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toms-cherry-trees · 1 year

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Scraped Heart || Victoria Shelby

Summary: Wounded knees hurt more than just the flesh.

Word Count: 2132

Warnings: Description of minor injuries, post war PTSD, Tommy scaring his sister

Author’s note: So this is set right after the war is over and everyone has gone home, it could be mere weeks or no more than a couple months since everyone was shoved back into their lives. I’ve always imagined those weeks when they are trying to pretend that nothing happened to be extremely awkward and tense, especially for the younger ones, since four years is basically half of their lives they spent in uncertainty.

Thomas dragged his feet across the dusty boards of the hallway. Many nights had transpired the same way, ever since the return; he wandered around aimlessly, his mind disconnected from his body, until he found himself far away from home without memory of how he got there in the first place. That evening he had snapped back to his senses to find himself in the oldest part of the town’s graveyard, where most tombs dated to the prior century, stained green and the engravings faded by time and the elements. He must have stumbled and fell at some point, for his trousers had mud in the knees and his hands were scraped and bruised. A light drizzle had dampened his clothes and trickled down the bare curve of his neck. Nighttime had fallen already, but Tommy swore it had been daytime still when he left Watery Lane.

As he was about to reach his bedroom, a quiet cry and curse from the nursery caught his attention. Nursery, that word still made him snort. That little wooden sign with said word carved with a knife had arrived at the house with the first baby, and had been moved from door to door to whichever bedroom belonged to the youngest. But it wouldn’t be moved again, since there would be no more babies born under that roof, not at least for the foreseeable future.

The door stood ajar, and Tommy peeked in curiously, shrouded by the darkness of the hallway. Victoria sat on her bed, knees bent in front of her, both scraped and bruised. Around here laid a mess of pieces of bandages, a rusty pair of scissors, some iodine and oddly enough, a bottle of liquor. A most puzzling scene, especially because Tommy would have never expected his eight year old sister to have the maturity to gather all those supplies and hide in her bedroom while injured, instead of crying it out like a normal child. But again, kids raised in the middle of the war were no normal children.

Vicky had a piece of cloth on her hand and tried to dab at her scrapes, but she hissed every time it came in contact with her injury. Tears streamed down her cheeks, carving lines in the dirt of her skin. Tommy just then realised she was covered in grime from head to toe.

Vicky again made a feeble attempt to wipe away some of the blood on her knees

“Fuck” She hissed

“Oi, language!” Exclaimed Tommy, entering the bedroom. Vicky nearly jumped from the bed when Tommy marched in; he had the ability to be as silent as a cat, which drove everyone insane since he always startled everyone. The girl looked like she had seen a ghost, but there are worse things than a ghost, like being caught doing things you shouldn’t be by your brother-self-appointed-father.

Tommy sat on the edge of the bed while Vicky watched him cautiously, like a prey being sized up by the predator; Victoria had felt odd around Tommy ever since he came back from France, still struggling to get used to this new self, and desperately trying to find scraps of her old brother in this unknown man. They all had changed, in a way, but Tommy’s switch was most obvious. Sometimes the girl wondered if they had sent her back the right man.

“What happened?” The calmness in his voice was edged by the slightest hint of concern, and a dash of curiosity at the maturity of the littlest Shelby.

“Street puddles are treacherous places” At her words, Tommy felt a strange pang in his heart. Since when did his little sister use big words like “treacherous”? When they left, she could barely even pronounce her own name correctly, and wanted to be up in someone’s arms all day long. Now she spent most of her days out of the home, either at school or roaming the streets with other rascals. She already knew how to read as well, and clearly used her newfound knowledge to say “big girl words” every time she could.

Tommy grabbed her leg and pulled her close to inspect the wound, earning a squeak from his sister as she was yanked from a sitting position to be flat on the bed. The scrapes were large, but superficial. Something an adult wouldn’t even notice, but for a child of Victoria’s age it meant the end of the world and certain death. Yet his sister sat before him, teary eyed but otherwise calmly carrying herself. Tommy couldn’t recognise her anymore.

“Why didn’t you tell Aunt Pol to help you?”

