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weaponizedvirtue · 8 months

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The Face I Hide Behind, Pt. 1 {Peaky Blinders}

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Reader

Summary: You met Thomas Shelby as Eli Carter, your hair shorn short, your chest bound, the Royal Engineers crest proudly adorning your uniform. You find him again as discarded Marie Tillerson, a woman shamed but remembered.

Notes: I discovered recently that many woman enlisted in the world wars disguised as men. It made me wonder what being in a high-stress environment like the tunnels would be like as a woman, especially if you were trying to hide that secret from someone like Tommy. Soft Tommy, implied romance, reader can be viewed as gender fluid or female with gender norms defied.

Part two can be found here.

"Carter?"

You know that voice. Like the back of your own hand, you know that voice. You turn sharply and sure enough, pale blue eyes and squared shoulders stoop to meet your own.

"Shelby. Jesus, haven't seen you in awhile."

He lifts his eyebrows at that, his gaze still piercing through you like a spotlight. You’d almost forgotten how unyielding the man’s focus could be. His silence says more than he does, shouting and cursing at you even when he won’t. You rock back onto your heels, gesturing behind you with a shake of her thumb. You know what comes next, know what it looks like just before the dog bites, and your knees ache with anticipation.

“I can go. Sir. If you’d prefer.”

Thomas blinks and it cracks the smooth glass facade of his face, something of a tell that you’d always tried to drag out of him before. He considers you carefully, tapping his cigarette back against the palm of his hand before shaking his head.

“You still drink?”

It’s unexpected, though certainly not unwelcome. You nod and wonder if he even knows the half of it, then open your mouth to ask him the same question. But Thomas moves again before you can, his cigarette disappearing between his teeth with practiced precision. He turns, confident as always that you’ll follow without question, then strides back towards the outskirts of town.

“Come on then.”

The Garrison. He's as strategic as ever, it seems.

Your eyes rove slowly across the sign in the window as if there's some other message inside of it. You can feel Thomas's eyes watching you, but he always did know the importance of pacing. When you glance back at him, he opens the door a little wider and beckons you inside with a jerk of his head.

As you enter, you mark each and every detail down in an invisible ledger- three haggard customers, one a good deal younger than the others, four dimmed lamps, eleven tables, give or take, and a waitress sweeping in and out of view as two drunkards sling cards across their table.

It's comfortable, somehow. Lived in, loud enough to be familiar, soft enough to be ignored.

"What'll it be, Tom?"

The bartender leans forward with a smile, running a hand towel across the bar counter as you and Thomas settle behind it.

"Whiskey. And a scotch for Marie."

Your heart jolts to a stop and you turn to stare at Thomas. Normally, you'd have been annoyed at a man ordering you a drink without consulting you on your preference first. But a former sergeant major is a step above the regular smitten drunk at the bar and besides the point-

"You remembered."

"You have odd taste."

You don’t dictate that with a response, your eyes frozen on his face as you try to jumpstart your own heart.

"My name, Mr. Shelby. I didn't think you'd remember my n-"

"You were a special case. And it's Tom." His eyes flick over to you for the briefest of seconds as you open your mouth to protest, a command unto itself.

"You're in Birmingham now, not some hole in the mud. It's Tom."

"Tom. Okay."

The use of first names seems too personal somehow and for a moment, you miss the familial barking of last names and orders and swears that you had become used to on the field. There is a sealed promise of companionship in such actions and a wall of formality to hide behind in the absence of confidence. Here, you’re exposed.

The bartender returns quickly with your drinks, blessedly oblivious to your conversation, before disappearing again. You and Thomas sit in silence, sipping slowly at your glasses, and a loathsome wave of longing rolls through your gut. You’ve missed this. The comfortable camaraderie of someone you know simply inhabiting the same space.

“Thought you had family in Shere. What’re you doing in Small Heath, mm?”

You swallow, a long-stowed explanation waiting to spill from your throat. You want to admit just how poorly the past few months have gone, want to lift a mirror to Thomas’s face and ask if he thinks he’s done any better. You want to search Thomas Shelby’s pockets and pluck out a medal or two, just for penance, just for something to keep for yourself.

But it’s a flood of anger you know he doesn’t deserve and it tears out of you in cascading waves and a crashing tide to consume everything in its path. Instead, you take another slow sip of your drink and focus solely on the taste as it passes over your tongue. The torrent in your stomach slowly settles and you shrug instead, your eyes circling over the lip of your glass.

“Shere is small. People talked.”

