

You whine. “It feels good.” 

“Yeah?” 

Your back arches as you try to press even closer against him and you nod through another whimpering moan. 

“That’s it,” he coos. “Good girl. Take whatever you want. Whatever you need.” 

The more he keeps talking, the more empty you feel between your legs. You need him to fill you, to rock his hips into you until there’s no room inside you for this bad day, your hectic job and the way it shreds your nerves. Nothing but him. 

You aren’t sure how to tell him any of this, so you roll into him slower. Grabbing his face to give him deep, messy kisses, you let his tip slide further and further into you until he pulls back. 

“Are you sure?” Though his voice is full of apprehension, his eyes are blown wide and eager. 

“I need you,” you say against his face, hips never stopping. 

“Shit,” he moans, “yeah, okay, I’ll–fuck, yeah. Whatever you want.”

As you sink down onto him, he holds your hips in a steady grip, letting off a constant stream of reassurances. 

“I’ve got you, beautiful, just like that.” When he’s all the way in, he gets a little less coherent, but far more insistent. “That’s it, you’re–Oh, fuck. Fuck baby, just like that. Use me, baby, take whatever you want from me, I’m all yours.” 

Thick and hard, he fills you perfectly. As you ride him, a dragging pleasure builds, spreading like a fever down your thighs, up your back. It heats your face and draws long, whining moans from between your lips, panting interrupted only by you crying out Langdon’s name while he offers more encouragement. 

“Feels good?”

“Uh huh,” you moan. In response, he moans too. 

“I know, baby, I know.” He moans again, voice breaking as you clench around him. “See how I can make it better? How I can make it–fuck, baby–make it all go away.” 

You moan in agreement. This time, when you lay your head against his shoulder, he lets you. 

“You close, beautiful?” 

You nod and he brings your face closer so he can mutter in your ear. From his ragged breathing it sounds like he’s close, too. 

“Alright, baby,” he says, thrusting up harder into you. “That’s it, right there. Feels so good, doesn’t it?”

All you can do anymore is moan. He nods and brings a hand back to your tits to sloppily circle a thumb over your nipple.

“So you’re gonna come, alright? Come for me, baby, show me how good it feels. Show me–” he grunts, “how good it feels to drain my fucking cock, alright? Lemme feel it, baby, I wanna feel it. Show me how much you like using this thick fucking cock to get off.” 

His voice only gets more hoarse, talking you through your orgasm so fervently, he might as well be begging. 

Your orgasm crests and you don’t even have time to react; it simply ripples through you. Waves of pleasure curl your spine inwards and Langdon’s hands don’t cease on your nipples. He fucks you through it, thrusts haphazard as he reaches his own peak. His moans get breathy and strained as he cums, and when he finally floods you, he wraps his arms around you and stills, buried to the hilt. It takes a while for either of you to get out of the post-sex haze but when you do, problem-solving Langdon is back. 

“Shit, I shouldn’t–I can go to a convenience store right now, I’ll–” 

You giggle, gesturing to the rain still pounding outside. “It’s okay, you’re fine.” 

“Are you sure, I’m so sorry I wasn’t even thinking, I don’t–”

you'd thought him sweet, at first. that maybe he could use a friend.

that's the problem with throwing a starving dog a bone. he'll always come back hungrier. take and take and take until your cupboards are bare.

for every moment you spend in his company, there's something increasingly sinister in the way he looks at you. only in a certain light, but definitely there. something frenzied. obsessive. a sort of intensity he hasn't yet earned.

you don't ask how he knows things about you he shouldn't. the names of your neighbors and your parents. what you had for dinner last night and the colour of your sheets. it's sick, but there's something easy about it — to know he's already done the hard parts — memorizing the small talk and a lifetime full of anecdotes. like spotting an animal in the forest and knowing it's already been watching you for hours.

maybe you're put together wrong. wired to feel comfort where there should be revulsion. fascination where there should be fear.

his looks don't help. soft lashes, big hands. sharp angles and kind eyes the colour of sea glass.

in the front seat of his car, he kisses you like he might never get the chance to again. teeth knocking in enthusiasm, spit soaking your chin. he can't seem to decide what to do with his mouth or his hands, so he does it all. paws at your ass and nearly chews through your bottom lip. winds his hand around to cradle your jaw as he chokes you on his tongue. you can't think straight for days.

two nights later, you catch a whiff of his grocery store cologne on the breeze from your open window. just past midnight, freshly showered and on your way to bed. fear sinks a stone in your gut.

you call his name soft under your breath. disbelieving.

he steps out from the shadows in the corner of the room on your second try of his name, smiling dopily. he's only ever unsettling when you notice the madness in his eyes.

"you shouldn't leave your window open like that, y'know. something bad could happen."

you picture him scaling the side of the building to creep in and suddenly feel sick.

"like what? you're gonna chop me up into little pieces?" you aim for humour and land squarely on paranoia.

he frowns — tuts at you, disapproving. "i wouldn't've made any noise if i was gonna kill you, silly."

