Shelby brothers x sister reader- platonic. They think she's rather spoiled after they come back from the war, so they try to be hard on her, strict and rather mean, but she just moves on and ignores them? Like, she moves out, makes friends, and gets a boyfriend who's a rather powerful gang leader in his own right, so they can't do anything?
Your first order of business after getting reamed by Arthur and Thomas was to find Aunt Polly. You didn’t even wait for the blowback from the venomous words you hurled at them. What was the point? They’d already made up their mind about you.
The heels of your suede pumps clack off of the hardwood floor of the betting shop, all manner of people moving out of your way just from the pinched look on your face.
Scorn.
You spot a mop of curly brown hair just past the throng; she’s in the rear office, her back to you- flipping through the paper. Before you can think to part your lips, she speaks. Not even bothering to turn around.
“You better approach me correct, Claire. Or don’t bother until you’ve got your head on straight.”
The dismissal feels like a slap right across your face. Polly is supposed to be your saving grace. Your confidant… She’s not supposed to pick a side- especially their side.
You stand there. Stunned as she refuses to turn towards you. Just the sound of pages flipping as she scans for upcoming races. You swallow thickly over the lump choking the words now stuck in your throat. Tears pricking at your eyes. Fingers curling and uncurling at your sides.
Fine.
You get the message.
Now that the prodigal sons have returned, they’ll get their feast…
You turn on your heel quickly, swiping at the tears begrudgingly falling down your cheeks as you weave through the crowd. Just as you’re about to make a clean escape, your shoulder collides with an older gentleman’s.
“Careful there, Sweetheart-”
He muses with a smoky voice as two hands stabilize you on your biceps. His hair falls to his shoulders in honeyed curls, a golden hoop earring shining from the lobe of his left ear. He's rakish, charming- but all too cunning behind those indicolite blue eyes.
“I’m sorry!”
You mumble quickly, flushing from embarrassment before darting out of the door.
~
In the two hours it takes you to pack, not a single soul checks in on you. Part of you foolishly hoped they would- or expected another argument. But nothing. Just shaking hands, attempting to fit your belongings in a small traveler's trunk.
Sadness turns to bitterness as you shove your last dress into the overstuffed compartment. You stand on tiptoes to push the lid down with your body weight.
“Where are you going, Sissy?”
Finn’s cherub voice asks from the doorway. The lid to your trunk latches with a surprising thunk.
“OH- Finn!” You squeak in response, turning your body in a vain endeavor to hide the trunk behind you.
“Why’re you crying?” He asks with a tilt of his head.
“I’m not Finnley-” You lie immediately, brushing at your heated cheeks just in case stray tears have escaped.
“Then wot’re you doing?”
“I’m-I’m- getting ready to play a game… want to help?” You ask, crouching down to his eye level, hands smoothing over the silk skirt of your dress.
“A game?! Of course!” He chirps excitedly.
You summon him closer with a pearl-varnished nail, lowering your voice to a secretive whisper. Guiding his ear to your lips,
“I’m going to play hide and seek with everyone. Will you promise to keep this a secret?”
You ask him with your heart lumbering in your chest. Keeping your eyes playful and hopeful. Oh, how you hate lying to him.
“Hmmmm… I don't knowww…” He dawdles, looking towards the open door to your bedroom.
“Trust me, Finn. It’ll be fun!” You urge carefully. Wanting to buy enough time to go hide out at Uncle Charlie’s yard before you figure something else out.
Running away from home isn’t the most mature idea you’ve ever had. But why stay where you’re not wanted? It’s not about the money getting cut off. It’s about always being picked last. The gifts, the spoiling- that was just supplemental; filling a void that'll never be satiated.
“Are you sure?” Finn asks curiously, knowing that everyone has been quite tense since our brothers returned from France.
“Absolutely! You can keep my secret, right?” You coo, petting his hair affectionately.
“Of course, sissy…” He mumbles, looking at his feet while you stand. Kicking the toe of his boot on the floor.
Taking a deep breath, you haul your trunk up off of your bed by the handle, suppressing the urge to cry in front of him.
“Good boy, Finnley…” You utter with a wavering smile. Stumbling towards the door, your trunk just a tad too heavy. A strand of hair falls free from its twist, lying across your nose, tickling the sensitive skin. A huff of air through pursed lips fixes it momentarily.
Content warnings: Sleep Deprivation. Anxiety. Germanophobia and War Reparations. Themes of Deportations and Detainment
I apologize for how long it takes me to write! I research history to make each part of the story as historically accurate as possible! (I'm a history major)
I would also like to make it abundantly clear as the writer that I do not support Xenophobia, deportations, or harm committed against any people.
