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wiener-soldiers · 3 years

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golden trunks — tommy shelby

summary: "sometimes i fantasize about you too" or tommy shelby's childhood fascination with you grows with time, distance, and affection. after all, they do say that distance makes the heart grow fonder.

pairing: tommy shelby x f! race non-specific! reader

words: 7.1k (lol)

warnings: did i edit this? lol funny that u ask, some period accurate casual sexism and enforcement of patriarchal systems, some swears, canon typical drug and alcohol use

a/n: hello it is i. the idiot who said the were gonna write but hasn't posted anything for 7 months. how do u do. anyway im not gonna say im back because im just writing when i want to tbh BUT i will apologize for being rusty when it comes to writing. ill get back into the grove of it hopefully. this will also be the first instalment in a series i like to call: how many tommy shelby fics can i write that are based off arctic monkeys songs?

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you slowly dropped your eyelids when true love takes a grip, it leaves you without a choice

Tommy Shelby was not good with women.

Not to say that he wasn't a ladies man—he was. At seventeen, he had a charming smile, cheekbones that seemed sharper than the blade tucked in his cap, and eyes that reminded Small Heath natives what clear skies looked like. On top of that, he always had a glint in his eye. It was mischievous, dangerous, cunning, attractive.

The reason Tommy Shelby was not good with women is because he would not see them for who they are. He would always seem them in relation to you.

You'd only crossed paths with Tommy a few months prior. You were mutual friends, only being a few months his junior. You had similar friends in primary school before he and his brothers stopped schooling to work. You only briefly knew him; the troublemaker, the charmer, the boy that loved horses.

He knew you though. He never dared say it, but he knew an embarrassing amount about you.

You liked to walk the long way home because you got to walk through the market. You knew each stall owner by name. He learned that one day when he was running an errand for his father and he got distracted by you at the market. You're left handed, but are still skilled at writing with your right hand. He learned that when he caught the tail-end of your conversation with one of your friends: you wanted to write a love note to Freddie Thorne but didn't want your handwriting to give it away, so you wrote with your right hand. You wanted to be a politician, despite the obvious restrictions because of your gender. He learned that when he witnessed your passionate rant about how the King was similar to an unskilled boxer dressed in the finest golden trunks from the other side of a group of kids your age outside the school house one day.

All his knowledge about you was unintentional, but he kept it close to his heart. Perhaps, too close. He tried to go on dates, but he found himself comparing their physical attributes or personality traits to yours.

Until he met Greta.

Greta was the first woman he's ever talked to that he could see for who they were. There were no silent comparisons or thinking it was you that he was with.

He loved Greta like no other. So did you, apparently. She was your best friend since birth. For all that Tommy Shelby knew about you, for some reason, he didn't know that one crucial fact.

Which is why he was surprised when you opened the door to Greta's family home on the night he had been invited to spend dinner with her family.

"Shelby," you note, looking him up and down as you lean against the threshold. You were still wearing your school uniform—pressed and pristine—and suddenly Tommy was suddenly aware of the mud coating his shoes.

Tommy's mouth dries. Surely, if there was a God, they were taunting him.

"Y/N," he says back lamely.

"You look surprised to see me."

"To be honest, miss, I quite am."

You roll your eyes, "Oh, shut up with that. I'm younger than you and you're sleeping with my best friend. Enough with the formalities. Come out the back, Greta's in the garden. Dinner will be done shortly."

It wasn't the first time Tommy had been to Greta's house. Though her parents weren't his biggest fan, they had the self-respect to invite him for dinner every few weeks. This time however, Tommy felt like he was a stranger. Were you scrutinizing his every step? The way he held himself when Greta's parents nodded stiffly at him? How his eyes would dart to the corners of every room, making it obvious that he did not feel at home?

Soon enough, you had reached that garden. There Greta was: gently pushing herself on an old swing tied to the tree in the corner of the yard. Her sundress flapped and flowed in the wind and Tommy's breath caught in his throat.

God, she's beautiful, he thought.

"Oi, lover boy's here!" you shouted, causing Greta to look up and given him her gorgeous smile.

In no time, Greta leaped off the swing and launched herself into Tommy's arms. Tommy laughed, allowing Greta to press kisses along his face. But, he didn't miss the way you averted your eyes and leave the couple alone, occupying yourself on the swing that Greta abandoned.

His heart started to pang just for a second, before he was occupied with Greta again.

