At the Point Just Past Desolation
Hello! I'm new to writing Fanfic... lets see how this goes I guess? I May draw fanart to match later...
panic attacks, night terrors, DPDR, PTSD hinted at
A cold sweat- like needles pricking at your finger-tips, your toes- your lips. Blood thick and rushing over your ear drums like a stampede. Nearly loud enough to prevent the tinnitus from driving you from your bed. Panic- unbreakable and compounding causes you to surge forwards. Lungs are hungry and deprived of air causing you to gasp like a fish out of water. Each muscle in your jaw and neck taunt like bow strings threatening to snap the bones they are attached to. Your neighbor pounds furiously on the paper thin wall separating your rooms in the boarding house. Tomorrow their room will be moved away from yours. Your night terrors are hard on even those sharing a wall with you.
It happens more than you'd care to address, the waking nightmares. Horrors pass under your eyelids every time your body comes close to finding respite. There’s a tipping point, where exhaustion hits and your body finally gives out to the ravages of your mind.
The stale air of the Garrison is what greets you first, forcing you from the recesses of your mind. The bell above the door rings as you enter to start your shift. Put on the mask- force the corner of your lips upward, raise the eyebrows just slightly. A pleasant demeanor. Palatable. Easy on the eyes of the unsuspecting patrons. You’ve been working here for about six months. Pretending everyday that you're someone you're not… hiding in plain sight. Except… The owner, a man by the name of Shelby- has a keen eye. An eye you avoid for many reasons… He’s a gangster- a ruthless man according to the whispers on the street. But you were never one for whispers. There was no use in listening to the words of those that revealed in idle gossip.
As a plain looking but pleasant barmaid, you tend to hear a lot from the less than sober patrons. No one seems to care if you're lingering close by. Maybe it was the last semblance of the naivete that the war didn't rip from you, but there was something about him- that compelled you to think otherwise. It was stupidity, you reminded yourself. Shaking him from your mind as you polish the bar top. Just because his family hired you… doesn't mean your gut was right.
The Garrison opens soon. The factories will let out. The men will arrive in droves. They’ll drown their woes-if only for a moment. They'll go home to their families. Sleep like sodden logs- then do it all over again. Day in and day out.
The bell on the door jingles, dragging you from your circular thoughts. You glance up- pale green eyes ghostly for a fraction of a second before you remember to add warmth. A slight crinkle of the corners of the eye.
“Sorry were not open ye-”
“Hello Mr Shelby. How are you today?”
You ask as your spine stiffens just slightly. His cerulean eyes piercing like an arrow. You hold his gaze. A sign of respect. He did give you a job after all, saving you from the streets.
"Fine, fine. And you...?"
He asks as he takes a long drag of his cigarette, balanced perfectly on the edge of his lips. Smoke curled out only to be drawn back in through his nose. French.
Your eyes try not to linger.
Meek and unseen. Life is simpler that way.
A slight slip of the tongue- an accent almost imperceptibly hidden under another. To the people of Small Heath, you are the quiet french barmaid. The truth? You're an undocumented German girl looking to outrun ghosts that cling to your skin like a shadow. You school your face. But to a man like Thomas Shelby- it was enough.
A dry chuckle escaped his lips. Then the scrape of a stool not too far away from where you are cleaning the bar fills the stagnant air. He sits, flaring out the edges of his jacket. You pause your ministrations. Watching as he snuffs out his cigarette on an ashtray. The corner of his mouth tugs upwards. A sense of unease creeps up from your ankles. Thomas has this keen ability to make you uneasy without even trying, you tell yourself that it's his aura he carries. If you were at all honest with yourself- you’d realize that it was far more than the simple reputation he has.
“Can I get you a whiskey?”
You ask with the warmth added to your features and voice. English still a foreign taste in your mouth… French is just a bit easier to stumble through.
“No. just… conversation-”
Your brows quirk momentarily. Genuine surprise flashing just briefly in your well trained eyes. Hand tightening on the rag as it forgets its purpose in polishing the bar.
You ask with curiosity. You almost can’t help it. He’s got this magnetism that draws you in like a rabbit to a snare. Before you even know you're in danger- he’s cutting off your blood supply like a vise.
“Isn’t that what we pay you for- drinks and friendly conversation?”
There it is, the trap has been set… How long can you evade his dissecting stare? Chess was never your forte- but your father tried his best to teach you. Observation was a skill you had mastered in the loneliness that followed desolation.
A soft smile. Genuine enough for those that see a soft spoken, slender shouldered girl and think nothing more. But Thomas was never a normal person.
“Of course. What would you like to talk about?”