For an answer, Victoria pointed to the floor, where her once new white stocks laid in tatters, all ripped up and stained with muddy water. Ada had told Polly that buying Victoria something white and delicate would be a waste of money, but she insisted. She wanted everyone to look their best when they picked the boys at the station, and somehow had stuffed Vicky and Finn in their Sunday best, complete with Finn’s hair slicked back and Victoria with ribbons woven in her plaits.

“Do you want my help?” Tommy felt odd at having to ask his eight year old sister if she needed help with something. In his mind this child had barely left the diapers and had no right to be speaking in full sentences and reading and writing.

“I can do it myself” Victoria sat up and grabbed the cloth again, but her hand shook even before she touched her knees. The sun would freeze over before she was finished.

Tommy snatched the cloth from her hands and dripped some iodine on it “It will not kill you to ask for help” He knew this bravado would crumble soon enough, but he couldn’t quite figure out what she was trying to prove.

“Aunt Polly said we have to fend for ourselves now”

Oh.

Tommy knew Pol didn’t say that. She would never say that directly to a child. But he still recalled the conversation when that phrase had been said. Late at night, the four of them sat before the hearth and passed around a bottle of cheap whiskey. They were due to leave at 9 am sharp the following day. Their hairs cut, their weavings packed and ready. Polly had stuffed their pockets with cigarettes and given them a bit of money in case they needed it. Then she prayed for their lives and commanded the three brothers to return, for they had people who loved them and depended on them. She remarked that even though Arthur and Tommy had no kids of their own they still had their responsibilities, because there were still three children under that roof that would now have to fend for themselves.

He couldn’t even begin to comprehend how Victoria remembered that. Maybe Polly had said those words again to a neighbour, or to Ada who was old enough to understand; and the little rascal had eavesdropped and gotten the wrong idea. A painful coil tightened around Tommy’s throat; the baby of the house had spent all these years under the impression that she only had herself in the world, even if she didn’t quite understand what that implied.

Tommy didn’t reply. What could he possibly say? How could he erase from her mind that idea that she had to rely only on herself because everything and everyone else around her were not for granted? He couldn’t say that he would be forever with her, because he knew that was a promise he didn’t know if he could keep.

He gently dabbed the cloth on her knee, earning a hiss and quietly muttered curse from his sister, who quickly covered her mouth with her hands.

“Don’t let Pol hear you or she will wash your mouth with soap” Tommy swiftly pulled Victoria into his lap so he could hold her better, and to give her the chance to hold onto him. He got to work on cleaning the scrapes, feeling little fingers dig tightly on the fabric of his coat, and he was pretty sure Vicky bit the arm he was using to hold her.

Once the grime had been wiped away he began to bandage her knees “What is the liquor for?” Tommy inquired curiously, nodding to the almost empty bottle on the bed. The bottle had some cheap hard liquor that they kept in a cabinet for emergencies, and never for drinking. Not that Thomas believed Vicky to be taking swigs of alcohol behind their backs, but the thought was amusing nonetheless.

“I have seen you and Arthur clean up wounds with that” She shrugged “I don’t think I need it thought” She added quickly

Tommy hummed “You couldn’t open it, right”

“Yep”

The faintest ghost of a smile tugged on Tommy’s lips. A big girl with big words and a big attitude but she still didn’t have the strength to open up a bottle, nor had she figured out how to work the house keys, and still wanted to have her food cut up for her. He finished wrapping the bandages and tied them up neat and nicely “Does it feel okay?”

The girl flexed her legs a few times and nodded “I could do that myself” Victoria could never, ever lose the opportunity to try and up her older brothers. Only when she stepped off Tommy’s lap did she notice the dirt in his trousers and the little scraps of his hands “Did you fall too?”

Tommy’s body immediately tensed up and he put his hands down to hide his reddened palms “Yards are treacherous places”

Victoria immediately tried to pull up Tommy’s trousers to take a look, but Tommy held her wrists to stop her, rather harshly. Both of them stood in absolute silence until Tommy let go of her. He hadn’t intended to be so harsh, but sometimes it happened too fast. His wrecked nerves got the best of him, fueled by the fact that never, ever in his life Tommy had allowed anyone to help him; not before the war and certainly not after.