"I missed you," she mumbles against his lips.

He smiles slightly, "It's only been three days, love. School that boring without me, eh?"

"Not too bad, had Y/N to keep me company," Greta says, waving to Y/N who had begun trying to swing as high as possible. Tommy's smile broke a little wider at the sight of her. She swung her knees aggressively and tucked her bottom lip under her teeth. Tommy recognized the look in her eyes: the look of someone who wants to be bigger. He felt the same.

"Tommy?" Greta asks, snapping him out of his reverie.

"Hm?"

"I said dinner's ready. Mum just called us inside."

Dinner was tense, as it always was. It was simply layers upon layers of small talk: Greta's mother or father would answer a question, Tommy would offer an answer, they would criticize his answer, Greta would try to diffuse the tension, and Y/N would snort or smirk at the awkwardness of what he imagined to be a warm and loving home.

After dinner, Greta helped her mother clear the table and her father had excused himself to his study, surely to get away from the boy in his parlour. Tommy quietly excused himself for a smoke, only to find that you were already in the garden, still on the swing and looking up at the stars—or, where you imagined stars to be behind the thick smog of Small Heath.

Tommy felt awkward, if not a little ashamed. He was committed to Greta for goodness sake; why hadn't his infatuation with you gone away?

"Dinner was fun," you say as you notice him approach. You watch in subtle fascination as he puts a cigarette between his lips and strikes a match to light it.

"Speak for yourself," he says back. You watch him puff out a breath of smoke into the night sky.

You laugh and the sound catches Tommy by surprise. Stop it, he scolds himself. "I'm usually the one getting interrogated," you admit.

"You?" Tommy asks, not bothering to hide his surprise.

"Her parents don't like me very much."

"You're fucking with me."

"I wish I were," you chuckle.

"You've been friends forever, no?"

You shrug. "They think I'm a bad influence. Not refined or ladylike. It's probably because they caught be gambling at The Garrison once when I was fourteen and were even more shocked when I won. They're traditional like that."

Tommy smiles at her, "You're fascinating, did you know that?"

You smile back, "So I've been told."

That night was the start to a strange friendship.

At first, the two of you bonded over the fact that you both cared very deeply for Greta and that her parent's didn't like the lot of you.

Then, you found more shared interests. Politics, was one of them, which surprised you immensely.

You and Tommy stood shoulder by shoulder in an old train yard alongside Freddie Thorne and some other kids you knew growing up. The floor was packed with young people, factory workers, and just about anyone else who supported the local Labour Party candidate for MP.

The crowd was electric as they were screaming chants, singing old bar songs as beer was being passed around, and clapping and stomping as the candidate delivered their speech.

When the speech was over, the dancing began. A band took the stage and started playing jazz and some ragtime. The crowd knew the obvious: their Labour Party candidate was unlikely to win especially with the influence of pro-conservative business tycoons in the city. But it was nice to have hope, even for a fleeting moment.

You and Tommy danced among the crowd freely like the young and idealistic young adults you were. Occasionally a factory worked would spin you around or dip you, releasing a shrill of joyous laughter from deep within you stomach. Tommy swore he had never smiled more widely that night. How he wished Greta could have been there, but her parents were appalled that you and Tommy has invited her to a political event where it was sure to get rowdy. Both you and Tommy knew that Greta wasn't too interested in politics either; she didn't fancy getting involved to what she thought was men's business.

After half a dozen songs, you grabbed Tommy's hand and dragged him away from the crowd. You steal a bottle of liquor from a crate next to the makeshift bar and climb up to the catwalk overlooking the dancing below.

You both sit and catch your breath, sharing the bottle and a cigarette between the both of you.

You take a drag and scrunch your face, "Oh Tommy, that's horrid! How can you breathe that like it's air?"

He laughs at you, taking a drag for himself. "Pretty easily. Small Heath isn't known for pristine air."

You laugh and take another sip from the bottle. The both of you let your feet swing from the edge of the catwalk and you lean your bodies agains the railing, gazing at the view below.

"The Labour Party's never gonna win, you know," you say, voice full of melancholy.

Tommy knows it's true. The business owners would never let it happen. He tries to remain optimistic for his own sake, though. "Freddie says that have a better chance this election."

"Freddie knows they're still not going to win, though."

Tommy stays silent, instead choosing to watch you intently. You have the same look in your eye as that day he saw you swinging in Greta's garden. The look of wanting to be bigger.