Thomas becomes painfully aware of the logistical nightmare this new information has put him in. An undocumented German in this day and age practically invites danger to his doorstep. Let alone the Aliens Act passed the year prior, ensuring that even long-established Germans in England are under surveillance. Having to register themselves with local police and stay within a 5-mile radius of their homes. Then there are the confiscated businesses, the internment camps, mass deportations, and spy accusations.
What’s he going to do with you now?
He can’t, in very good conscience- or what’s left of it- just throw you to the wolves. Heaven knows what happens to young women once they've been taken by the authorities.
A resigned sigh disrupts the quiet. Thomas pulls back to hold you at arm's length. You look exhausted, broken down, and scared. Glancing up at him through wet lashes, your chin dipped in wait for the other shoe to drop. You're deeply ashamed. He must see it, right? Like he wants some pathetic thing like you burdening his place of business with lies and unrequited feelings.
Thomas resists the urge to tut at you, his hand leaving your wrist to nudge your chin upwards.
“Alright, enough of that.” He orders. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Adelaide: you’ll keep working for me. And continue pretending to be French. None of that Gerry talk to anyone else. Don’t need you getting lifted now, do we?”
Your downtrodden eyes widen. This must be a sleep-deprivation hallucination, right?
“But this does mean you’ll stay where we can keep tabs on you. And you will prove yourself worthy of my trust again.”
You’re at a loss for words; never in a million years had you expected this reaction from Thomas- to be so complicit in your lies.
"Am I understood, Adelaide?"
Thomas asks, eyes sharp but not unkind. You nod hesitantly, observing him with a wary stare. He can see that you’re not trusting this- not trusting him.
He steps back, creating much-needed space. Posture rigid. You can sense that there’s more going on under the surface.
“You’re done for the night. Go home, Rene. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
~
The walk back to your boarding house is a testament to your body's ability to survive off of scraps. You’re not even present for most of it, hypnotized by the rhythmic squelch of your soaked oxfords and the phantom tingle left on your cheek from Thomas’s nose. Your fingers graze the spot unconsciously.
You had tried to clean up the mess you made before you left the Garrison, but Thomas pointed you wordlessly towards the door. Like a dog that's been scolded. His swings in behavior leave you feeling despondent and disoriented.
Are you indebted to the Peaky Blinders now? Or just to Thomas?
~
Cracked plaster. Cobwebs. Specks of mold from the leak in the roof. Your eyes have trailed over the ceiling in the room of your boarding house for hours. Sleep comes and goes in fitful spurts. Birmingham comes alive just beyond the warped glass panes; all hooves, cart wheels, and factories roaring to life in the pre-dawn. Respite remains painfully allusive. You keep ruminating on the events that transpired mere hours ago. Every word and touch torments you like a spectre. You were weak. Embracing a man nearly ten years your senior. A shameful display really. One you're sure you’ll never live down. Thomas must think you're pathetic...
~
Thomas knows you left the Garrison with more hurt bearing down upon your bony shoulders than before. He should've walked you to the door at least. Should’ve. A word that seems to be a repeating theme when it involves you.
It was a detached and cold dismissal, but he has to create a divide between him and you. Yes, you’re protected by the Shelby name as his barmaid- their barmaid. You’ll be damned by it as well… And maybe he needed to be humbled by having to finish up the mopping of the Garrison floor. Getting his hands dirty in something other than blood for once.
Cussing, Displays of anger, mentions of war, Arguing
Request:
Shelby brothers x sister reader- platonic. They think she's rather spoiled after they come back from the war, so they try to be hard on her, strict and rather mean, but she just moves on and ignores them? Like, she moves out, makes friends, and gets a boyfriend who's a rather powerful gang leader in his own right, so they can't do anything?
Nothing was ever quite the same when the boys went off to fight in France. Your mother was long since dead, your father alive but galivanting about, and your older sister Ada wanted nothing to do with you. Considering you a general nuisance and a crybaby.
Being too old to spend time with Finn and too ‘annoying’ to Ada meant spending all of your time in the betting shop after school while Polly ran the business.
You grew up quickly in those wartime years, having only been 15 when the fighting started. You weren’t entirely invisible to everyone per se, but the person who saw you the most was Polly. She doted on you. It started small at first; ribbons for your hair to soothe lonely eyes. Small sums taken from the shop’s profits to supplement the affections you desperately craved.
But as time went on, the quality of care you expected grew.
As long as you behaved better than Ada, batted some lashes, and looked rather sullen when needed- you were as good as golden in Polly’s eyes. What’s a few notes here and there from the safe for a new outfit? Or a book or two? In your mind, you deserved it. You didn’t break any rules or act foolishly, which is saying a lot for being a Shelby in name.
Ada, on the other hand, always had something to say about it; talking about how you didn’t earn anything you had, or made some snide comment about being a capitalist freeloader. It was hypocrisy at its finest. Fuelled by her long-standing affections for one Freddie Thorne. Thomas’s childhood best friend.