He replies nonchalantly, fingers methodically popping open his silver cigarette case. Carefully constructed movements. Normalcy to create a sense of ease within you. You don't even flinch, you grew up on the border lands of Germany. You know of france. And the you that works for Thomas Shelby is french.
You ask with the unease rising from your ankles to your knees.
“You know…” Thomas starts, wetting his lip just enough to run the edge of his fresh cigarette over the seam. Getting it to stick just perfect in the corner of his mouth. Match- strike- Phosphorus smell. Acridic. Close enough to twinge your nose hairs. Inhale, the white tip turns red- then ash gray. His eyes flick to yours, sharper than surgical steel. He offers you a fresh cigarette from the case, you don't even look down at them. The bait.
You refuse politely, not even breaking eye contact with him. He snaps the case shut, a tactic used to make people flinch. No such reaction- that earns a smirk and another dry chuckle. His calloused hand slipping the case back into the interior pocket of his suit jacket as his eyes look towards the glass case behind you.
Thomas states as he exhales a long drag.
It's your turn to chuckle. Soft, melodic.
“This is because I am French-”
You counter. Eyes shining as you resume your cleaning of the bar. A necessary distraction from the game you’ve found yourself trapped in. Thomas smiles- he's entertained.
“You know… Rene… I served in France. Picked up the language while I was there.” He states with a simplicity that is clearly fabricated to seem like an innocent attempt at getting to know you. Your mouth runs impossible dry. Your “name” rolling off of his tongue with an added emphasis that makes you wonder if he knows…
“Oui? Vous parlez français?”
You ask as your gaze drops to your hands on the bartop- forcing yourself to move closer to clean the wooden surface next to him.
“Hmmm. Oui. Et je connais aussi un peu l’allemand. Utile pour la guerre.”
You nod in response. Watching his eyes take a sidelong glance at your face.
“You know any German Rene?” Thomas asks with a face painted as the picture of innocence.
“Oui, une petite quantité. Je travaille toujours sur l’anglais.” You counter with a jesting tone, your eyes trailing over his features. He may be testing you- but it’s rare that you are this close to him. This earns an amused expulsion of air from his nose. Another long drag of the cigarette.
“Still learning english…” He repeats with a reflective tone as his eyes look up towards the top shelf alcohols behind the bar. “I think i'll take that drink.”
He states, turning his face towards you. Your eyes re-tighten around the edges. Expressive and soft.
Soon there’s a finger of whiskey placed gently in front of the man. You use your pinky to stabilize the drink as you set it down, not allowing for any errant sound to emanate from the crystal tumbler. Practiced silence that only a person who desires to remain unseen would exercise.
Your voice is soft- French near perfect… Thomas’s rugged hand extends to run a middle finger along the rim of the glass. A slow low ringing sings out from the crystal- but as soon as it starts it's over. In one swift movement he raises the tumbler and drains the liquid, dropping the glass to the bar top and sliding back over to you. You catch it.
“You’ve been working here for what? Six months?” Thomas asks after a moment of contemplation. An attempt at making you sweat maybe? He is a hard book to read, but you have this unsettling tendency to get under his skin with just one look. If only you knew just how under his skin you have gotten since that first interview. How your eyes reminded him of those he served with in the trenches.
“Oui- About six months.” You reply with a small nod of your head as you refocus on cleaning the bar. Moving just past him to polish the last remaining patch of slightly dull wood. He slides his arms back to give you room- Leaning on his elbow, thumb hooked under his chin as the cigarette is cradled between the index and middle finger of his hand. Silence lapses once more. You can feel his eyes trail down the side of your face. Almost as if he’s piecing together your puzzle without even having to talk to you.
“Hm… well. Keep up the good work-”
And with that, Thomas stands, dawns his flat cap, and leaves. A silver glint just under the brim catching in the amber glow of the bar lights. A razor's edge. A breath you didn't realize you were holding escapes your lips the moment he disappears out onto the street. Perplexed- that how he leaves you feeling. If he was on your mind before, he was on it more now than ever. It was a rare experience to converse with him past a polite greeting, but now you're left feeling just unsettled enough to know in your gut that you have to police yourself even more than before. Being a young woman in a foreign land is hard enough as it is. But you- you’re a nineteen year old German girl with no one and no home to turn to at the end of the day.
The rest of your shift runs by in a blur- smile, laugh, make small talk, sling drinks. A performance that would make any puppeteer proud. That's how you felt most days, like a marionette dangling in front of crowds of people who all think you're human. Your mind fractured long ago. Every day as if you are watching each performance from behind your eyes, not quite seeing past them.
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