I just wanted to send you this friendly little letter to inform you of your imminent demise. If you're curious about the frequency that I send these letters, it's merely to instill as much fear as I can, as if basting a turkey, which I will then proceed to have sex with. That's right, I'm going to FUCK the fear turkey!
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as power imbalance, violence, criminal activity, noncon/dubcon, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: Your husband starts working for Tommy Shelby but when he goes missing, you find yourself drawn into the shady business of Birmingham’s most dangerous.
Characters: Tommy Shelby
Note: I think this will be a short series. Or I keep saying so.
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
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Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
“Sausage rolls. Table of… three. No, four.” Ruth reads the ticket off before she leaves it on the counter.
“It’ll be a while. I just put another pan in, dear,” you say.
“It’s all they want.” She chuckles. “Think you’ve found gold.”
“Eh,” the door swings open behind her. Arthur Shelby skids to a stop and smirks at Ruth. “Oi, lass, anymore of ‘em rolls?”
“In the oven, Art,” she playful swings a hand towel at him. “Don’t be gettin’ in the way.”
“And who says you’re the boss.” He retorts.
“Out!” Ruth barks.
You glance over at them. Arthur catches your eyes. “Not meanin’ to be in the way,” he shows his palm and backs out of the door. “Don’t tell Tommy, eh.”
Ruth follows him out. You go back to your pastry. You didn’t prep enough. Diedre comes in with empty trays, Benjamin lets her dump the dishes in the deep sink, and sprays them with the hose. His sleeves are rolled up as he scours away the grease and crumbs.
You switch between the rolls and the pan of eggs. You scoop out the poached whites delicately clouded around yolk onto the toasted biscuits and ring the bell. Deirdre and Ruth come to load up their trays and go out.
You lose yourself in the hectic flurry of orders, tearing up tickets as you make your way through them. You turn and elbow a wall you don’t expect. It isn’t a spontaneously appearing bit of plaster but rather Mr. Shelby.
“What can I help with, love?” He asks.
“Mr. Shelby? Oh, I think I’ve got it in hand.” You assure him as you turn put more biscuits in to toast. He takes the rack from you.
“Tell me. I have two hands.” He insists.
“Mr. Shelby, this is my job–”
“It seems it might be more than I pay you for.” He nods to the oven. “Think I’ll need to invest in more help.”
“Thank you, Mr. Shelby.” You open the left stove and let him slide in the rack of biscuits.
“I’ve heard lovely things about the sausage roll,” he backs up and takes off his jacket. He folds it over the stool at the end of the counter and places his cap on top.
“Still baking,” you say as you grab some brown eggs and crack them into the boiling water.
You double-check the ticket. Porridge. Right, you’ve got a pot warmed and ready to go.
You scoop up oats into the bowl and add cinnamon and milk. Two bowls up. Ruth sweeps them away.
As Mr. Shelby approaches, he rolls up his sleeve.
“Boss lady, tell me what to do.”
You scoff. “Sir.”
“Eh, you almost smiled,” he says.
“You can help with the rolls. Seems everyone wants one.”
You beckon him along the counter. “I’ve rolled out the pastry. It’ll need to be cut up.” You take a knife. “As such.” You point to the dish of sausage. “Then line it as thus.” You use a spoon to scoop onto the pastry. “Roll. Baste with egg.” You work as you explain. “Then a few slices in the top.”
“Ah, Stuart is a lucky man,” Shelby japes. You flinch and look at him. His brows draw together. “Apologies, ma’am, I only–”
“Nothing?” You ask. He shakes his head. You nod and set the roll onto the waiting pan. “No, I never had the fixings at home for this. Mincemeat, stew, beans. That’s most of it.”
“And even that must’ve been delicious.”
“Mm,” you hum dully.
“I didn’t mean–”
“No, no, it’s… I’m only… two weeks.” You sigh and take out the biscuits.
“I’ve got all my people watchin’ for him,” Shelby assures.
“I know. You’ve done more than you should.” You scoop the eggs out of the water.
He’s silent, you are too. He watches you then turns away. “I’ll wash up first and get started on this.”
“Thank you, Mr. Shelby…” you murmur. “For everything.”
🖤
You untie your apron and fold it up over your arm. You wipe your forehead with your sleeve. You need to stop at the bank and be sure to deposit your cheque.
“On your way out?” Mr. Shelby surprises you as he enters from the back door. He picks up his cap and jacket. You can smell the tobacco wafting in with him.
“I think I’ve everything cleaned up. I set aside some leftovers for Charlie.” You bend to take your handbag from under the counter. Mr. Shelby nears as you head for the door. You stop as you meet him there. “Unless… I’m forgetting something.”