You would only turn mean-spirited in those moments. Why should you care what she thinks? She doesn’t even act like your sister. And refuses to acknowledge that she benefits from the same system that you do. So every spat would escalate to you throwing Ada’s feelings for Freddie back at her face. Taunting her in your younger years with, “Ada and Freddie sitting in a tree-.”
Which almost always resulted in a slammed front door and ‘spoiled brat’ being hurled over her shoulder. Anything physical was always broken up by two smacks to the back of the head by Polly, and a lecture about how you were all the sisters each other had. It didn’t bother you much. You spent a lot of time alone anyway, having let resentment build up in your heart towards every one of your siblings except Finn. It’s not like you asked to be abandoned in this mess, or everyone's last choice.
Who cares if you become Polly’s little princess? It’s not like she has time for you when Finn is still so young; she just supplements with gifts.
That question was swiftly answered when your brothers came back from France.
You are varnishing your nails at the kitchen table when Arthur stomps in from the betting shop. In the week they’ve been home, you learned quickly that they weren’t the same brothers that taught you how to ride horses or climb trees. They were short-fused, irritable, and altogether too serious. They didn’t laugh anymore; well, John still does. But he’s also got too many kids of his own to worry about. And his jokes were a lot more hollow than they used to be.
“Wot in the fuck is this Claire?!”
Arthur accuses, throwing Polly’s accounting ledger onto the wooden tabletop with a startling force. It slides to a stop in front of you, the noise making you flinch- smearing your nail varnish.
“Jesus Christ Arthur! You scared me!”
You gasp. Tutting at the paint job on your ring finger. He’s no longer gentle, more like a human spear.
“Good. You look at that book and tell me what you see.”
He growls, crossing his arms impatiently. The vein on his red forehead thrums away.
You glance at the columns and rows. Confusion knits your brows as you blow on your nails. The arithmetic seems right.
“The maths looks right to me-”
You begin to say softly, trying not to feel so scared of your eldest brother. Until Arthur lets out a bark of a laugh. You know better than to assume it's genuine.
“Except that our earnings take a hit each week. Up to three pounds! Care to explain?!”
Arthur's lips curl with irritation, just as Thomas strolls through the door. Appearing as detached as ever. He looks between the two of you, part of you hoping that your old brother will resurface to come to your aid against Arthur’s tirade.
“Why are you yelling at me?”
You ask with an offended tone, becoming defensive in the face of these men who have replaced your brothers.
“You’re cut off. No more free handouts. Polly has been soft on you for far too long.”
Thomas drawls with a particularly annoying, aloof tone. Not even bothering to look at you. His eyes cast to the ceiling across the room. Like your presence is a nuisance. Always treated like a burden by everyone in this family except for Polly.
“Cut off? Why? I know the gross earnings aren’t even impacted; I’ve helped with the books-”
“Oh fuck off!” Arthur exclaims with a roll of his eyes and an agitated pace in a circle.
“Fuck off? Fuck off?! What have I done to earn this treatment??”
You ask with growing vitriol.
“You’re a spoiled Brat. Have been for years- Ada’s told us as much.”
“Oh, that’s rich- coming from you people!” You bite out as you gather your bottle of polish, emery board, and book.
Thomas still doesn’t look your way, just lets out a huff of bemusement.
“Oh, that’s funny? You drink too much, you smoke opium, John is sleeping with a prostitute, and Ada is running around playing Bolshevik revolution with Freddie fucking Thorne!!”
You shout, feeling blood rush to your face in anger. Thomas’s head whips in your direction at that.
“Now you look at me! Now you see me, but only when I mention Ada! It’s like I don’t exist to you guys! I don’t sneak around, haven’t touched the bottle, and I finished my education!”
Angry tears spring in your eyes as you look between the two men. Men who used to care about who hurt your feelings: now they’re the first ones to stand ten toes down, face to face with you.
“It hasn’t even been a week-” you exclaim as you try not to whimper.
“See, Tom. A fuckin’ tantrum. You ain’t had a hard life, Claire. But you’re the first to throw our faults at us like we haven’t lived through hell.”
Arthur glowers. Pacing a bit wilder now, trying to rein himself in only because you’re his sister.
“It’s simple, Claire. You’re no longer getting handouts. And if you have such a problem with how we run this family, then you can find somewhere else to go. As for Ada, I’ll be taking care of that.”
Thomas settles with a face made of brimstone and eyes you no longer recognize.
Your heart sinks in your chest like a stone thrown into the cut. They never wanted you in the first place.