They’d done much more than talk. They’d whispered and shouted and scowled and you’d grown tired of it quickly enough. You had stood at the base of your parent’s house and they’d spoken to you like you were a stranger, guarded and grieving as if their child hadn't really come back from the war. And there had been a moment, somewhere between your mother drawing the curtains and your father’s quiet request for you to leave, that your chest caved in on itself. Some part of you had clawed at the thought, screamed and cried and pleaded with him inside the walls of your mind. But you’d given too much of yourself to the tunnels and to a team who no longer considered you one of their one. Some part of you had wondered if it was just a consequence you should have expected.

So you’d nodded, swallowed your pain, and the next train out of town had carried you with it.

“England is plenty big enough. I can go somewhere they don’t.”

You can feel Thomas’s gaze, as pointed as it ever had been, but you can’t bring yourself to check if it’s sympathy on the man’s face or the smug understanding of a disappointed parent.

You both fall into silence again, but the quiet itches against your skin this time, a drenched blanket too heavy to remove from your shoulders.

There are things you’ve meant to say, words that demanded to be spoken, and if the universe was kind enough to lend you his company even one more time, it would have to be enough.

You frown, flinching in nervous anticipation, then down the half glass of scotch you have left. Liquid courage, they called it. Your hands clench around your elbows and you drag in one last breath before turning your body to face your former officer completely.

His chin lifts, somewhere between confidence and curiosity, and he takes a sip from his own, slow but no less invested than your own.

“I didn’t get to say goodbye to you.”

Your hands flutter forward, aimed for Thomas’s own for a fraction of a moment before the muscle memory of the past two years kicks back hard. You hesitate, swallow back the need for physical comfort, and stow your fingers flat beneath your thighs.

“I’d wanted to say goodbye, Tom.”

But you hadn’t. Hadn’t been allowed to say goodbye to anyone really.

Your last day is still hazy in your memory, another battlefield mess where time didn’t work the way it should, where every element of reality bled into the next. You remember a hissing. A warning, half forming in your mouth, and then a flash at the edge of your vision. The earth collapsing around you and someone’s hand, grabbing at your collar and yanking you forward. Dust and grit filling your lungs where the oxygen should be. There was no goddamn air. No goddamn air and the heat and the damp and the darkness crowded around you like smog.

The path leading out of the tunnels had locked shut with a boom and something large and heavy had collided with the back of your head. The surrounding torches had gone out in one quick burst, swallowing up the world in black.

A snap sounds loud and sharp inside of your ears and you startle; the Garrison slides back into place around you. Air rushes back into your lungs, spinning through your bloodstream so fast it makes your head spin. Beside you, Thomas lowers his hand from your face, his fingers slowly relaxing from where they’d clicked together.

“Hmm.” It comes out as more of a burst of air than an actual word. You blink back at him for a moment, breathing in through your nose, picturing your heart beating slower and slower until it returns to an almost normal pace. “General was there when I woke up. Said I didn’t have time for goodbyes. Said ladies shouldn't be on the field and that I was being sent home. Honorable discharge.”

It’s strange, that you can’t remember an explosion or the pulsing moments of fear in all the life or death situations you’ve faced. Yet each and every expression on your fellow soldiers’ faces as you crept from the medic’s tent would forever remain stamped on the back of your eyelids. It had been a moment you’d prayed to avoid- that the war would end with you still standing and the fury and shock and silence that came with an exposed lie would pass with no consequence.

Thomas Shelby could have remained the man across the fire. He could have stayed the companion who shared the little food he had while you were on watch, the friend who had muttered playful barbs and quiet encouragement to you after your first week in the tunnels, the confidant you trusted with all but one secret.

And you could have avoided the look of solemn judgment chiseled into his face as you pulled the car door shut behind you.

“I was angry with you.” There's pain in Thomas's voice as he speaks. His eyes glance down at his glass and he takes a long, slow draw of his whiskey.

The words burn, though you’d guessed at the fact months before. You nod, swallowing back something like a sob, and tuck your chin down sharply.

“Had the right to be. I wanted to tell you. If I’d told anyone, it would have been you. Was just… scared you’d turn me in.”

“I wouldn’t have.”

He could shatter bones with his words, you think.

A quiver of sound sits in the back of your throat and for a moment, you allow yourself to imagine what it would have been like. It still would have been difficult, to hide your true identity for the sake of being able to fight for what you believed in. But you wouldn't have been alone. Would have been protected in the way only sharing one's secrets could ensure.

And there would have been Tom, walking beside you, where before you'd taken the road alone.

You stare back at Thomas, searching for the tiniest hint of a lie, the flicker of a fuse igniting him into cinders. You wait for the rage, for the silent dismissal, but it never comes. A breath of shocked disbelief breaks from behind your teeth and you lean forward into your hands.