"besides," he shrugs. "i could'a done that an hour ago when you were in the shower."

"here — like this-"

you go lightheaded as he takes a step foward.

he sidles up behind you — brings his hand up slow and drags a thumb across your throat. a cartoon slicing noise accompanies the movement, and you're keenly aware that you can feel your heartbeat in your molars. he bumps his hips into your ass and you squeak, stomach swooping, warmth pooling in the cradle of your hips.

your head spins. the burning in your stomach starts up again. that sick, hot combination of revulsion and lust. the thought that perhaps you've bitten off more than you can chew all at once.

so you take it in small bites.

He’d looked. When that O’Hare prick had offered her three times what they paid her, Tommy had wanted to know what that would actually look like. He’d been pouring over the books for hours today, because initially he hadn’t believed it. When he hadn’t seen her name on the payment ledger, he was convinced there was a mistake, so he went over almost every accounting book they had. He had just wanted to know how much she had turned down. Turned out to be literally nothing because they weren’t fucking paying her.

She shrugged, putting a bowl of stew in front of Finn, and another at the placemat meant for him.

“You do. Just not with money.”

Emily moved back to the stove, sounding utterly unbothered by what he’d just uncovered. How fucking long had she not been getting paid? Had she ever gotten any money from them?

“What the fuck do you mean we don’t pay her?” Arthur bit out, gaze turned to Polly, who was rolling her eyes. “For how long?”

“We’ve never paid her.” Polly responded, eyes locked on what she could see of Emily’s form through the kitchen door. “I’ve been telling her for years that she needs a salary. But no, girl’s convinced we ‘already do enough for her’.”

“…After everything we’ve fucking done for you?” Not for the first time, he hated himself for what he’d said to her in his anger. What they did for her? It was fucking nothing compared to what she did for them.

“You knew?” Tommy seethed, jaw tight, ignoring the horrible memory of his own harsh words in his head.

“Of course, I fucking knew. Who do you think ran this company while you were away? Who still manages the books?”

Emily returned a few seconds later with two more bowls, the last of the lot. One in front of Polly, and the final in front of the empty spot meant for her.

“I live here, so that’s room and board.” She said simply, taking her regular seat and folding a napkin on her lap. “I take money to buy the groceries from the box in the kitchen. I see those as my salary. What am I going to do with the money anyway, eh? It’s better reinvested into the business.”

Tommy grit his teeth, not sitting down. The outrage was so fucking heavy in his throat he could barely breathe around it.

“What about the things you want to buy, Em? Or girl-things that you need? Or the books you buy me?”

He looked at her, waiting for her to answer Finn’s questions. She shrugged.

“I don’t want for much, little love.” Finn always preened at that nickname. “I had some money saved up from my soldier salary until recently. And I make some money at the hospital now. If I need something that I can’t afford I can save for it like everyone else does.”

Like everyone else did? He was doing this so they didn’t have to live like everybody fucking else. He was doing this so she didn’t have to.

Besides, how the fuck had she been living on whatever paltry pennies she’d saved from the War? For two fucking years? There was no chance that she hadn’t given most of her money to Polly while they were away.

“You’re getting a bloody salary.” He managed through gritted teeth.

“A good one.” Arthur added. His older brother looked as outraged by this information as he was, as Polly was, as Emily should have been.

Years. She’d been building this company with them for years. Doing more than John and Arthur did, and on some days more than even he did. She ran it with him. She was the reason there was £10,000 in the safe right then. And she’d been doing it all for free.

Room and board? Communal grocery money? What the fuck was she on about?

She stared at him for a few moments, before she shrugged.

“If you want. I don’t know what I’d do with it though. It’s your family business’ money; you should keep it.”

“Your family too.” Arthur corrected, discontent and confusion thick in his voice.

With Arthur’s words it was like a lightbulb went off in his head, and he felt his breath stutter in his chest as memory after memory over the last almost-year came to him all at once.

“…But you were right yesterday, this is your family, your family business…”

“…I shouldn’t make deals on behalf of your family…”

“…I am not your family, Tommy. You made that fact effusively clear yesterday…”

“…Tell me it wasn’t you…”

“…Did you get your deal...”

“…the idea of anything happening to your family scares the hell out of me…”

When had Emily stopped saying we? Our? When did it become ‘you’ and ‘your family’? When had she started excluding herself from them? Seeing herself as an outsider? What had–

“My family! Not fucking yours!”

Almost seven fucking months ago. She had been separating herself since that day. Living outside the walls he’d created.

He placed his hands on the back of his chair, leaning forward and closing his eyes. His chest ached and he was suddenly nauseated. He couldn’t ignore the guilt this time; it was so thick he was surprised he wasn’t choking on it.

“Tommy?” He looked up at the sound of her voice, at the sound of her concern. She was watching him closely, brows furrowed. “I’ll take the money if you want. I’m sorry; I didn’t think it was important.”