“Why should I expect any understanding from two murdering Gangsters?” You ask with venom lacing each word, “I didn’t sign you up for the war. And so what if I’m spoiled?! At least I’m not strutting around calling myself a Peaky Blinder. I used to be proud to call you my brothers-"
Hi! I'm the anon who requested the shelby!sister reader! And the only things I would like to be avoided is SA and incest! And could the boyfriend be like a gentleman/genuinely pleasant man for the reader, even if he's a gangleader? And please take your time! I completely understand, since I also write at my work, so take as long as you need! Thank you so much! :)
Hi! Could I request a Shelby brothers x sister reader (platonic, no incest, please!). They think she's rather spoiled after they come back from the war, so they try to be hard on her and be strict and rather mean, but she just moves on and ignores them? Like, she moves out, makes friends, and gets a boyfriend who's a rather powerful gangleader in his own right, so they can't do anything? (And please don't let the boyfriend be Alfie. Thank you!)
Hello!
I can try my very best! It might take a while because I hand write the fics at work, and then type them up! Do you have any other themes you want strictly avoided? And would you like it to be a one shot?
Threatening male behavior, suggestive conversation, talks of trauma, malnourishment, PTSD, panic attacks, night terrors, and DPDR.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
There’s a brief delay in how your mind processes the action. A ravenous portion of your soul hesitates for a fraction of a second, reveling in the embrace of your employer. You can't even remember the last time you were held. The faded image of your parents flashes in your mind's eye, causing you to flinch. You push out of Thomas’s grasp, the scent of lavender lingering in his nose. The faces of your parents have grown blank with the passage of time.
Walls that you have so carefully constructed are crumbling right before Thomas as grief lances through your heart like a spear.
Overworked. Underfed. Sleep-deprived. Alone. It’s all so plainly obvious to him.
“Girl- sit down,” Thomas orders, his conscience returning at the sight of such sorrow on your usually smiling face. Even if he knows it’s only ever been skin deep.
“I- I am- I have to finish-” you stutter, glancing down at the soapy puddle on the rough-hewn floor.
“You have to sit. Now.”
His tone brooks no argument as the heavy wooden chair is pulled out for you. A work-worn hand gestures towards the seat.
Your weary legs comply: plopping you right down in front of him. This is it. The moment where all of your lies come home to roost. At least you won't be out on the streets in winter; it gives you time to find a new job. That is, if anyone will hire someone without papers.
Thomas can practically hear the compounding spiral in your head.
Palms, warm and heavy, cup your sloped shoulders.
“Rene.”
He jostles you, pulling your focus back to those piercing eyes.
“I will give you one chance to tell the truth. I will know if you’re lying.”
The quiver of your chin is the final nail in the coffin surrounding what’s left of Thomas’s heart. You look so small at this moment, all wet knees and hunched posture. Defeat so plain it might as well be a white flag. You don't speak for a long moment. Every emotion, sleepless night, grueling shift, and unwanted advance grows a lump in your throat.
Thomas sighs heavily, letting his chin drop for a moment to recenter. His boots splat in the puddle as he crouches before you. Coat tails trailing through your mess. Your hands move of their own accord, grasping the edges of his jacket at the waist and holding it aloft. Hems no longer reside in a muddy, soapy puddle. Always so attentive to such minute details. Polly was right. He should’ve left you alone… for both of your sakes.
“You’re not French… Are you, Darlin’?”
A silent shake of your head confirms his suspicions.
“Belgian then?” Another shake. No.
Ah. German. That explains some of the secrecy; Germans aren’t quite as well received as meek little French women. This earns an exasperated growl. Not entirely directed at you; he’s at war with himself.
“And who do you work for, Rene? Or is it even Rene?”
Mute tears pool in confused eyes, your brows knitting together as you try to make sense of his words. Either you’re a phenomenal actress… or you have no actual idea who his family was when you got the job.
“Ich… Ich heiße Adelaide.”
You admit painfully: it has been too long since the use of your mother tongue and real name. They feel divorced from you: your fingers tighten on his jacket (still carefully held above the grime).
“I work for you, Mr. Shelby…”
Adelaide. Your real name said aloud is akin to a veil being lifted. It settles down around you like a second skin. Any other name pales in comparison. Rene had never felt the part. The green, red-rimmed eyes before Thomas are those of an-
“Adelaide.”
It rolls off Thomas’s tongue like smoke from one of his cigarettes. Your chest tightens at the contemplative timbre in his voice.
You nod, floodgates opening. It’s too late to shut them now.
~
Tears shine like gold against your alabaster skin in the din of the globe lights. Falling hot and heavy from your eyes. They’ve been bottled up for far too long.
“I don’t like liars, Adelaide.”
You nod shakily, knowing that this was bound to happen. His gaze falls to your slender fingers: trembling hands so careful on his coat. How soft the skin looks…
“Tut mir leid- ich gehe w-wenn du willst-”
You urge in your mother tongue, motioning for him to stand with gentle tugs on his coat.