"Jesus, Shelby, you always did know how to render us speechless."

"It's Tom."

It's Tom. Even after her fall from grace and the bruising lack of trust she'd placed in him, it's still Tom.

Your eyes flutter back to the man and something like hope blossoms inside of your chest, warring with the shame that churns in your stomach.

"Tom. I'm sorry."

"I know."

He does, you think. His voice is just as quiet as your own, just as soft and calculated as it used to be around the torchlight of your camp. His lips curl neatly around each word, purposeful and focused, and when he looks at you like he does, accusing and forgiving all at the same time, it feels like your cracks seal up just enough to consider yourself solid.

It’s easier after that. The two of you fall into conversation, the kind that you remember from before, where you talk of nothing and everything and the hours pass like seconds. The glasses pile up quickly enough and the walls begins to tilt just a little to the left. The glow of the lamps around you softens the ache in your bones and the room seems to shrink to the bar alone, to the two seats you occupy, and the cocksure figure of the man sitting across from you.

By the time you look around again, the bar sits almost empty, only a straggler or two hugging onto their tables or so deep into their cups that they won't recover till morning.

"It's late."

There's hesitance in your voice, an unwillingness to leave what you've missed for so long. It had been easy enough to convince yourself since your discharge that you were fine alone, happy with solitude, but the idea of losing Thomas’s company so soon is startling.

“You got a place to stay?”

You shake your head, shrugging. You’ve been traveling long enough now that you’ve learned the alternatives to a roof over your head. There are places to go, groups you can fit yourself into if it just means a place to sleep for the night. Summer is on its way anyhow and you always did enjoy being out underneath the stars.

“Right.” Thomas slaps his hand against the counter, his expression resolute. It’s one you’ve grown used to, a look that says something is an order and not a suggestion. You don’t disobey orders. “My place then.”

The offer still isn’t one you expect and you hurry to get to your feet as Thomas adjusts his coat and heads for the door.

“It’s not necessary, Tom.”

He slips out of the bar quickly, his gait focused, and you hurry out after him. Your feet shift unsteadily beneath you as the street tilts slightly, but you manage to slide forward to stand in front of the man. Without thinking, you drag both hands up onto Thomas’s shoulders, as much to keep you standing as it is to give him pause. You blink for a moment, admiring the scratch of wool against your palms, and a chuckle sounds in your ears. Fingers slowly pluck your own from Thomas’s jacket and his hand squeezes around your wrist.

“Come on.”

Thomas’s tone leaves no room for debate, but his stance does, and appreciation rolls slowly back to you. For all his insistence, he’ll still wait long enough for the decision to be yours.

Still, you’re afraid you’ve misunderstood. Afraid he wants more than you can give or means less than you could hope.

“By stay, you just meant-” You roll your balance onto your heels, well aware that the action could have tremendous consequences with the amount of liquor you’ve consumed over the past few hours. “-to… stay, yeah? Not…” The words escape you and heat rises into your cheeks.

“You never were very good with words.”

Your right arm jerks upward almost by habit and you clap your left hand down across your bicep before you can stop yourself. A bark of laughter escapes from Thomas’s throat and a traitorous grin climbs onto your lips. The man’s moods are alarmingly infectious.

“I like numbers better.”

Light from the nearest streetlamp glances off of Thomas’s face as his expression softens; he takes a slow inhale from his cigarette and the tip sends a flare of orange over his cheeks that sets your skin alight.

“Respite from the storm. That’s all I’m offering, Tillerson.”

“Mmm.” You consider him carefully, wishing you had the courage to tell him that he had been just that a hundred times already. Instead, you nod, and follow him home.

It’s a modest flat, smaller than you can imagine Thomas Shelby normally fitting into. But that’s Thomas to a tee, carefully remaking himself to match his surroundings. And it’s quiet and warm and if that’s not reminiscent of home, you’re not sure what is.

“It’s not much. Not yet.”

“But it’s something.” You turn and smile softly back at him, grateful to even somewhere that’s warm and dry.

“Bed’s all yours. I’ll take the floor.”

He sheds his jacket off with a shrug and his knees bend as if to drop out from beneath him. Stubborn insistence rises inside of your chest and you pat the spot on the bed beside you, shaking your head.

“Tom. How many nights have we slept beside each other?”

“This is diff-”

“It’s not.” A yawn forces its way out of your throat and you blink sleepily back at the man. “Come on, mate. It's still me.”