“It is.” He managed, sounding more affected than he wanted but significantly less than he was. It was the best he could do.

She nodded, but the atmosphere through dinner was tense, and not even his mother’s stew recipe could fix it.

“Our family.”

The words fell out of his mouth automatically, startling the woman who was taking her earrings off. To be fair to her, he did usually knock.

“I’m sorry?”

She laid the small silver pair – the one that Arthur had bought her – into her jewellery box. Her head was tilted to the side, completely lost in this conversation and looking for some context.

“You have a family. This family.” He cleared his throat. Why was this so fucking difficult?

She just stared at him, brows furrowed.

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Tommy.” She said simply, blinking at him.

He fiddled, pulling out a cigarette for himself and offering her one which she declined. Taking a deep pull of smoke he finally looked back at her, still watching him, ever-patient. He turned his gaze back to the floor. Why did he feel like he was going to fucking confession?

“What I said– I didn’t–” He huffed a breath. “Fucking hell.”

The smaller hand threading into his own almost startled him, but it wasn’t entirely unexpected. Whenever he was with her, he could count on her warmth.

“It’s because of me.” He watched her frown deepen, but ploughed on before she could ask the questions he could see building behind her eyes. “What I said that day. That’s why you’ve been pulling away, eh? You said you forgave me, but it wasn’t enough.”

Her eyes widened, mouth opening and closing. Before she swallowed.

“Don’t.” She said at last, voice tight. “I’m not– it’s not your fault. It just put some things in perspective for me. You were right– no, shut up and let me talk.”

She raised her hand to quell his automatic protests, and reluctantly he waited.

“Thank you.” With her free hand, she rubbed her eyes. “You were right when you said you’ve all done so much for me. If it weren’t for Pol and your mum I’d have ended up in an orphanage or worse. If it weren’t for you, I’d have died that day in December.”

Gritting his teeth, he knew exactly what day she was talking about. Every time he thought too hard about it, he felt a pressure in his chest, the lingering vestiges of his panic from that day.

“Mum help! Aunt Polly!” She was slipping from his grip, head lolling. It was hard to get a good hold on her with all the blood. God, there was so much blood and he didn’t know what to do.

Dragging her through the door to the house, nearly slipping in his haste, shoes slick with snow and ice and crimson.

“Mum!” His voice was raw and desperate. “Aunt Pol!”

He could hear the sound of their running footsteps down the stairs with Arthur at their heels. Pol paused, shocked, at the sight that greeted her, but his mum didn’t.

“Arthur, help Tommy. Fuck, get her on the table.”

Arthur grabbed the other side of her, helped Tommy lift her up. His mother was filling a bucket with water and setting on the kettle while Pol started pulling out every bandage and bottle of whiskey they had.

“What the fuck happened, Tom?” His aunt basically barked at him.

They hadn’t seen yet. All they’d seen was the blood. The blood he was basically drenched in, Arthur too now.

“No! Arthur, not on her back!” His brother paused, forehead crinkling.

“What the fuck are you on about?”

“That’s where she’s bleeding!” He basically screamed, the tears he’d been barely holding suddenly came pouring out of his eyes. “Put her on her side!”

Arthur didn’t fight him, maybe a little overwhelmed or maybe stunned by the usually easy-going Tommy’s temper. Together they managed to put her on her left, balancing.

“Tommy! You need to tell me what happened!” His mother’s voice was loud and firm, scary. She never spoke to them like that.

“Mrs. Hughes– I found–” He sobbed. “She– the horsewhip.”

The house went silent. His brother’s mouth fell open, eyes wide and horrified, looking between him and Emily and Tommy’s jacket that he had thrown over her back when he’d found her.

Polly and his mother stared for a few moments, the words registering. His mother’s hand covered her mouth as she struggled for her composure before she came charging into the room, cloths in one hand, water bucket in the other.

“Arthur, run upstairs and grab my sewing kit. Pol, we’re going to need every bandage in the house.” Finally she turned to him, “Hold her hand, Tommy. If she wakes up, I want her to know she’s safe. Can you do that for me, love?”

He had. He’d held her hand all night and all morning. Even as she cried against the hot water and burning alcohol used to clean the wounds. As she whimpered when the needle threaded through her skin. The entire time, his fingers were threaded with hers.

Forcefully shaking away the memory of that day, one of the worst of his fucking life, he managed to keep his focus on the Emily of today. The one that wore the scars from back then, but wasn’t bleeding out in his arms.

“If it weren’t for your family…” She trailed off with a heavy sigh, letting her forehead fall against his chest. “And then you paid for my education.”

The broken little laugh she let out was so sad that he couldn’t resist the urge to extinguish his cigarette and put his free hand around her, keeping her pressed more tightly to him.