His solid presence causes your world to tilt on its axis. Calloused hands envelope yours. Alive. Warm.
It’s now that the magnetism you couldn’t explain makes itself known: why, for weeks, you’ve danced along the precipice that is the dangerous Thomas Shelby, knowing all the while that it was a foolish endeavor.
A silly crush.
Erected on lingering glances and sheer presence alone. As it turns out… the increased visits were because of his keen ability to see through your bullshit.
“Bitte- stehen Sie auf-”
The words escape you in a whimper.
“The water-” You urge once more, focusing not on the implosion of months' worth of lies, but on him crouched in the puddle of mop water.
“Why is that your focus??”
He bites, feeling impatient with you.
Up until this point, Thomas hasn’t been able to sever you from Grace’s sins, the scarred wound in his shoulder burning at the memory. But there’s a forlorn look on your face, and a momentary avoidance of his gaze.
His pitiful German stray, with auburn curls and irises as green as a hidden forest glade, has feelings for him. No sign of treachery, no planned double-cross, just a lost young woman who fell into a lion's den.
The instant he pieces it together, you know. Shame rolls over you like a storm on the horizon. There's no returning to the way things were.
"I- I'll go-"
You murmur, sodden feet pushing the chair backwards. Your attempt at escape is thwarted by one strong hand yanking the chair back into place by the seat.
"Did I tell you to leave?"
Thomas glowers, talking with an eerily even tone through his teeth. Your insistence on leaving wears on his resolve.
You fawn. Retreating somewhere behind wide, fearful eyes and frozen limbs. Shallow breaths visible at the base of your slender neck. All tendons and bones.
~
Silence.
The Drip
Drip
Drip
Water from the threadbare hem of your skirt, like the ticking of a metronome, fills the space between you. Knuckles white on his lapels. It’s the sudden absence of you that urges Thomas forward. The glassy stare of unfocused eyes.
“Christ.”
He growls, gripping your wrists to haul you to your feet, trying to ignore the fact that his fingers overlap on the bones.
“Adelaide.” He whispers, pressing his nose into the space between your temple and ear. “Come back. You’re safe with me… I didn’t mean to startle ya… Just can’t keep my head on straight.”
His admittance uttered tenderly against your skin shifts the baby hair on your face. That Brummie accent coaxing awareness back into you. He’s so warm. A mix of cigarettes and Houbigant’s “Fougere Royale” permeates the miasma that settled briefly in your mind.
Your eyelids flutter shut. Feet shifting merely an inch closer, just to settle against him. A lapse in judgement fuelled by touch-starved need.
Threatening male behavior, suggestive conversation, talks of trauma, malnourishment, PTSD, panic attacks, night terrors, and DPDR.
Part 1~
Part 2~
Irritation flares through Thomas’ chest- the only silent clue at the storm raging inside of him is the ceaseless twitch of his masseter. Although his usual aloof demeanor remains unshifted.
An hour has lapsed since that filthy bellend yanked on your wrist, anyone else would assume that you let it roll right off of your back. And yet- Thomas has counted seven adjustments of the sleeve on your blouse. Slender fingers trying desperately to keep the unshifted fabric in place. Youre uncomfortable.
That’s another thing: it's the height of summertime, and he has never once witnessed you in anything besides a full-length blouse and skirt. You have the same three rotating outfits that look painstakingly repaired.
No friends.
No family.
Nothing outside of the Garrsion.
He’s had you tailed, spoken to his informants on the police force that also happen to be on Peaky Blinders payroll. You’re in no way connected to Inspector Campbell or… Grace. And if the woman that ran your boarding house wasn’t such an iron fist, Thomas would’ve had your belongings searched by now. But old Miss McCreary destests the Shelby name. She’d probably spit on him if given ample opportunity and close enough proximity.
At the end of the day, there are a few things Thomas knows: you’re completely alone, and hiding from something. That much is certain. His running theory is that you’re Belgian, or some other indistinct satellite village between France and Germany- where languages blur, and accents get even blurrier.
“Nephew, what exactly did you want to discuss?” Polly drawls, taking a long drag of her cigarette. Bemusement colors her tone as she watches him through the narrowed corner of her eye. Thomas’s focus returns to the present- stale smoky air and the cacophony of noise that is the Garrison.
They sit at the end of the bar, away from the private booth that currently houses John and Arthur. Polly understands what this separation means: it's a matter Thomas would prefer his brothers not be privy to.
He clears his throat, jutting his chin in your direction across the Garrison.
“What’s your opinion on Rene?”
He inquires casually. Polly knows her nephew better though. For Thomas even seemingly passive acknowledgment is anything but.