Thomas remains standing for a moment, his lips twisting as he watches you stretch towards the ceiling. Your hand pats the bed again and without waiting for his response, you turn over on your stomach, pressing your face into the sheets. The day’s events catch up to you suddenly, dragging you under in a wave of fatigue; it’s been too long since you’ve found yourself in a safe place and sleep beckons.

Slowly, so slowly you're not sure it isn’t a dream, a weight settles on the bed beside you. A body comes to rest at your back and with a pleased murmur, you fall asleep.

#peaky blinders fic #tommy shelby x reader #female soldier #world war #writing

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weaponizedvirtue · 8 months

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The Face I Hide Behind, Pt. 2 {Peaky Blinders}

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Reader

Warnings: PTSD, panic attacks

Notes: Thank you all for your lovely reception of this fic. The amount of views and kind comments are so incredibly encouraging. Hope you enjoy part two just as much as you did part one.

Part one can be found here.

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

Tick.

The sound wakes you immediately. Your eyes snap open and you wait for another. It arrives a moment later just as you expect, soft but sharp. There’s a rhythm to it, a timing that matches the second it takes to pull a pickaxe down and drive it into rock.

Your breath catches in your throat and you sit up sharply, your nerves instantly engaged for a fight. Your eyes sweep over the room, searching desperately for the source of the sound as it continues. Not real, you tell yourself. It’s not real, just an echo of bad memories demanding an encore. Your limbs ache at the thought and you suck air in through your nose, willing the oxygen to clear your head of the fog. You remind yourself that your time in the tunnels is long past, that you walk above the dirt and the mud and the dust and not beneath it. You remind yourself that the air hasn’t smelled of blood in almost a year now.

Tick.

Swallowing hard, you slowly lower yourself back to the bed. Tom is warm beside you, a thrumming anchor, and you focus on the slow rise and fall of his chest, desperate for an easy distraction. His eyelashes flutter for a moment, his own dreams careening about in his head, and then the ticking comes back for a fifth round, a sixth, a seventh. You narrow your attention as best you can to the deep black of each of Thomas’s lashes as they graze against his cheeks.

Tick. It's louder now, chipping through the plaster. Tick. You wait for the burst of dust and curl your fingernails into your palms.

Something moves in the wall to your right.

You swallow a yelp, bolting up from the bed again, sure that the moment you gain your feet, you’ll be back in a hole, buried and gasping and never having left at all. But better to face the enemy on your feet than cowering in a corner.

As you land with a soft thump on the carpet, it feels for a moment as if the whole world has gone silent. The room tips momentarily around you and you lean your hands into the bedside table, swallowing back a wave of nausea.

Tick.

Tock.

You blink at the small gadget sitting inches from your hand and your arms begin to tremble. Adrenaline speeds through your bloodstream, a shouted order to move faster, run farther, hit harder, even now as the threat reveals itself to be nothing.

“Goddamn clock.”

Plucking the device from atop the table, you march into the kitchen, desperately fighting the urge to chuck it through the window. It’s not yours, something in the back of your thoughts says, so throwing the thing out or bashing it to pieces wouldn’t be right. You can be civil, even in the throes of panic.

You turn the clock over in your hands and the pulse of the second hand seems to smack against your palm through the glass. The sound of its ticking still sends a rocket down your eardrums, despite knowing now that it comes from a regular, everyday tool and not a person and you drop the clock to the counter with a hiss. Panic rises into your throat again as each second ticks by like a stab in the gut, hammering incessantly at your earderums.

You step back for just a moment, swaying with anxiety, and you listen hard for it, that soft voice nestled right below the din of sound bouncing around in your head.

“Keep that brain busy.”

Tom had dropped a rolled-up newspaper into your hands once- some new puzzle an American had brought over with him, he’d said later when you found him to demand the origin of the game.

“Did it work?”

It had, though you hadn’t expected it. Giving yourself something to do with your hands had been enough to bring you out of the long nights of sleeplessness and the moments of heart-rattling mania below ground.

It can work now too, you tell yourself, taking in one long breath. If you can’t shut it out of your head, you can shut it down with your hands. Your fingers pinch the bridge of your nose just hard enough to feel the pain, then you carefully pick up the clock again.

You’re not sure how long it actually takes you to dismantle the thing. Not long, you imagine; before the war, you quite enjoyed taking clocks apart, to your father’s chagrin. Each timepiece had a specific list of requirements, a checklist of dos and don'ts that allowed it to work in perfect tandem. Each wheel and spring and catch had to work with the pieces around them. When they didn’t, when a wheel wobbled or when a spring budged and bucked from its proper location, the whole machine failed. The whole thing operated off of its individual parts working together.