He knew you wanted this—liveliness in a world of mud, youthful joy among tired and worn workers, politicians caring for their community. He knew you wanted to change things. He also knew that the world didn't want you to.

"I'm gonna change the world someday," Tommy says boldly.

You look at him and his sincerity and determination shocks you. A smile begins to creep along your face. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he silently promises.

Something in his voice that day made you believe that he meant it.

Greta was happy you and Tommy had become friends. The both of you were who she card about the most, aside from her parents. She didn't know what she'd do if the both of you had despised each other.

But sometimes, Greta would embarrassedly feel jealous of the two of you.

She didn't know of Tommy's childhood fascination with you. Truthfully, as far as Tommy was concerned, Greta was the one for him. But sometimes, Greta didn't like how you knew more about Tommy than she did.

"Tom's gonna take me to London on the weekend," Greta giggled excitedly. They were out for a stroll in the market, arms looped together. You was tasked with buying groceries and Greta was tagging along.

Your walking pace slowed. "This weekend?"

Greta slowed down as well, confusion slowly taking over her face. "Yes...why? Is something wrong?"

You shake her head. "I don't think so."

"Y/N!" Greta groans, quickly moving to stand in front of you so you're forced to look up at her. "Please, what is it?"

You sigh, "It's just that Tommy mentioned that he thinks his father will be in London this weekend for a trade-show. I'm worried he's going to want to confront him for...you know...leaving when he did."

Greta's face drops slowly, "Trade-show?"

You nod, "That's what he told me. Apparently they're displaying the latest goods from America."

"...Tommy said that's where we'd be going," Greta admits, somewhat hurt.

You roll your eyes, "God, he's an idiot."

Greta ignores you, but asks a more pressing question: "Why didn't he tell me?"

'More importantly, why did he tell you?' she wants to ask.

You smile sadly at her, "I don't know, Greta. You should ask him."

Greta doesn't say so, but that afternoon changed how she viewed you and Tommy's relationship.

However, she didn't have time to fuss over it because a few months later, you revealed you were moving to London.

"What?" Tommy and Greta as simultaneously.

You were nearing the end of your childhood. Tommy had turned twenty a few months prior and your twentieth birthday was approaching in a few weeks time. Greta was set to turn twenty in December.

The three of you were sitting under a bridge next to the Cut just outside Birmingham. The summer sun was hot, so you sat under the arch for shade. It had been a lazy afternoon of playing cards, drinking stolen whiskey, and scolding Tommy as he smoked his God-awful cigarettes.

That was, until you dropped the bombshell upon them.

"I got the letter yesterday. I'm to start working towards a philosophy degree at the University of London in the fall," you mumble, too nervous to look them in the eye.

"You never told us," Greta points out.

"I didn't think I'd get in. Or be able to afford it, for that matter," you try to rationalize. "Turn outs, some distant radical great aunt in Scotland who married into some money found out I needed money for school and gave me enough to get on my feet. I talked to a librarian near the school when I visited a few months ago and she agreed I could work there to help cover my tuition."

"Philosophy, huh?" Tommy asks, trying to mask his pride. You caught it though and like lightning, the glint in your eye was back.

"Yeah," you say, trying not to break into a grin.

"Tom, you can't be serious!" Greta groans before facing you again. "Y/N, you can't go."

You dropped your jaw. You were expecting a surprised reaction, but not this, from Greta of all people.

"What do you mean, 'I can't go?' It's done Greta. I'm enrolled and I've booked a train ticket," you retort.

"It's dangerous! You don't know anyone in London! What if you get taken, or end up homeless, or get...I don't know...attacked?" Greta argues back.

You roll your eyes, "Greta, you're being ridiculous—"

"Y/N, women aren't supposed to do that kind of stuff! Philosophy? Please. You'll scare away every man that shows the slightest interest in you, more so than you already do!"

"Greta!" Tommy finally shouts, desperately trying to diffuse the tension.

"No, Tom. Greta's right," you say bitterly. "I'll scare away every man I ever come across. But what's a man's happiness worth if I'm miserable?"

Greta doesn't respond. Tommy runs a hand across his face.

"I'm going to London. I let you know because I care about you. I'm not asking for your permission. You can either meet me at the station or don't," you say with authority before walking away.

On the day you're set to leave Birmingham, you're joined by your family and Tommy at the train station. Greta was no where to be seen.