“It’s hard not to feel like I owe you. And it’s hard to feel like family with a debt like that hanging over me. It feels presumptuous, wrong, after everything you’ve all done for me. I’m the charity case you’ve all invited into your home – what did your dad say that time? ‘The stray animal you all insisted on feeding’?”

His grip on her tightened further at that, holding her properly now. If he closed his eyes he could still hear Polly’s slap, the sound of Arthur’s chair skidding across the kitchen floor, John’s gasp, the roaring of the blood that rushed into his own ears.

“He was right. I’m just scared now that you’ve realised it, now that you said it out loud, you’ll take it away. I thought maybe if I hid a little bit, pulled back and distanced myself – if I wasn’t as integrated as I had been – that maybe I could make it last longer before I was asked to go.”

She sniffed, trying to pull back but he wouldn’t let her, couldn’t. He knew he wouldn’t be able to move in that moment even if someone started threatening him with a gun.

“I know I’ve not been the same since we got back. I started taking too much, pushing too hard, overstepping in every possible way. I asked Polly to warn me if I was ever losing your goodwill, but I should have asked you. Because you were the only one who saw it and told me the truth: I am not family. I only wanted to protect you all, but I went too far, and I’m sorry. I tried to fix it, but it looks like I messed that up too.”

He dropped his forehead to rest on top of her head. Slowly, he guided them back towards the bed. She was still in her day clothes and so was he, but that didn’t matter.

Turning them around, he managed to lay down with her pressed into his chest.

“You are not a charity case or a fucking animal.” He was basically growling the words out. “You could never push too far or take too much. Far as I’m concerned you’ve been family since the day we met, twenty-five years ago.”

She looked at him, flabbergasted expression on her face, but he smiled at her.

“Everything in this house is yours. If there ever was a debt – and there fucking wasn’t – you’ve paid it back a thousand time over, eh? There’d be no fucking business without you. You’re the only fucking thing holding us together. You forced us to accept Ada and Freddie, saved John from a bad marriage, keep Arthur from going too far, fill in for our mother with Finn. Pretty sure you’re the only reason Pol hasn’t tried to kill us yet.” He kissed her forehead. “You save me from myself every fucking day.”

It wasn’t easy being so honest. Yelling was easy, fighting was easy, drinking was easy, but telling someone how he felt, about his personal thoughts? That was like pulling teeth. He would rather do anything else.

But it was anger that got them here. It was his fucking anger, the fury that bubbled under his skin without control. The first and only time he’d unleashed his cruelty on Emily, and it had nearly broken her. She could normally take anything someone threw at her, managed the likes of Patrick O’Hare and Inspector Campbell without breaking a sweat. She’d been dealing with the Shelby’s infighting since she was a girl.

But once again, he’d forgotten. He’d forgotten that the War had changed her too. While he had got colder, Arthur had gotten more unpredictable, and John had gotten quieter, she’d gotten more insecure. She could still handle the difficult things, but she couldn’t handle his anger being directed at her.

She should never have had to. And she never would again, he swore to himself.

“Tommy, I–”

He shushed her.

“No. I’m telling the truth, eh? If it weren’t for you, I’d be in the bottom of the bloody cut by now. Or pretty fucking close to it.” Her grip tightened on his at that, and his chest went fuzzy. “You’re family. The heart of this fucking family. The only fucking thing holding us together. You’re a Shelby in everything but name. Don’t pull away, don’t exclude yourself, and don’t you ever fucking call yourself an animal again, you hear me love? Never again.”

It took a few seconds for her to collect herself enough to reply, but the shaky ‘okay’ he received quelled the guilt that had been lodged in his throat since dinner.

“Good. It’s our family, yeah?”

The nod took a few seconds for her to manage, but eventually it came through.

“Yeah. Our family.”

“Looks like rain.” Tommy had muttered to her and Polly earlier, tilting his head towards them as they headed out.

Immediately, Emily stood up and grabbed the accounting book she had been correcting.

‘Looks like rain’ Tommy wanted her to get cover. They had their own language through inside jokes and old stories, seemingly careless phrases with a hundred double meanings. And if they were using it, it was important.

So she went to work in Tommy’s office, settling at the desk, looking up to see Kimber and his accountant come through. Ah it was best she stayed out of sight – lest he know they manipulated him.

Careful to stay out of sight, it wasn’t until he was out the door that she emerged again. Tommy caught her eye, delighted and grinning. That alone would have had her beaming if it wasn’t for the fact that she also knew exactly what that paper was. Her face hurt with the width of her grin.

“Gentlemen, and ladies.” There was a hush over the room as Tommy began, all eyes on him. “I have in my hand a legal betting licence. Issued by the board of control. The Shelby family has its first legal racetrack pitch.”

The house erupted with cheering. Immediately Tommy picked her up in a hug and she squeezed him just as tightly.

“We did it, Em.” He whispered in her ear and she couldn’t help her disbelieving chuckle.

“We did.” She kissed his cheek. “Now let’s make it even better.”

“Grace was asking me about the business.”