You like that about machines. They are predictable and they rely on a set of rules and a set of values to function. Like people, you suppose, though Tom was always better at navigating those while you preferred to stick to your formulas and algorithms.

You pluck the second hand from atop the clock face and the room goes suddenly still around you.

The absence of sound is so starkly different from the moment before that it’s nearly dizzying. Your shoulders sag with relieved exhaustion and you press one hand to your mouth to keep the creeping hysterics sealed inside your throat.

“‘Ey.” You flinch as Thomas’s voice interrupts the silence, bouncing against your eardrum even from the other room. “Everything alright?”

His voice is heavy with sleep, but you’re well aware he’ll come looking if you don’t answer quick enough. Even so, the truth is too embarrassing and you can’t quite admit to a man with a stone face and an even harder shell that you haven’t managed to beat your nightmares back, even now.

“Yeah. Just getting some water.”

You lean over the sink and slowly ease the faucet on. It’s a good enough cover, wil be a relief for your throat and the pounding in your head anyway. The glass is cool against your skin and you down the water quickly, suddenly parched. As you place the empty glass down, the contact sends the softest of ringing echoes rippling out across the tile counter. It’s reminiscent of what woke you, just enough to make you fidget. But the ticking is gone and you’re responsible for that fact. Surely, that’s enough of a task to reward yourself with some rest.

With a sigh, you shadow your way across the room back to the bed and silently crawl back beneath the covers.

Thomas’s eyes follow you, half glazed with sleep but still watching. You wonder if he ever entirely switches off that ever-constant observation.

After a moment, seemingly satisfied with what he sees, he turns onto his back again. The man goes so still that you think he may have fallen asleep again, but then an arm drops down over your shoulders.

"Settle down, Carter."

There's no need to correct him. Not when the name feels just as familiar as Tillerson, as Marie, and not when hearing it again makes you feel like you're home.

There should be some kind of decorum to your actions, when it would be so easy to call you strangers. But Tom is warm and you're too tired to bother with such proper conduct when it's likely neither of you care for that kind of thing anyway.

Your head drops to Thomas's shoulder and you curl one arm around his torso. The smell of cigarette smoke and cedarwood seeps in through your pores and you sigh against him.

He shifts beneath you, his breath halting in his chest for a moment. You think perhaps that you misread the action and an apology spills from your mouth. You begin to pull back, but then his arm shifts from your shoulder to your side. His thumb drags carefully along the curve of your hip, feather light.

It feels like a brand, like his thumb is a match striking alight right along your ribcage.

There's a beat, a moment you can practically see the gears whirring about in his head without even looking at his face. Then his chin settles atop your head and Tom breathes again.

You fall asleep like that, safe and comfortable and home, and it's the sun that wakes you after, nothing else.

“So you’re off then?”

He’s trying to remain passive, you know. There’s a kind of forced neutrality in his voice and you can see it, the nights before a plan was put into action, the few spare minutes before a battle where Thomas Shelby stood amongst a throng of men and convinced them what came next was inevitable.

You glance up at him and for just a moment, your heart rises into your throat. The urge to lock your hand around his wrist, to drag him down the steps behind you and disappear, the both of you, to wherever you’d like, is almost too much. He wouldn’t say yes. Shouldn’t say yes. You know this without asking. He’s got his family. He’s got this town. And he’s got a name to make for himself, or so he’d said the night before, when you were both heavier into the drink then you should have been.

He belongs here. And you don’t. Not yet. Not anywhere just yet.

“For now. Things to see.” Things to become.

Thomas nods, his eyes flicking towards the window, then to the pockets of his coat. He digs into one of them, plucks his lighter out with a focused kind of impatience. But as he lifts it to the cigarette dangling from his mouth, you step forward. Your hand circles around the lighter, pulling it from his grip with the silent demand that he pay attention.

This is important. Goodbye, however temporary, is important.

“I’m going to write you, alright?” Thomas pauses, his eyes stilling on your face this time, and he seems to wait, sensing a promise. It is one, really, when you think about it. You owe him that at the very least.

“I’ll keep you informed on where I’m at, remind you I’m still around.” Your thumb taps against his lighter, your offer solidifying in your gut as you straighten in front of him.

You turned tail last time. Forced or not, you left him alone on the battlefield. It’s a mistake you won’t make again.

“And you can make sure I don’t fall off the map again. Deal?”

You lift your chin, your nerves scattering as he considers you and the words you’d spent the last morning hours crafting so carefully. Slowly, he steps forward, so close you can feel the heat of him against you, and his fingers bump against yours to slide his lighter back into his palm.

“Deal.”

#writing #peaky blinders fic #peaky blinders #female soldier #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby

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