You hug your parents first, gently reminding them that London was only a train ride away and that you'd be staying with other girls in a dormitory so you wouldn't be alone.

They admitted their deep pride for you gently as you hugged them tightly, fighting not to shed and tears. They were radicals and supported your venture into academia.

Finally, you were face-to-face with Tommy. Your parents took the liberty of helping load your bags onto the train, so you were left with Tommy on the platform.

"This isn't goodbye, eh?" he says softly. "A see you soon, perhaps."

You nod before launching yourself at him one final time, wrapping your eyes around him tightly. You tried to memorize his smell; freshly cut grass, whiskey, clean linens, and cigarettes. You tried to memorize his body against yours, how his chest felt against your cheek and how his arms caressed your head.

"Take care of Greta for me, okay?" you mumble into his chest.

"I promise," he says back.

The train whistle blows, separating the two of you. Before you think about it too much, your eyelids drop and you press a kiss to Tommy's cheek.

Tommy is stunned, but doesn't move. He's even more stunned when you lean into his ear and whisper, "I'll fantasize about you."

He watches the train roll out of the station beside your parents and stays in that position long after the train is gone.

I'll fantasize about you.

Even years later, Tommy still hopes that rings true.

---

in the daytime bendable figures with a fresh new pack of lies

The next time Tommy sees you, it's after he's come back from France.

After you finish getting your degree, you sail to New York. During your degree, you volunteered with the Labour Party and helped win a local election, which turned some heads in England and across the pond. You even took a year off school when the New York branch of the National American Woman Suffrage Association poached you to come work for them.

When Greta died, you didn't have the time to sail back in time for her funeral. That very fact haunts you to this day, and you visit her grave whenever you can.

After the Great War, women's suffrage picked up back home and you made the decision to leave your life in America and move back to London.

You worked with local women's suffrage organizations when you were contacted by an old friend, Freddie Thorne. His plea was simple: help organize women's support for the factory strikes in Small Heath.

You had enough money saved from your time in America to stop working for a little while, so you agreed. You packed your bags and took the train to the neighbourhood you grew up in.

Small Heath wasn't all too different from what your remembered. The air smelt the same, the workers still looked miserable, the children still ran around the muddy streets, and the pubs were always packed by six in the evening.

You got to work straight away with your grassroots movement. You organized a small group of women who already supported the strikes to take surveys of those who didn't. You organized afternoon with these women and tried to understand their perspective. Your work was slow, but it was making progress according to the occasional reports Freddie was giving you.

You'd been in Small Heath for nearly two months and had surprisingly kept a discreet presence.

Hell, the Shelby's didn't even realize you were back until Inspector Campbell's haunting words reached Tommy's ears.

"Freddie Thorne is at the top of my list. Alongside Y/N Y/L/N."

Pounding at your door one evening startled you from your study. You were working on pamphlets for your next rally and the sound of the typewriter almost drowned out the incessant banging.

When you opened the door, you were shocked to see the body on the other side.

"Shelby," you say, shock dripping in your words.

"Y/N," Tommy says, almost relieved.

It was almost as if the both of you were back at Greta's house all those years ago. So very much had changed since then.

"What are you...doing here?" you ask, still too shocked to move.

If you could get any more shocked, you did when Tommy said nothing but wrapped his arms around you, pulling you tightly to his chest. You awkwardly wrap your arms around him, stunned by his affection. Sure, you and Tommy were affectionate as children, but you were not children. France changed him—you saw it in all veterans—and London and New York changed you.

It did feel nice, though. For a fleeting, heart-wrenching moment.

"I thought he got you," Tommy admits quietly.

"Who?" you inquire back.

Tommy doesn't answer, instead pushing himself inside your flat and checking your windows.

"Tommy, who?" you pester.

You watch Tommy halt in front of a front-facing window before harshly pulling the drapes back over the glass.

"What is it?" you ask, panic rising.

"The car outside—the Chrysler," he says urgently. "Is it always parked out there?"

You take a peak out of the window and shake your head. "No, I've never seen it before. Tom, what's going on?"

Tommy grabs you by the shoulders and says quietly, "Listen to me, Y/N. I promise I will explain, but you're not safe here. Do you have a phone?"

You nod, "Yes, in my study. Now what—"

"Listen to me," he cuts you off. "You pack a bag. Just your essentials. You'll need to stay some place safe."

"Can't I stay with you?"