Arthur watched Polly’s gaze turn to Emily at his words. The younger woman raised her eyebrows, but didn’t speak.

“What kind of questions?”

Tommy’s voice was business neutral. Once again, Arthur was getting the feeling that there was more going on here than he knew about.

“Where we keep contraband, about the junctions, how the cigarettes smell because of it.”

The sound of Emily spinning her spoon in tea was very loud, the room tense, and he had no idea why.

“Did she say why?” That was Pol.

He shrugged, “I think she’s curious, maybe angling for a job.”

“No.”

Emily’s voice held a level of finality too it that Arthur was unaccustomed too. He’d heard it, definitely more since they came back, but it was still odd. In his mind, Emily was soft and kind, gentle and patient. The one who always had a loving smile and infinite time to listen, who knew when and how to hug him, who dragged him out of bars after one too many and laughed under his arm on the way home.

He forgot sometimes that things had changed. Because there was a small part of him that still thought of Tommy when it heard the word gentle.

She was still sweet and kind and loving, still had patience to the end of the world for them. But she was also quiet, calculating, frightened. Sometimes she could get so distant that he panicked instinctually, afraid that would be the final nail in their family’s coffin. If the person who had spent her whole life dragging them back together was herself fading away… well.

He needed to focus.

“Why not?” Maybe he asked too many questions. Maybe that’s why no one told him anything.

Emily sighed and pulled out a cigarette.

“Finn, go put your plate away and get your book. Let’s do some reading.”

In the smile she flashed to the young boy was the Emily of 1913 – the one who never cared about strategy or manipulation, who was happy to bring in her doctor’s income and let them deal with the business on their own.

“I don’t trust her, Arthur.” Emily finally told him when Finn was gone. “I know you like her, all of you like her. But,” She sighed, “She lies. A lot. When she shouldn’t have to… and there’s just… there’s too many coincidences around her.”

“What aren’t you saying? What coincidences, Emily?” Pol said, heavily. Tommy’s eyes were locked on Emily. Then again, Arthur thought wryly, when the fuck weren’t they?

Emily sighed.

“I don’t want to say yet. I don’t have all the proof I need. Just… let’s just call it a bad feeling.”

“You’ve been saying that since Cheltenham.” Tommy took a drag of his own cigarette, leaning back into his chair.

She nodded. “And the feeling’s only gotten worse. We should be careful with her. I don’t know what’s wrong with her yet, maybe it’s nothing, but my instincts say she’s not what she seems.”

Arthur nodded. “Will do, love.”

Listening to Emily was easy, because he always knew her motives were to take care of them. Always had been. The War had changed her, but it hadn’t changed that.

Emily sighed when she thought of that day, the things she’d found out. It was too ridiculous to be true, but too dangerous to ignore if it turned out to be.

The coroner was a colleague – that’s the only reason she’d been allowed in to see the body. IRA had the place locked down to anyone who didn’t belong. Emily was a doctor; she belonged in the whole hospital.

“Which patient were you hoping to see, Dr. Hughes?” There were no IRA men in the actual autopsy room – small mercies.

“Just go to your office, Dr. Miller. Make tea.” She countered, “If anyone asks, I came to see Mrs. Jones.”

Cautiously, he’d agreed to her terms and slipped into the room next door. It didn’t take her long to get the sheet off the IRA man, Ryan, and start to take a look.

Abdominal wound. Small – low calibre. Nothing she recognized.

The bullet was in a cup next to the bed. It was a .32, Harrington & Richardson Self-Loader. She was almost shocked at her own knowledge for a moment, in 1913 she would never have known that.

An odd gun. Maguire had carried one in that meeting. Odds were Ryan had too. Shot with his own gun?

Probing the wound, there wasn’t anything too damning about it. Abdominal wound, blood loss then infection then death. He looks to have lost enough blood that he didn’t have to wait for the infection to finish it.

Finally she looked to his hands, specifically for any signs that there had been a struggle, any signs that maybe the gun had gone off in his palm. There was a small powder burn on the thumb of the left hand. He was left-handed, made sense.

Moving to the right hand, she paused. Hair. He’d grabbed the person who shot him.

Picking up the few errant strands, she held them up to the light.

Long, blonde hairs.

She pulled the pillow over her face and resisted the urge to scream into it. She couldn’t prove anything. And if she was going to make the case, she needed more than this. It would ruin lives if she was wrong.

“Polly.” The woman nearly jumped out of her skin, turning quickly in her chair to see Emily standing a few paces behind her, unreadable look on her face.

The betting house had been closed for over an hour now and it was supposed to be just her here. In fact, Emily was supposed to be working at the hospital today. So, seeing her here, wearing a look so void of feeling, the look she only adopted when something had rattled her, sent a pit directly to Polly’s stomach.

“What’s the matter? What’s happened?”

Emily blinked at her, voice flat when she did speak. “We have a big fucking problem. I need to talk to Tommy, right now.”

“How bad?”