But he couldn’t be this way with Victoria, not if he wanted to make up for all the years of her life he lost. And especially not now, when with that little gesture, something as simple as showing concern for him, Tommy caught a glimpse of what his sister had always been before she decided to build up walls, just like everyone around her. War had hardened the Shelby brothers, but it didn’t have to do the same to their little ones.

Just as Vicky straightened up, slowly as if she feared he would snap again, Tommy released a slow breath and pulled his sister into a bone crushing hug, her arms pinned to her sides as he squeezed her in the way he used to do when she was a baby. In the same way he hugged her when he took the train in 1914, and the way he hadn’t hugged her ever since. He kept her there until Vicky squirmed “Tommy you are squeezing me”

“I know”

“....Can you put me down?”

“No”

In that moment, that hug felt like an anchor to the life he once had and the man he used to be; both things now lost to the war machine. The war life had taken him, chewed him up and spat him back out as something new, something he couldn’t recognise and something that would forever be damaged in a way only those who had been chewed too could understand. But somewhere behind layers of trauma, scars, fears and anger lay a sliver of the pre-war Thomas Shelby, an miniscule sliver of a man who once believed the world could be good and kind. And that sliver belonged to Victoria for as long as she lived, so she could once more see the world through a rose tinted lens and never again had to think that she had to fend for herself. And so he could make up for all those missed hugs, cuddles and tickles.

After minutes of maintaining the hug, Tommy stood up and swung his sister over his shoulder. He suddenly had the vitality and energy he had lacked the last weeks. He marched out the room and down the hallway with Victoria over him like a sack of potatoes.

“Where are you taking me?” Inquired Victoria curiously

“To the bathroom. You are a grime ball and if Pol sees you like this, she will have both of our heads”

Victoria’s protests echoed on the walls as she tried to wiggle out of Tommy’s protective arms, laughing and squeaking as Tommy playfully dug his fingers in her ribs to tickle her.

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toms-cherry-trees · 1 year

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Once I Was || Tommy Shelby x Reader

Summary: Tommy had you, then he didn't anymore. You have broken free but he can't let you go

Word Count: 2357

Warnings: None really. Tommy being an ass but that is not new

Author’s note: This is exclusively from Tommy’s POV. You know the drill and many of you will recognise the song that this is based on you don't need me explaining it

Blending in had never been one of Tommy’s fortes. There was something in him that made him stand out wherever he went. His stance maybe, overcoming and intimidating; he exuded power and ostentation. Mayhaps it was his uncommon attractiveness, the sharpness of the jaw or the blueness of his eyes. Or perhaps it was the fact that he always seemed to be plotting something dangerous.

But now more than ever he needed to blend in. His clothes were poorly made, something a mother or wife would sew at home rather than tailor made as usual. They didn’t quite fit him properly, the pants too long and the coat sleeves too loose. Several empty glasses littered the table before him. His cap so drawn over his eyes he could barely see. His jaw so tense that five cigarettes had made it to his lips, only to be snapped in two by his teeth.

Every Saturday he repeated the same routine. Dress as common and plain as he could, take up the most secluded table in the London dance club, and drown in as many glasses of whiskey as the table could hold. He always picked the corner table with the malfunctioning light. The waiters always offered to switch him to somewhere better but he refused. He didn’t go there to be seen, he went there to see something. Or rather someone.

That night you wore white. Oh, how unbelievably gorgeous you looked in white. The straps of the frock wrapped around your neck and crossed at the back. The front hemline reached just below your knees, and the back nearly touched the floor. Your hair pinned up, with that coquettish strand falling on the side of your face. Sparkling with jewels, but Tommy only noticed the glimmering ruby in the ring finger of your left hand. Big and eye-catching, a golden band with the gemstone surrounded by gold petals emulating a rose. All that time together, and your man hadn’t yet learned you preferred silver to gold, green over red, and not shunning the beauty of roses, you had always favoured carnations more.