"They probably followed me here."

'Who's they?' you want to ask, but you hold your tongue.

You wrack your brain for another place to stay. "My—my parent's cottage, the one in the country. They left it to me in their will. It's forty minutes away by car."

Tommy nods, "Good. You'll stay there, alright? I'll have someone drive you."

"Tommy, please. What's going on? Are you in trouble?" you say desperately, shoving clothes and notebooks into a suitcase.

"Hopefully not, but you are," Tommy says back before pulling out a revolver, inspecting barrel and the bullets nestled inside.

You notice, however, and groan. "God, I swear if I see one more gun, I'm going to lose my mind."

Tommy halts his movements. "What kind of business were you involved in in New York to be seeing guns?"

You roll your eyes before lifting your mattress and pulling out your own pistol, along with a box of bullets. You stuff the two in your suitcase. "Not everyone wants women to vote," you explain dryly. "Some people get very violent about it."

Tommy nods before rushing into your study and calling someone, presumably a Blinder. Twenty minutes later, another car full of men in peaked caps pulls up beside the Chrysler, causing the driver to drive away.

Tommy then sneaks you downstairs through a back exit and escorts you to the car full of Blinders. You recognize some of them; kids you used to go to school with, factory workers, and—

"John Shelby?" you ask in disbelief.

"If it isn't Y/N Y/L/N. Been here a few months and you're already causing trouble, eh?" he answers, an amused look in his eye.

"John," Tommy scolds. John puts up his hands in defence.

Tommy nods towards the other Blinders and they exit the car, loading your suitcase in the trunk.

You turn to look at Tommy who was doing a survey of the area around the car, looking for anything else suspicious.

"You know," you start, "this wasn't really the welcome I was expecting."

Tommy doesn't say anything, only nods.

You look down after in dejection before daring to say, "I missed you, you know."

Tommy sighs. "I'm not the same person I was, Y/N. Neither are you. We were both gone for a long time."

You let out a sad chuckle, "If it makes you feel better, I knew you were going to say that."

John starts the car engine and whistles, signalling it was time to go. The other Blinders pile into the car and Tommy shuts the car door beside your seat.

You scroll the window down just as John begins to drive away.

"I'll see you around, Tommy," you say into the quiet street.

Once again, you're gone just as soon as you came.

When Tommy goes back home that night, the anxiety in his chest subsides but a new one replaces it. Pining, perhaps. Tommy can't tell.

Polly watches him enter the kitchen and pour himself a drink. "Did you see her?"

Tommy nods.

"How was she?"

It's a loaded question, Tommy can tell.

He takes a sip of his drink before saying, "She looked good. Really good."

Polly smiles at her nephew. She hadn't heard him speak like that in a long time. "Still causing trouble though," she notes. "The ladies at church talk about her rallies. They're thrilling, apparently."

That doesn't do anything to ease his fears.

Tommy begins to worry once again. If the stories he heard about Campbell were true and he was as ruthless as everyone says, was a cottage in the countryside really going to protect you from him?

He laid awake that night, but didn't bother with the opium. He wanted a clear head; he could only reminisce in past memories with a clear head. He remembered that night in the train yard—the night where the two of you went to a Labour Party rally and danced like you could actually do something good.

"I'm gonna change the world someday," he had told you.

It was clear that if he wasn't going to change the world, you were.

As the weeks progressed and his business with Campbell and Billy Kimber carried on, he became less and less occupied with his fear that Campbell would find you.

Perhaps the barmaid helped as a distraction.

"Whiskey, Mr Shelby?" Grace asks as Tommy enters the Garrison one night.

He nods curtly before his eyes zero in on someone he hadn't been expecting to see. He tries to remain calm as the woman approaches him.

"Mrs Jurossi, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Tommy asks when the woman stands in front of him, clutching her purse tightly between her gloved fingers.

He hadn't seen either of Greta's parents since the funeral.

"Y/N is back," Greta's mother says, her voice nearly breaking.

Tommy pretends to be surprised. "Is she?"

Mrs Jurossi sighs, "She was at the grave. I saw her place flowers down."

Tommy nods again, trying his best to remain un-phased. "Alright."

"I just thought you may want to know," she says softly, showing a rare display of compassion towards him, "I knew the lot of you were close."

Tommy tries to ignore Grace's stare. "Thank you, Mrs Jurossi."

Greta's mother nods and leaves the pub.