“Potentially catastrophic.”

Polly took a deep breath. Emily was not one to take to undue hysterics, she wasn’t dramatic, and she rarely embellished. Normally it was something Polly valued, but just for a second, she wished Emily was prone to going overboard because maybe she’d be a little less worried.

“The boys are at the Garrison. We could head over…” She trailed off as Emily shook her head slowly.

“It has to be here. It has to be now. It can’t seem like something’s wrong – we don’t want the wrong person tipped off.”

“The wrong person?” Polly covered her mouth for a second, realising, “There’s a mole?”

“We need Tommy here, now.”

“You know who it is?”

“Now, Polly. Send one of the boys. If I go there…” And for a second there was a current of fire underneath her breath, the promise of violence and retribution. A taste of the girl who was just as dangerous as the boys she grew up with but chose to heal instead. Polly got the impression there would be no healing from the results of her fury.

“I’ll go. Won’t be long.”

“Tell Tommy,” Polly paused in her hurried movements, waiting for Emily to finish, “Tell him I’m making one of my mother’s recipes and I want him to try.”

Polly nodded. The two of them sometimes seemed to speak a different language filled with shared anecdotes and hidden meanings. As children they would play little games of make believe and tell stories no one else would even try to follow. Tommy would always know when she needed him and she would always know what was upsetting him when no one else could figure it out. Polly never knew how they knew each other so well, but what she did know here is that Tommy would understand the message, and he’d come running.

Not quite running, but definitely at a brisker pace. It was like a switch flipped when she’d walked in on Tommy being chatted up by Grace – poor girl had no idea he was so uninterested – and pasted on a long-suffering smile.

“Tommy, I’m here on behalf of Emily. She told me to tell you she’s making one of her mother’s recipes and wants you to give it a try. Of all the days to get a passion for cooking.” She laid her exasperation on thick, but all the while she looked for any change in Tommy’s demeanour.

She didn’t need to look too hard, his eyes hardened and the fist at his side tightened.

“Her mother’s recipe?” Polly nodded in confirmation, and somehow, he had both dismissed Grace and gotten them out onto the street in less than a minute.

“What’s happened?”

“Emily found a mole.” Her voice was low, quiet. “I don’t know who yet. She’s back at the house.”

His jaw tightened and he sped up yet again, long strides almost leaving her behind, but she didn’t mind.

“It was at the gallery.” She slipped her notepad across the table. “I got fast at notetaking at school. This is all they said.”

Tommy picked it up, flipped the two or three pages of the notepad, and threw it down on the table when he was finished. Shooting out of his chair, he lit a smoke, to help him calm down, but he couldn’t help but pace.

So much like his mother at times, Polly thought ruefully, picking up the notepad to get her own look and swallowing heavily at the words that met her.

“I sent Curly to the junction points; he’ll know if anything’s amiss. Inspector said he didn’t fuck with anything, but I trust coppers as far as I can throw them. Even if he seems to be in love with the twat.”

Maybe all the good sense from the boys’ mother actually somehow made its way into the one person in the family without Shelby blood.

“What did you tell him?” Tommy’s voice was tight, like the grip he had on the back of the chair he was sitting in before.

“That I got a tip we could have been robbed.” She shrugged, taking a swig from the bottle in the middle of the table. “What do you want to do, Tom?”

That was the question. What the fuck were they going to do?

But Tommy didn’t say anything, Polly’s brow furrowed as she watched a silent conversation happen between the two people in the room with her. She could swear they could read each other’s minds.

“Okay. I’ll get rid of the girl after the pub closes. If she knows what’s good for her, we’ll never see her again.” Another swig and heavy swallow follow. “You need to talk to Arthur, figure out what he’s let loose. And if you’ve told her anything. The minute I boot her though, the inspector’ll know, even if it’s in the dead of night. Better tell the boys to be on high alert, especially since we’ll all be with the Lee’s in two days.”

Tommy nodded, head bowed. In this moment, she swears she could see a peak at the boy he used to be. At the boy who never wanted this life, wanted to be a stablemaster and work with horses all day and never fire anything more than a starter pistol.

“I’ll get the word out and have Arthur come talk to you after the Garrison closes.” Polly said, standing. “Don’t be too kind when you confront her.”

Polly thought her voice was dark, but it held nothing to the deep hatred burning in Emily’s when she responded. “Don’t worry.”

If she was a better woman, Polly may have pitied that Grace girl.

As she went to get the ball moving, she heard the tell-tale sound of chair legs scraping across the ground and smiled. Even if she didn’t know how to comfort Tommy, Emily did.

“Oh, Emily! I’m just cleaning up. I think Arthur went home.” Grace greeted, trying not to show just how startled she’d been to turn and find the woman standing in the middle of the pub. How had she not heard her come in? “How’d the recipe turn out?”

“Whiskey, two glasses.”