“No, I’ve a question.” He pulls on his jacket. “More a favour to ask. Though you will be compensated.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve some guests coming over. Very important ones. I thought you might be able to offer your skills this evening. For supper.” He says.
You’re taken aback by the suggestion. It’s not as though you have anyone waiting for you. Or any sort of responsibility outside of this.
“I suppose I could.” You say.
“Very well. I would need a list, you see. Ingredients, to be sure you’re equipped.”
“Right, er…”
“If you don’t mind. I’ll fetch you a pen and paper before you’re off.” He says.
“Certainly. I can do that.” You say. It’ll be a good distraction. You notice Stuart’s absence most at night.
He nods and sets off. You linger in the kitchen. You put your bag on the counter and slide out the cookbook you bought with your first pay. Shelby returns and hands you a ledger and pen.
You flutter through the pages. “Was there a set number of courses? It must be a fancy dinner?”
He taps his fingers as he stands close. His gaze weighs on you.
“What’s this, then?” He taps the corner of the page.
“Study.” You say. “Recipe book. I’m afraid I’ve only experience cooking for one man.”
“Ah, clever woman.” He praises.
You shrug. “I always wanted a proper one. I’d cut the ones out of the paper and keep them in the drawer. Never had all I needed to try them.”
You pause and read the dish description. “A salad to start, I think?”
“Mm. I leave it within your judgement.” He drags his hand away from the book. “I’ll send a car.”
“Oh, no, I could take the tram.”
“I live quite a ways off the route.” He sniffs. “And I’ll not have you wanderin’ in the dark. Benny will pick you up.”
You don’t argue. You take the pen and jot in the ledger. His eyes follow your hand.
“Anything you don’t prefer, sir?” You ask.
You don’t get an answer. You peek up and find him staring. Your brow lowers and you touch your chin then cheek. “I’ve got some flour on me?”
He blinks and clears his throat. “No, no.” He lifts his chin and looks away. “No, I was only thinking.” He leans on the counter. “I’m easy to please. I’ll eat it all just the same.” He looks at the ledger. “You know, you have one taste of field rations and even rancid rat meat’ll have you slavering.”
You don’t say anything to that. Most men these days are veterans. Stuart was called up but never went beyond the channel. He was kept at home in a mine.
“Dessert… chocolate? Citrus? Preferences?” You prompt.
“Chocolate. Ah, that was a wonder over in France.” He purrs. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. I’ll get that, just put it on the bar.” He backs up. “I’ll have Benny wait out front for you.”
“Sir–”
“No arguments.” He turns and points over his shoulder. “You worked a hard day. You earned it.”
🖤
Benjamin gets you to Mr. Shelby’s around four. You thank him and step out, hiding your awe at the immense mansion before you. Of course, you assumed it would be a nice home, but you could not have imagined anything so ornate and daunting.
It’s clearer to you now how out of your element you truly are. Something else tugs in your mind. There’s more to Mr. Shelby than you’ve seen. Not just money, something more. It’s not a secret who he is; he has men at his disposal in their notable caps, he was concerned with back alley gambling, he never truly asks but tells. Details are better left unsaid.
You go to the front door and lift the heavy brass knocker, a falcon’s head above it. It thunders through the dark oak. You wait but not long. A maid in black and white answers. Of course he has ‘help’. Well, isn’t that what you are?
Her name is Margeret. She leads you inside. Mr. Shelby told her you were coming instead of someone called Louise. She takes you to a large kitchen and tells you to ring a bell in case you need anything.
You walk around the large kitchen. The counters are dark wood, the furnishings in a coppery brass, and the stove and fridge look right out of the shop. You stop as you see the folded note with your name on it.
‘All is in order. If you need anything, ring the bell and ask for me. Thomas.’
It’s kind. You think you might figure it out. Margaret reappears.
“These are Ellie and Mildred. They’ll be helping you.” She explains. The girls are young and skinny; one has string black hair trailing out in a braid from under her cap, the other shows straw-coloured roots but much of it is tucked under the white linen.
“Ellie, Mildred, I’m…” you introduce yourself. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too, ma’am.” They say in unison.
“I think it’ll be rather easy. Shall we start?”
They nod. “What do we do?” Ellie, the black-haired girl asks.
You hesitate then reach into your bag. You take out the notes you made at home from the cook book. You go to the girls and show them.
“Alright, we’ll start with the main. It’ll take the longest to cook and the salad will be simple enough.” You explain. “If you have any questions, I’ll be happy to help. If I’m honest, I’m still learning myself, yeah?”
The girls look at each other and back to you. “Yes, ma’am,” they say in unison.
“And you promise, if I need help, you’ll do the same?”