"Who's Y/N?" Grace asks, pretending to wipe down already clean glasses.

Grace doesn't get an answer out of him. So, she tries again with Harry the next day.

"Harry, who's Y/N?" Grace asks as she sweeps around the tables, preparing for the rush of customers after they clock out of work.

Harry lets out a low chuckle. "Haven't heard that name in ages, sweetheart."

"You know her?"

"Whole block did," Harry admits as he restocks the liquor shelf. "A troublemaker, that one."

Grace lets out a perfectly timed laugh. "Good trouble or bad trouble?"

Harry smiles back. "Good. That one wanted to change things 'round here. Make it better. Studied philosophy in London. Last I 'eard, she was in America working with women's rights organizations or summat."

Oh, so this was the same Y/N that Campbell had mentioned.

"She's back, apparently," Grace says slyly, gauging Harry's reaction.

To her delight, Harry's eyes light up, "Them Shelby's will be glad to 'ear that one!"

"Oh?"

"They were close, her and Tom. Best friends. Used to spend the holidays with her parents in their cottage in the country! Does he know she's back?" Harry asked.

Bingo, Grace thought.

"Yeah, he does," Grace answers.

The next morning when Grace meets the Inspector at the art gallery in the town centre, she says, "I think I know where Y/N Y/L/N has been hiding."

Campbell glances around the museum before leaning closer to her and whispering, "Where?"

"Her parents have a cottage in the country. They've passed, so surely she's there alone. I looked in the city records and found an address," Grace answers back quietly.

"And how did you find this information?" Campbell asks.

"She's apparently good friends with Thomas Shelby."

Campbell smiles at her and commends her good work before walking away.

"What are you going to do with her?" Grace asks just before he gets too far away.

Campbell shrugs. "Send a message."

The message comes several months later. Tommy had just come back from his night with Grace and for the first time in a long time, his heart fell full.

That was until he saw the sombre faces of Arthur and John at the kitchen table. Polly was nowhere to be seen.

"What's going on?" Tommy asks, hesitantly shedding his suit jacket and warily looking at his family. "Where's Pol?"

"At the hospital," Arthur says solemnly.

"Is she alright? Is it Ada?" Tommy asks, feeling slight concern for his sister. She already had her baby, but that's not to say something went wrong.

John shakes his head. "Ada's fine. It's Y/N."

Tommy freezes.

"What?" he croaks out.

Arthur exhaustedly runs a hand across his face and begins to explain, "When the coppers couldn't find you, they went for the next best thing. They found Y/N out in the country and beat her. Bad, Tommy. Polly's with her at the hospital."

Tommy swears loudly and suddenly, all he sees is read. He doesn't register what he's doing, but glass goes flying, vases shatter, and his brothers are trying to restrain him.

"Alright, alright! Calm down, brother," Arthur yells, trying to restrict his arms.

"I need to see her!" Tommy shouts, trying to break free.

Tommy rams his elbow into Arthur's stomach and Arthur grunts, momentarily letting Tommy free. Tommy attempts to make his way to the door, but John grabs his older brother by the lapels and pushes him against the wall.

"Listen, Tom," John shouts, trying to keep Tommy from lashing out. "For some reason, Campbell knew you were close to Y/N. He knew where she was staying, and I'm willing to be good fucking money that he knew that if she got hurt, you'd come visit her. Don't you think that hospital is swarming with coppers, eh?"

Tommy tries to shove him back. "Get the fuck off me!"

John doesn't relent. "Fucking listen, Tommy! Who could've told Campbell about Y/N?"

"I don't know!" he shouts.

Arthur comes closer, grabbing Tom's shoulder. "Who knew that she was back? Think, Tommy!"

Tommy squeezes his eyes shut and tried to concentration, but all he could think of was your bloodied body connected to tubes at the hospital, grasping onto Polly's hand for dear life. What if he lost you? He just barely go you back, so what if he lost you again like he lost Gret—

Think, Thomas, Tommy tells himself. Who could know that you came back to Small Heath and want to tell Campbell? His immediate family may hate him, but they love Y/N so it could not have been them. Freddie wouldn't dare give up Y/N's location either, even if he knew where it was. The women at the rallies likely wouldn't have known where Y/N was staying and even if they did, it was unlikely that they'd tell Campbell, the man who ordered raids on their houses. Greta's mother likely wouldn't tell; she didn't like Y/N but that woman didn't like what the coppers were doing to the neighbourhood either. Harry knew she was back, but that man adored her, just as most other people in the neighbourhood did. That left—

"Grace," Tommy finally says, slumping against the wall.