By your side stood a man, tall and proud, his arm around your waist as he led you to the dancefloor. He looked proud and smug, triumphant in showing off the magnificent specimen of a woman that accompanied him that night, and every night they went to that club. Every Saturday, at 9 pm, he drank whiskey with water and you had a glass of champagne, maybe two, before spending the entire night on the dancefloor, delirious with joy and love.

Tommy had never taken you out to dance.

Tommy still reminisced of the times when he had you on his arm; when your eyes stared at him with adoration, as if he held your whole world in his coarse palm. Tommy always thought you loved too hard; felt every emotion as if you were one of the leading damsels from those silly romance novels you kept in your nightstand. Oh, how late he realised he should have cherished your love more, for he would sorely feel its absence once he no longer possessed it.

Tommy knew you loved horses, so he took you to the races many times, whenever he had business to attend. But you always looked bored and dejected, and more than once left before him. Tommy thought simply you didn’t enjoy seeing horses compete that way. Only when he saw you with his own eyes in the stands with that man Tommy understood that you loved races, but wanted to enjoy them with someone. He saw you nearly jump from the seat, your bet ticket clasped tightly in your fist as the race began; Tommy knew you’d lose your money. You always had a tender heart for lost causes and had surely laid a bet on the horse with the lowest chance.

You had also laid a bet on Tommy’s lost cause, and you had both lost in the end.

You loved cooking for him, even though the kitchen had never been your forte. Tommy couldn’t understand your eagerness in purchasing cooking books and testing new recipes for him, when he had the money to eat in a new restaurant every night, or hiring a cook for your needs. But not even the best foods in the world tasted like the dishes you spent hours carefully preparing for him, served in plain dishware in your modest dining room. He could have appreciated more every little cut and burn you got trying to please him, but instead brushed off your efforts.

Surely you now cooked for him, with your silly flowery aprons tied about the waist and calling him every five minutes to the kitchen to try the soup until it tasted nothing but perfect, holding the wooden spoon to his lips and blowing on the food so he wouldn’t get burned; your brows furrowed and your nose scrunched in anticipation as you waited for approval.

The smallest demonstrations of affection were the ones that brought you the greatest pleasure. Tommy thought it adorable at first, the way you always reached to hold his hand, or felt the need to kiss his cheek every now and then for no reason when you were in public. Caressing his knuckles or laying your hand on his leg. Tommy grew to find your actions irritating and childish, the need to always hold onto someone as if you needed a support person at all times. Only too late he came to understand that you only wanted to feel him close, and to show him with actions what you didn’t always say with words.

Leaving Tommy small, handwritten notes between his work papers, or tucked in the pockets of his coats and pants. More than once Tommy had gotten upset over you messing up his paperwork, or complained over the embarrassment he felt when a note fell from his pocket unnoticed and an important business partner picked it up, handing it back to him with a cunning smirk. You stopped leaving notes after that.

After you left him, Tommy spent days rummaging his desk and raiding his closet, hoping to find any note, forgotten by time and distance, anything to tell him that you loved him still, and this was no more than a test of his will. But there were no notes to find.

The day you walked away, Tommy didn’t bother to go after you, believing it to be another of the tantrums you had been throwing lately. He had a busy day, and figured you’d be at home by the end of the night, sulking in the gardens or buried in a book, ignoring him until he rewarded you with a kiss and some passion. But the house was empty, and your belongings gone, minus a silver necklace he had given you many moons ago, a little heart with his initials engraved in the back. He found the jewel in the hallway, with the clasp broken, as if hastily ripped off and thrown away during your departure.

Tommy waited it out three days before sending his men to inquire about your whereabouts. Finding you was exceedingly easy; Tommy’s own driver had taken you to the train station, and from there, showing your picture around, they were able to find you in Leeds. In just those three days, you had secured room in a boarding house and had landed a job as a cashier in an apothecary. The three days it had taken him to go after you had been enough for you to erase Thomas Shelby from your life.