“Oh for the love of Christ Thomas- not again.”
Polly chides through her teeth in a hushed tone, already provoked at the prospect of history repeating itself.
“Pol. I’m in no need of a lecture.” He grumbles in response. “Just your intuition.”
Polly clicks her tongue, snuffing out her cigarette with more force than necessary.
“A lecture? Like that would work on someone as dense as you.” Polly scolds. Voice still hushed. “Did you not learn from the last time? I knew this little stray of Ada’s would become a problem-”
Polly starts before casting an assessing eye in your direction. She doesn’t perceive you as a threat. Just an unnecessary distraction.
Silence stretches as both parties watch you from their perch across the room. You're using the bottom hem of your skirt to dust ash from a chair, having forgotten a rag. Polly sighs. Deflating slightly.
“She really is pitiful.”
She mumbles with something akin to empathy.
Pitiful.
Thomas schools his features, the word pitiful causing a phantom pain in his chest. Call it what you will, a residue of sympathy perhaps. He may be a hardened gangster, but underneath layers of bloodshed and violence is a man who recognizes unjust suffering.
“If you’re asking me for an honest opinion… She’s a liar, Thomas. BUT- not like the last one.” Polly states, pointing in your direction with the crystal rim of her drink. “That one can’t even help herself, let alone anyone trying to take a run at us.”
Her eyes cast a warning glance at him.
“No more strays, Thomas. Leave it be.”
… Thomas does not heed her warning.
~
You breathe easier the moment the last patrons stumble out onto the cobbled street. One of the day’s only mercies: complete solitude. The task of closing down the Garrison is a blessed distraction, void of any real thought beyond tidying up.
Wipe down surfaces, clear rubbish, empty ashtrays and spittoons, and mop. No smiles, no conversation, and no more leering drunkards.
Your fingers unconsciously ghost over your wrist. The cuff of your sleeve still firmly in place. All you need is mindless labor that leaves your bones heavy from exhaustion. Did you remember to eat today? You muse passively, but a growing wave of nausea dispels any thoughts to the contrary. Shaking your head, as if to clear the wayward sparks from your vision, you press on.
~
Sweat accumulates on your brow only to be swiped away by trembling fingers. Your shoulders ache with an all too welcome kind of strain. The last of the tables and chairs have been wiped down, and the floor has been swept. The last thing on the docket is mopping.
~
Soapy water sloshes over the side of the dreadfully heavy tin bucket as you teeter towards the main bar, filling your ragged oxfords instantly and making every step squelch under your feet. A feeling of exasperated frustration causes your throat to tighten. Before you have a moment to keep your carefully maintained composure in check, the bucket is heaved like a trebuchet and sent crashing to the floor. The momentum causes your legs to stumble, and your knees to crash down into the ever-growing pond you just created. A bucket of water shouldn’t be this heavy… A woman shouldn’t be this weak. Weak, useless, and alone-
“Rene?”
You flinch at the unannounced presence of the last person you want to see you like this. Thomas Shelby. You scramble up from the floor in a flash, all drenched knees and trembling hands- swaying slightly as stars twinkle in your vision. Your hands dart out to grip the closest chair for support.
“Mr. Shelby-”
Your voice is thin, breathless… entirely too vulnerable.
Blood rushes through your ears, causing your lashes to flutter before swallowing thickly. Momentarily unable to hear without everything sounding muffled.
“How can I help you?”
You gasp dizzily, shaking your head once more.
“I asked if you were alright.” Thomas reiterates calmly, stepping forward, now just a table's distance away. You hadn’t even heard him over the rumbling in your ears.
“I am fine-” you breathe out, pushing through the haze and straightening your spine by sheer force of will.
“Liar.”
The word comes out a little bit more accusatory than Thomas intended. Months of built-up friction on his psyche slipping through. But his usual impassive facade remains adhered to his features. You freeze at the tone. Recognizing the change immediately for what it is: the tightening of his snare. The time has come. Your knuckles whiten on the back of the wooden chair that’s supporting you.
“Excusez-moi?” You ask weakly. Trying to stave off the inevitable.
Thomas takes you in: the knees of your skirt soaked through and dripping. Your pale lips, sweating brow, trembling arms. Errant auburn curls falling from your braid in a disheveled way. And worst of it all? The resignation in your eyes, like you're watching the Devil himself come to collect his dues. No attempt to flee, not that it’s likely from the state of you. Just facing what’s to come like you've always expected the worst in any given situation. It’s almost enough to deaden his sails… But Thomas isn't one to leave a stone unturned.
“I said you’re a liar.” He clarifies with another advance forward, words clipped. He knows vestigial scorn is weaving its way into this interaction. It’s uncalled for; you’ve never done anything to him. He knows this logically. He should handle this with more tact.