"The barmaid?" John says in disbelief.

"Fuck," Arthur whispers. "She's been asking a lot of questions, Tommy."

"Good enough for me," Tommy grunts before finally pushing past his brothers and running to the Garrison.

When he bursts through the doors of the Garrison, he immediately locks eyes with Grace behind the counter.

Grace sees the murderous look in his eyes and forces a smile. "Tommy, how can I—"

Tommy snarls and pulls a gun out, pointing the barrel directly between her eyes. The entire pub freezes and Grace turns white.

"I know it was fucking you," Tommy shouts. "The fucking rat working with Campbell."

"I don't know what you're talking about—"

"Don't fucking lie to me!" Tommy yells again, his entire body shaking with anger. "I know it was you who told Campbell about Y/N!"

Grace searches his face for an out, but there is none.

"I didn't know he'd go that far to beat her..." she begins to rationalize, but Tommy doesn't hear it.

"You have one fucking hour to leave Small Heath or I will fucking kill you. Do you think I give a shit about the coppers? I will fucking kill you, eh?" Tommy threatens, his voices intimidatingly calm. "Get out of my fucking sight."

Grace's sudden departure doesn't ease Tommy's anxieties, though. With Campbell still at large, Tommy didn't want to risk seeing you at the hospital. He counted down the hours until Black Star Day; until his business with Billy Kimber and Campbell finally drew to a close.

Then, Tommy told himself whenever he could, I can finally see her.

The morning of Black Star Day, he caught Polly praying. Polly prayed for him and his brothers before praying for you.

"Please, watch over our dear Y/N," he hears Polly say. "We love her more than she knows. Tommy loves her more than she knows. Pray that both those troublemakers make it out of this okay, for their own sakes."

Tommy clears his throat to alert his aunt of his presence, but Polly doesn't flinch, as if she was expecting him to be there. Polly makes the sign of the cross and turns to him.

"This is bigger than anything you've ever done, Thomas," Polly reminds him. "And there's something to look forward to, at the end of all of this. Someone."

Tommy nods solemnly and begins his day.

It's well into the night before gets a chance to breathe again. He's slumped in the snug of the Garrison with a bullet wound in his shoulder and droopy eyes, but still... he can finally breathe a sigh of relief. His plan was to visit you in the morning, when he was less bloody and more social.

You, however, beat him to it.

He could hear sudden cheering outside, followed by feminine laughter. Then, a soft knock on the snug door.

"Come," Tommy grunts, eyes still trained on the glass in front of him.

The door creaks open and the sound of laughter filters through. Then, a voice he's been longing to hear for years.

"We have matching bruises," you note softly, approaching him.

Tommy wants to laugh.

He looks up and catches your eyes. You're smiling softly—sadly—at him and reach forward, grabbing his cheek with your hand. You trace your finger across the bruise along his jaw and Tommy notices that you have one in a similar spot.

"Who did that to you?" he asks, a shadow of a threat in his voice.

"Doesn't matter now," you remind him before sitting in the seat across from him.

It was strange, being across from him all these years later. You were only kids when life separated that two of you. Now, nine years later, it was surreal to sit in front of someone who was part stranger, part your other half.

"I stopped by Charlie's on the way here," you mention, "and I saw a bunch of crates with your name on them."

"Business has been doing well," Tommy admits.

"I also heard that you turned some heads at the races. You've got yourself an official betting licence."

Tommy decides to change the subject: "I head you turned some heads in New York. A big pay check didn't want to make you stay?"

You smile, "Money means a lot but at one point, it stops meaning anything. I got to that point a while ago. My services seemed more useful here."

You and Tommy fall into an awkward silence. Nine years was a long time and the two of you clearly didn't know each other as well as you used to.

"Are you going to stay in Small Heath?" Tommy asks after a minute...or an hour. Or two. You weren't sure. Time still seemed to pass differently when you were with him.

You grin at him, just as you did when you were younger. "Why, got another reason for me to leave?"

A ghost of a smile appears on Tommy's lips. "I've got a reason for you to stay."

"I've got plenty of those," you admit before reaching across the table and laying you hand on top of his. Tommy stares at your joint hands—unmoving but not protesting.