The tension drains from their posture. They nod again, less stiffly. “Good, good. I think we’ll make a rather good team, ladies.”
Once you start, the task isn’t so intimidating. You work between Ellie and Mildred, then set them to chop potatoes together. You go down your list and organise everything so you can move from step to step.
You stand at the stove, melting the dark chocolate for the cake. The girls titter as they peel and pare. Then all at once, they’re silent.
“Mr. Shelby,” Mildred utters.
You glance over. Your employer barely looks at the girls before he nears you. You stir the chocolate away from the sides to keep it from burning.
“Evenin’, ma’am.” He greets. He’s wearing a nicer suit; with a bow tie and silk vest. “Things are well?”
“Yes, sir. I think we’ve figured it all out.” You say. “The ladies are a great help.”
“Mm. Anything you need?” He asks.
“No, sir. You?”
His brow arches. “Mm, no. Margaret is putting Charlie down. Guests will be here shortly.”
“Ah, well then, don’t let us keep you.”
He stares for a moment. “Rather, don’t let me keep you.”
He turns halfway, raises his finger as his lip twitches, then thinks better of it. He leaves you as the girls sigh in unison. You take the chocolate off the burner and look at them.
“You girls need a break?”
“No, ma’am.” Ellie says. “Potatoes are almost done.”
The night goes by with the mixing of batter, the boil of pots, and the dusting of seasoning over poultry, fish, and beef. Ellie and Mildred are diligent and polite. They leave you now and again to help clear away the previous course.
You send out dessert and tell Ellie and Mildred you’ll clean up. They argue but you convince them to call it a night. They’ve worked hard.
As you move a stack of plates to the sink, you hear a footstep behind you. “I told you, you’re done for the night.”
Your name comes in a higher pitch than you expect. You look over at Charlie as he stares at you bright-eyed, a stuffed rabbit in his hands as he wears a pair of linen pajamas. You pull your hands from the sink and dry them on your apron.
“Charles,” you say. “What on earth? Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?”
“I can’t.” He pouts. “I told papa I wanted to come down but he said no. He won’t even let me help you!”
“You should be getting your sleep,” you chide.
“But I don’t wanna.” He whines.
You harrumph and grip your hips. “Alright, Charles, you want to help?”
“Yes, ma’am!” He says.
You hush him. “Not so loud. You’ll bother the guests.”
He sticks out his tongue. You laugh at him. You wave him over and lift him up onto the counter. You pull a bowl over and scoop in some flour and put a cup of water next to it. You hate to waste it but it’ll keep him busy.
“Take this.” You gently move his stuffed rabbit against the wall then hand him the cup. “Only add a little at a time, alright?” You show him a whisk. “Stir with this.” You motion over the flour. “Remember, little bit at a time.” You put your hand around his and show him how to pour. “Stir.” You stir in the moisture. “More.”
You let go and he pours. You hand him the whisk and he puts the cup down. He uses both hands to stir.
You wash the dishes as he goes about his task. As you dry off a saucer, he says your name. “Is that good?”
You look in the bowl. “No, no, you want it smooth.” You gird.
“Oh…” he frowns and adds more water.
“Good job, Charles.” You praise.
“Yes, Charles,” a deeper voice gives you a start. “Good job.”
“Papa,” Charles drops the whisk and claps.
“What are you doing out of bed?” Shelby asks.
“He’s only helping,” you defend the boy.
“Helping?”
“Certainly. Keeping me company.”
“The maids are supposed to help.” He insists.
“I let them off. I can do it.” You assure.
“I didn’t pay you to clean.”
“Mr. Shelby, I messed the plates, I’ll tidy them,” you counter calmly. “Charles, more water.”
Charlie bounces and picks up the cup. He pours water in then stirs. Shelby approaches and watches him then peers over at you. You put another saucer in the cupboard.
“You know, I can never make him sit still.” He drawls.
“Children, so full of energy.” You say.
He leans a hand on the counter. “You never had any?”
“No. It… never happened.” You answer. “Sometimes, it doesn’t.”
He’s quiet. “Ah, I suppose it’s up to chance.”
“I’ve never had much good fortune,” you say. “But I do what I can with what I’ve got.”
“You do much and more than many. Hard work’s far more valuable than fortune.” He girds.
“Suppose.” You agree.
Unfortunately, Stuart never had either. Perhaps that’s what got him into trouble. When he comes back, you’re going to tell him to get a real job. Back to the mines or factory. No more of those back streets and shady men.
When he’s back, you don’t know he’ll let you keep working yourself.
Here you go, Doctor Who. It's okay, you don't have to make a Christmas special now or make Billie Piper the new Doctor. You're just sleeping… you'll make more episodes… you'll make them later, Doctor Who!