That haunted look returns to your eyes. Like one more push from life will cause you to collapse under insurmountable grief.
The glare of distrust in Thomas’s gaze is what you should have expected… and for some reason, despite your best efforts, it hurts.
“Do you wish me to leave?”
You ask after a pregnant pause, deciding not to beat around the bush. It’s a broken offer. As if you believe your presence to be a nuisance. Again, just acceptance. No vain attempts to plead or seduce (not that he ever thought so low of you). But to have your willful absence offered up with such ease fans the flame of irritation within him.
“Is that what I said?” Thomas berates.
“N-Non, sir.” You reply quietly. Your eyes never leave his. Like a prey animal cornered.
Your knees buckle- from one of many variables of this day: the men threatening you, a lack of food, general exhaustion, and Thomas’s presence.
He’s around the table in a matter of seconds, strong hands under your arms as you pitch forward. Colliding into his chest with a graceless thump. Face smushed into his waistcoat’s lapel.
“Je suis désolé-” You utter, your voice thin, your accent slipping into your more native German husk. It’s not often that Thomas acts out of pure impulse, but there’s always room for error. So when his arms tighten around your slight frame, it’s more out of instinct. A bastardized semblance of a hug.
Threatening male behavior, suggestive conversation, talks of trauma, malnourishment, death, and PTSD
The din of amber lights reflecting off of dark woodwork sets the welcoming atmosphere of the Garrison. The clinking of glasses reverberates off of the walls, mixing with the general clatter of rapturous conversations amongst patrons. Noise, thick and suffocating washes over you like a fog.
And there you are: a fixture right in the thick of it. The corner of your lips twitch just slightly under the oppressive weight of your smile. Currently? You find yourself trapped, conversing with two glassy-eyed young men who have overindulged in cheap warm beer.
“Come’on doll- talk to us; that accent of yours is like- like music-”
One of them slurs as he leans forward precariously on his stool. Elbows sprawled wide on the bartop, one sweaty hand resting atop his empty glass as putrid breath wafts over your face. Rosey, soot-smudged cheeks, and yellowed teeth.
“I must check on other patrons-”
You deflect with a nervous smile, looking for any way to evade their lingering attention. He thrusts his empty pint into your hand, which results in a jammed finger. You suck air in through your teeth, grimacing faintly.
“Oh shit- Well I'm in need of another-”
He burps, earning a chuckle from his cohort at the slovenly display. The other man has ginger hair matted down to his forehead from sweating under a cap all shift. This man’s coal- cracked fingers encircle your wrist, pulling your injured knuckle to his lips. You freeze, only recoiling internally.
“ You know Teddy,” he drawls, fingers tightening, “I’ve heard French girls are the best at giving blowies. Practically invented ‘em.”
Your eyes flicker between the two, then to the hand around your wrist. Your Brows bunch in confusion at the colloquial term.
The ginger smirks, “Ah, Fellatio, darlin’. Or, how about Soixante-neuf?”
He clarifies with a sultry drawl, pulling your arm across the bar, grip tight and insistent. The tips of your ears burn scarlet with realization.
“I must go, sir-”
You urge softly. Cheeks burning in shame at his proposition. You’ve never even kissed before, let alone something that deviant.
“I suppose we’ll just have to stay past closing time.” The man’s eyes run blatantly down your frame, the look in them alerting you to the fact that he’s a lot more sober than he’s letting on. Your skin prickles with nervous heat.
“We’ll get your attention then.”
It to anyone else would sound like a drunken attempt at seduction… but his grip tightens minutely as the ginger man utters those words.
“That won't be necessary, boys.”
You don't know whether to feel relieved or sick when your gaze lands upon Thomas Shelby. His flat cap gripped in his hand, which rests nonchalantly on the bar. His back is to you- smoke curling away from his face. The words are calm but pointed as they fall from Thomas’s lips. His presence has an immediate sobering effect on the pair- like a bucket of ice water has doused them. Teddy’s friend throws your wrist back towards you as they stumble off. You try to combat the fatigue in your incessantly twitching cheek muscle as Thomas turns his resigned gaze to you. Pretending as if the interaction didn’t phase you at all, you speak, voice thin.
“Whiskey, Mr.Shelby?’
The words are well rehearsed as they flow off your tongue. You say them almost every day now.
His two calloused fingers tap the glossed bar top. Two fingers of whiskey: a rough day as far as you knew. Understanding him more with his increased frequency across from you at the bar. You do your best: offering him a polite smile, maybe some light conversation that you’d give to any patron. Despite your careful nature, despite knowing danger comes coiled around him like a snake, you find yourself expecting his presence. A feeling stirs in your gut each time your eyes meet. Even if it's a fleeting moment.