"If I stay, will you let me back in?" you ask, trying to get him to be vulnerable with you once again.

"I want to," Tommy says before adding, "I don't know if I can."

"Well, we've got all that time in the world to figure out that second bit, don't we?"

---

so in response to what you whispered in my ear i'll be upfront, sometimes i fantasize about you too

And let you back in, Tommy did.

The family was glad to have another familiar face around. Especially in the tumultuous drama Tommy often got them into, it was nice to have someone to ground him.

It was a close as the both of you got to being kids again: he'd still be stubborn, hotheaded, and make foolish decisions and you'd still dive into things heart first and be a little too outspoken at times. Nevertheless, he was glad that you were by his side once again.

The family wasn't too sure how to describe your relationship. As far as they could tell, there was no romance. That was perpetuated by the fact that Tommy decided to marry Lizzie Stark and have a daughter named Ruby with her. But, your relationship with Tommy was closer and stronger that Lizzie's could ever be.

You weren't Tommy's and Tommy wasn't yours. Tommy wasn't really Lizzie's either.

Things took a turn when Tommy began his venture in politics.

Lizzie was not a fan. She preferred the privacy of raising Ruby alone, without the scrutiny of the country on her. Naturally, Tommy turned to you.

It wasn't unheard of for a woman to run for office, but it was uncommon and they didn't win. But, you had plenty of experience and political power in London due to your connections within the women's suffrage movement. You had the experience and connections to be Tommy's biggest political ally.

Plus, Tommy trusted you with his life.

Tommy found himself in your office one day, amusing himself with your large library of books as he waited for your to finish some paperwork. The Labour Party was hosting a gala and as a newly-elected MP, Tommy invited you as his plus-one.

"Half these books are in Latin," Tommy remarks, picking up one of your old philosophy textbooks from your university years.

"Sapere aude," you mumble.

"What?"

"It's Latin for 'dare to know,'" you explain, looking up from your paperwork. Tommy stares slightly at the sight of you wearing a gorgeous night gown, elegantly styled hair, and a string of pearls laying delicately over your collarbones. What he doesn't realize is that you're staring back, admiring how boyishly-handsome he looks with his ruffled hair and his well-fitting tuxedo.

"One of my professors loved to taunt us with that saying before assigning us hours of Latin readings that we had to translate before we could make any sense of them," you continue.

"Was it worth it?"

"No, he was a cunt."

After a few more quick scribbles with your fountain pen, you look up at Tommy once again.

"Tell me something I don't know," you say suddenly.

"What?"

"I'm bored," you reply.

"We have a gala to go to, if that so pleases you," Tommy reminds and you only smile.

"Tell me something I don't know first," you giggle.

Tommy sight before walking forward, taking a seat in the leather chair across from you. "Lizzie and I are getting a divorce."

Your eyes widen slightly but you dare to say, "I'm sorry for that, but I'm afraid I knew that already, Tom. Lizzie told me."

"Oh," was all he said. He didn't know you and Lizzie were particularly close. Truth was, you weren't. Lizzie only told you because she believed Tommy wasn't interested in her because he was too infatuated with you.

You didn't know what to make of that confession.

"Alright, I have one," Tommy says, reaching for the crystal whiskey decanter on your desk. He pours himself a drink and takes a sip, "Do you remember what you whispered in my ear on the platform before you left for London?"

You blush lightly. "How could I forget," you say softly.

The corner of Tommy's mouth twitches. "Well, I'll be upfront, love," he starts. "I fantasize about you, too."

Your throat dries.

"Tom–"

Tommy downs his drink and clears his throat. "Well, we've got a gala to got to, eh?" he asks, standing up and offering you his arm.

You nod dumbly and loop your arm with his.

As you make your way down the hall, you stop abruptly.

"What is it?" Tommy asks, furrowing his eyebrows.

"I forgot something," you say, widening your eyes.

"What is i—"

You don't let him finish. You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down for a kiss. It was messy; your teeth clashed and your noses bashed together, but after nearly two decades of wanting, it felt right.

When you pull away, you dare look into Tommy's eyes, only to find that he was already staring at you.

"How about we ditch the gala and we go to my place?" you whisper.

Tommy presses his lips softly to yours and says, "How about we get dinner first?"

You nod giddily and the both of you race out of the building, avoiding the driver that was supposed to drop the two of you off at the gala. You ran into the night, ready to start some trouble just like you were kids again.

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