Something here felt off, felt heavy. Emily was rarely so curt, in fact Grace had never seen it. Even when she was stressed, when things in the gang were going wrong, she was still kind.

Grace moved quickly to comply, abandoning her rag, and grabbing a bottle with both glasses. She sat opposite at the table and now that she had a better look at Emily’s face, she marvelled at the complete lack of expression. It was as if she was looking at Tommy when he was at his most cold.

“When I was at school in London, I tried Cognac for the first time.” Where the hell was this going? “It was good. I have a bottle at home, and I’ve come to enjoy the stuff. On occasion.” She slid Grace a glass of the whiskey, taking a small sip of her own before continuing. “It’s expensive, but well, we hoodlums are entitled to our pretentions.”

The world stopped, everything stopped, except her heart which had begun to beat so violently it felt as though it would burst from her chest.

“Tell me, Grace, do you find our pretentions breath-taking?”

She wasn’t even looking at her, chair pointed at the wall, gaze out the window. Leaving Grace with nothing but the profile of the woman, of the hard lines of her jaw and coldness in her emerald eyes.

Her gun. She needed her gun. She shot out of her chair, lunging for her purse, and yet still even with the gun in her hand, she didn’t feel safe. Even here, pointing it at Emily, she didn’t feel safe.

And she hadn’t even turned. The doctor hadn’t even averted her eyes from the moonlight out the Garrison’s dirty old windows.

“Knew there was a weapon in there.” She breathed more to herself than Grace, tipping the glass back and downing its contents.

“I am an agent of the crown.” She was near shouting, her fear causing the hand to shake. “I have the authority to shoot you at will.”

Emily still wasn’t looking at her.

“I’m not going to kill you, Grace.” She continued, finally turning, but not to face Grace, instead pouring herself another glass. “Mostly because I pity you.”

Grace paused at that, her hand wavering but not yet dropping. “This gun is loaded.”

“You fell for Tommy properly, didn’t you?” She snorted into her glass. “Suppose I can’t blame you. But you actually thought you’d come in here and we’d all end up on the wrong side of the hangman’s noose. And it all went to shit when you met Tommy.”

Now, she finally tilted back to look at Grace, at the gun that was pointed so low it would barely hit her. “Put that down and finish your drink.”

And Grace… did. She tucked the gun into her apron and retook her seat, just as she had been in it before. Except now, she was staring directly at Grace and Grace… almost wished she wasn’t because she never wanted to come face to face with this part of Emily.

This part that Harry had wanted her to understand was there. She’s nice as long as you’re good to her family. If you’re not… This was the woman who had the family of feared gangsters wrapped around her finger, who went to war and was one of the only women to serve in front line field medical tents, who was kind until she wasn’t and was willing to burn England to the ground if it meant keeping her family safe. She’d thought Emily was disarming when they first met – and she had been – but it was suddenly clear to her how disarming didn’t mean not dangerous.

“Your father was Sargent Robert Burgess, a copper, a union man. Shot by rebels in Galway.” Grace was so tense she felt liable to snap at a stiff breeze. “Saw a memorial for him when I was in the city, that’s where I knew your name from, your face. You look like him.

“That’s when you joined up, wasn’t it? You came here because you thought Fenians, communists, low people... they're all the same. Scum. Then you met our Tom.” She huffed, amused. “Like I said, can’t blame you.”

The tension eased a little and Grace’s hand barely shook as she took her glass for another sip. “What was he like,” she breathed, “before France, before the war?”

And she smiled, “Smiled lots. Oh God that smile could break your heart and make you feel alive at the same time. Got us out of lots of trouble as kids. And God his eyes were always full of things yet to come. He was so funny too. He loved to laugh and be mischievous. Wanted to work with horses and spun the most fantastic tales.” Grace felt herself smile against her will, while Emily sighed. “He still is. Still funny and silly and kind, and his smile can still light up a room, but he doesn’t know how to just be anymore. No one who went over came back the same.”

Once again Emily filled up her glass and Grace sat in silence, comforted only by the feel of the cold steel under her fingers.

“He doesn’t love you. He would have kissed you by now if he had.” And Grace’s chest tightened for another reason. A deep feeling of loss. She thought he was going to on so many occasions. She hoped he was going to. But he hadn’t. “He will not protect you, he will not forgive you, he will never see you again. But Tommy is still kind despite everything. Because if he wasn’t I’d have put a bullet between your eyes and gone home to bed.”

Grace flinched at the nonchalant tone, at the flippant attitude to murder, to her murder. And her hand clutched tightly again to the gun in her hand.

“You will go upstairs and pack your belongings, quickly. Then you will leave the Garrison. In the morning you will be on the first train out of the city. Where you stay tonight is not my concern, whether that’s the street or in the bed of that inspector who wants to fuck you. But in the morning, I will look for you, and your future depends on what I find.”

Grace slammed the glass down on the table, a crack making its way up the edge.

“I could just kill you.”