You will yourself to ignore it. Pretending like you two aren't creating a silent form of communication. A routine where each action, each word, is carefully laid out between you. Part of you knows- knows that the snare has cinched around your ankle. Eventually, your only option will be to get captured or chew off your foot to survive.
Thomas knows everything that happens in Birmingham; the perimeter of the Peaky Blinders' reach is growing exponentially by the day. So when his sister Ada, who rarely associates with the Shelby name anymore, brings a young French woman with no papers to the Garrison for a job? He’s intrigued to say the least. At first glance, Thomas knew that your story was far more complicated.
Your green eyes were what caught his attention first, how they alternated from near-grey to viridian depending on the light. The expression they held was carefully constructed. Something he usually sees staring back at him on every reflective surface.
You sat across from him, Arthur and John in the Shelby booth at the garrison. Hands folded gently in your lap as they looked you over. Meek, rail thin, purposely plain but not altogether unsightly. It’s obvious that at one point you were a fair and lovely girl. Most girls your age would be adorned in the latest fashions- chin-length finger waves, drop-waist dresses that revealed the calves, and makeup to match. But you? Your auburn hair was long, pulled back into a Dutch braid; not a drop of makeup to be seen on your face.
Thomas had a list of ever-growing curiosities the longer his eyes trailed over you.
Then you spoke.
And Thomas knew in an instant that you were a fucking liar. French? You spoke French well enough, but you weren’t French. Not a shot in hell. He was there in the trenches; La Somme, Verdun, Mans and Ypres. He knew the language intimately, out of necessity. Thomas’s first instinct was to turn you away. But he also knew a problem in Birmingham was easier to control if it was right under his nose. And while you weren't a problem yet, he could tell you would be. For him at least.
That’s why he was sitting at the end of the bar with Polly instead of his own booth. Like an itch he needed to scratch more and more each day. You make him fester. You hadn’t done anything in the last six- plus months you’ve worked for his family. Your schedule was simple: arrive at the garrison early to prepare for the day; work a long and grueling shift without batting an eye; clean the pub long after closing time; shuffle home in the early morning silence of small heath to your boarding house; and repeat. No friends. No other activities.
Did he have you tailed for a while? Yes. It only made sense. You were a liar. He assumed you were a danger … like Grace was. But when it came to Blinder business- Shelby family business- you stayed silent. If you did know anything, you never told a soul.
Rene DuBois… You were a fabricated person. Thomas was met with roadblock after roadblock trying to scrounge up any more information on you. Ada was no help. She merely found you outside a rally in London. A ‘meeting of like minds’ was what she called it (that means those who support Bolshevik reforms).
Ada saw you passing by, worse for wear, with tear-stained cheeks. Your eyes downcast as your tired feet shuffled over the cobblestones. Something about you calling out to Ada’s heart in that moment. Apparently it took hours to gain your trust enough to even get a scrap of information out of you. Like trying to domesticate a feral cat. With some coaxing, she eventually convinced you to accompany her to her flat.
The most everyone knew was that you were ‘French’ and that you’d lost your papers during your travels, making you undocumented and in need of a job. The good news was that the Peaky Blinders could look the other way when it came to harbouring a young ‘French’ woman. At this point, the only way to get to the root of your story would be for Thomas to drag it out of you himself.
Maybe what happened between him and Grace created misplaced anger in his mind. Although Grace was posh, pretty, seductive. You? You carried yourself with a certain detachment. Like someone going through the motions; barely capable of acknowledging yourself, let alone the criminal underbelly of a city you weren’t even from. Grace was attentive to a fault, coincidentally always where she shouldn't have been. The IRA man shot dead in the alleyway that got so easily swept under the rug… Aiding Arthur with the business ledgers… the business with Billy Kimbre.
Thomas didn’t see it at the time: her willingness to assist him and his family was something he had foolishly mistaken for just a growing affection. Polly had warned him. As Polly does: her uncanny ability to strip a person bare with a sixth sense that can see past the veil has never failed her. If only Thomas’s hubris didn’t cloud his vision when it came to Grace… Falling on his sword only after the business with Kimbre was resolved. His two takeaways were a bullet lodged in his shoulder and a scrap of paper with Grace’s temporary address scrawled on the back.
In all honesty? Thomas preferred the bullet. A confession of love means nothing when it’s erected on a foundation of lies.
Maybe it was the residual scorn, but every time Thomas looked at you, he felt this urge building in his gut: to make you squirm. He’s going to get the truth out of you one way or another… Like the pendulum of a clock, his mind swings from irritation to some semblance of compassion towards you. If anyone took notice of you like he did, they'd see the neglect behind your carefully maintained facade. The ever-darkening blue of the sclera under your eyes is an indicator of sleepless nights… your thinness that worsened as the weeks stretched on. Wasn’t anyone concerned?
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