Tommy still refused to believe it, even after you told him exactly that right at his face, one rainy Sunday after he intercepted you on your way home from the market. He pulled you into his car by the sleeve, covering your mouth with his gloved hand like a kidnapper. The right hook you delivered to his jaw didn’t shake him as much as the storm of profanities and screams you pelted upon him, mixed with your own tears of sadness and rage. Thomas couldn’t quite understand the source of your anger; he had loved you well enough, but it seemed you only wanted more and more. In the end, he kicked you out of his car and back into the pouring rain, saying you were too demanding and had unrealistic expectations of life. You counterattacked saying you felt sorry for him, for he didn’t know how to love or care for someone other than himself, and you prayed he wouldn’t end his days alone, regretting his mistakes and having no one to weep at his grave.

Tommy used every fibre of his being to forget you, but he lacked the strength to let you go, despite the harsh words he gave you in your last encounter. He always thought his life to be grim, but now that you were gone, he realised his life had been full of colours he had been too blind to see until now that he had been plunged back into the true darkness. He craved back every kiss, every brush of your hand, every homemade dish and every silly letter. He ached to feel your body snuggled against his back in bed, even though he more than once complained that the proximity made him too hot and didn’t allow him to move freely, or that your hair got into his mouth.

Very deep down, he still kept the hopes of your returning. Just like every lost cause you picked up, maybe you’d have a change of heart and decide to put your last coin in that walking disaster of a man. He would even settle for something as simple and superficial as calling to inquire about him, sharing banal pleasantries while Tommy strained every fibre of himself to pretend he didn’t want to drop to his knees and beg for your forgiveness.

If he couldn’t get your love, he would be satisfied with your pity.

But all hope was shattered when he saw you again about a year later. One rainy autumn evening, he had just left Ada’s place and was about to mount his car when he saw you. Long coat, brown boots, a matching beret. A man by your side, his arm in your back and holding the umbrella for you. He whispered something in your ear and you giggled, replying with a tender kiss to his lips. Fifty feet behind you, Tommy stood under the pouring rain, feeling his body freezing down to the last nerve, and the blood in his veins turning to ice. He did not move until you disappeared from view into a taxi. In that second business became a secondary priority. He got in his car and followed you around London. From different shops to a small restaurant and then the theatre. Two hours he sat outside, nursing his aching heart in his chest and a Colt in his hands, a bullet in the chamber and his finger in the trigger. He didn’t have a plan, nor any logical thought running through his brain; only the knowledge that his girl sat inside the theatre with another man, and soon said man would have his brains splattered through the pavement.

As soon as you two left the theatre, walking hand in hand, Tommy followed suit, keeping a safe distance and his gun readied like a hunter on a chase. He stalked you across half the city, until the man dropped you off at the entrance of a small hotel; you sent him away with a long kiss, and he in return kissed each one of your knuckles before letting you go. Tommy had him right in his line of view, within perfect shot. No one walked the street at the time and some street lights malfunctioned, giving him the perfect cloak of darkness. All he had to do was aim and…and nothing happened. His index shook in the trigger, pulled almost all the way back, but Tommy couldn’t breach that last millimetre. That miniscule space that made the difference between a killer and a somewhat decent man. He could shoot men for sport but…

But seeing the way you looked at him, seeing the way he treated you. It felt like an awakening, a dawning of realisation that this man, this nobody who didn’t even deserve the ground you stepped on, could probably love you better than he ever did. In just one evening he had fulfilled every task Tommy never could. Took you out to the things you liked, and showed his love to the world without shame. He didn’t recoil from holding your hand, didn’t roll his eyes when you kissed his cheek, and had not left you alone halfway through the play because he had more important business to attend to. A man who could make you happy the way he should have done when he was your man.

But he no longer was your man. Tommy had turned into a ghost of the past, his memory fading more and more with each passing day, until he would one day become just a distant memory, one that wouldn’t be recalled back. Tommy could only hope you would remember him one day with kindness, or pity, or the gentle fondness of sweet moments now soured on. A fleeting thought easily dissipated by the newer memories with the man who had taken his spot. A man who lived that night only because, in his own twisted and broken way, Tommy loved you still, and did so enough to let you be happy with a man who was not himself.

And so he sat, every Saturday at 9 in the same club, watching the life he could have had if he had been different. If he had cherished what he had while it lasted. Another hand now held your waist and another lips laid upon your own, drinking on the nectar of your love while he shattered and fell apart bit by bit.

He should have taken you out to dance.

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