Emily nodded, still staring her down. “You could. What happens after that is out of my hands, but I know who I am to my boys, to the Peaky Blinders. Tell me, Grace, what do you think would happen to you if I died in this pub tonight?”

The gun slid from her lap onto the floor. All her false bravado, gone, filled with nothing but dread. If Emily died here, tonight? If she killed the woman loved so dearly by the upper echelons of the Peaky Blinders? She shuddered to think of it.

“I’ll be here, but don’t tarry, Grace. I don’t have all night.”

When she came back down, no more than 15 minutes later, the gun was no longer on the floor and Emily was still in the same spot.

“Now get out. And if I ever see you again, I will kill you.”

--- Chapter 11 ---

A/N2: I told you I'd deal with Grace! Long chapter and I'm still alive! (Listen I know the morgue system didn't exist back then but fiction)

♡ Price:

Oh lord, that man is NOT letting you out of the house.

"Where ya think you're going in that?"

gets a little pissy when you remind him you have one girls night a month, and you have every right to wear whatever you want

"Doesn't mean you have the right to show anyone else what's mine, love."

will physically block the door with his whole body, knowing you won't be able to move him unless he allows it

he isn't mad - no, quite the opposite! it's taking every ounce of his self-restraint not to rip that damn thing in half and have his way with you right there on the foyer floor

"John, move. I don't want to be late!" - "Shame... You should've thought about that before you put on something you know damn well I can't resist."

he thinks it's cute when you argue with him, but you both know this ends up with your front pressed up against the door, panties pulled to the side, and his cock buried to the hilt inside you

after he cums, he pulls your panties back into place and gives you a harsh swat on the ass, not caring that your make up is a little smudged or that your legs are jello while he's giving you that smug look he wears so well

"Enjoy your night out, Mrs. Price. Hurry home."

♡ Gaz:

he's on you before you even walk out of the bathroom after you finish your hair

wraps his arms around your waist, puts his chin on your shoulder, tells you how pretty you look

"This dress new? Haven't seen it on the floor before."

ohhhhh, he is so down bad for you, even after as long as you've been together

makes it a point to grab a quick selfie bc he knows it's a solid confidence booster, and he wants you to feel as beautiful as you look

it doesn't really cross his mind that anyone would try anything on you - you're perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, and he knows who you'll come home to; he knows who's bed you'll be in tonight, who's name you'll be calling in the dark

he even helps you pick the right shoes, even though you know he picks his favorite pair in hopes of seeing you in just those when you get home

ever the gentleman, he walks you out to your car, reminds you to drive safe, call him if you have too much to drink, etc.

he does, however, make it a point to send you some downright raunchy texts and a photo of his more... physical reaction, just in case you needed some motivation to come home a little early

when you get home (early), he's still riled up; he's too impatient to wait for you to make it upstairs, much less to unzip your dress for you, so you end up riding him on the landing until he's too tongue-tied to keep telling you how hot you look

♡ Soap:

you're not making it out of the house. Period.

the SECOND Johnny lays eyes on you, it's over

he's grabby as hell, digging his fingers into any part of you that he can - squeezing your ass, your hips, your thighs, tits, tummy, anything - while he navigates you to the nearest surface

"Yer so fuckin' pretty, baby. Never seen something so fuckin' perfect in my god damn life."

it doesn't matter if you end up on the couch, the kitchen counter, in the back yard; he's eating your pussy like a death row prisoner's last meal until you're crying, trying to wrench his head away with the hair tangled in your fist

he has your dress bunched up around your waist, straps pulled down so he can play with your nipples, but uses the whole garment as leverage while he fucks you stupid

you should've known better than to put a t-bone in front of a starving dog and expect it not to bite

"Go ahead, bonnie; text your little friends, tell them you're not gonna make it, yeah?"

♡ Ghost:

"'course, love. Have fun, be careful, call me if you need a ride."

Simon isn't too worried initially; he knows there isn't going to be a single soul in that bar willing or able to face his wrath should anything untoward happen. but then he actually sees what you're wearing, and all bets are off

that's why he follows you, he tells himself, it has nothing to do with the insatiable urge to destroy your ability to walk tomorrow

nothing trumps your safety, in terms of his priorities. he's simply here to look out for his wife, right?

wrong. he spends the next hour and a half watching you from a darkened corner of the bar while his palms itch with a need to touch

opportunity knocks when you excuse yourself from the table, and he follows you into the restroom, slipping in before you have a chance to lock the door

you're not surprised to see him (duh, you know him better than just about anyone), but you are surprised to find yourself bent over the sink, looking Simon in the eye through his reflection. he's fucking you mercilessly, spewing absolute filth while he pulls your head back by your hair

"My perfect little whore, hmm? Waltzing around in that tiny dress, wearing my fuckin' ring, rubbin' it in everyone's faces that you only open those pretty legs for me."

he wants to cum on your face, but you pout about the possibility of it getting in your eye, or worse, on your dress, so he settles for letting you swallow it instead