A/N: This reader’s name is Sigrid Tangen & she’s a gift for @peakystitches
(this is now a one shot)
He'd said something.
You turned from the sweep of green rushing by the window and back to the only other inhabitant of the train car. You had been doing your best to ignore him, a friendly good morning aside, because he carried a certain quiet beauty far too easily to make conversation with him anything but clumsy.
"Pardon?" you said. It was easy enough, if you avoided looking directly in his dark eyes.
"I said, is this your first time on a train?"
You smiled. Oh dear. "Is it that obvious?"
"It's not a bad thing. It's only a fact." He took out a silver cigarette holder from his pocket, the gold glint of it matching the watch on his wrist perfectly. "Cigarette?"
"No, thank you." You should have turned back to the window, but he was eyeing you with faint curiosity, and there was nothing about one mile of forest that another mile of forest didn't also contain.
"I can't place that accent," he said mildly.
A faint suspicion stirred in the back of your mind, but no, it was a fairly obvious question. You did have a thick accent. Your palms began to sweat anyway. "Norway."
"Oslo?"
Your throat tightened. You tried to smile. "You have an admirable grasp on geography."
He shrugged.
"The family house is in Oslo," you finally said. That seemed accurate enough. God, why bother with trying not to lie at this point?
"That's interesting, I've never met a Norwegian before. Pleased to meet you, Miss...?"
"Margit...Henne." Couldn't even come up with a simple name fast enough.
His expression turned from amused curiosity to sharp assessment. Your terror must have shown on your face; you were never a good actor.
"Have I said something offensive?" he said.
You made your hands into fists to stop them shaking. Looking him up and down now, there were details that didn't quite fit a young businessman. One in particular. You had thought about this for a long time beforehand. If it was going to happen, it would at least happen on your terms. "Don't play with your food. Just eat," you managed to say.
"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about." His gaze flicked down to your hands and back up again. "I think you'd better have that cigarette."
You were breathing fast, speaking between teeth. "Don't bother."
"Look—"
"You have a gun, in a shoulder holster, under your left arm."
He raised his hands, placating you. "That doesn't mean I'm going to use it on you. I only learned your name a minute ago."
Deep breath. Who knew what was real and what wasn't, at that point. You met his dark eyes full-on, tilted your chin up, and said, as evenly as you could, "My name is Sigrid Tangen, and I have been expecting someone to come and kill me for the last three weeks. If it's going to be you, you should know: I'd prefer it quick."
.
.
.
His eyes darted around the train compartment, to the hall outside, assessing. You went on, only because it would be a relief to have the words said to somebody, anybody: "A bullet through the eye would be enough. And if you have orders to make it bloody, have the decency to do that part afterwards."
For a moment, you both went still, staring, his eyes calculating, yours shining with unshed tears. Then he reached under his jacket, produced the gun, leaned over, and laid it on your lap.
"There," he said. "The easiest proof."
It could be a trick. You picked the gun up hesitantly, felt the weight of it.
"That's a Webley," he said. "Made right in Birmingham, where we're headed. Ugly one, isn't it? I like their revolvers better."
Well, the black steel of the pistol, with its awkward grip and its the sight perched on an oddly thin barrel, was not exactly a beauty. Even the diamond of smooth steel in the crosshatched grip, the gun's one concession to aesthetics, seemed slightly off to the left of center. You ran your fingers over the grip, there, feeling the cold, odd texture, anchoring yourself in the object.
"Fuck," he said quietly. "I'm sorry you find not dying such a disappointment."
You were crying.
"Here." He got up and sat beside you, took the gun from your shaking hands, and holstered it. Then he produced a handkerchief, which you took gratefully. He patted your shoulder a couple times. "You'll be all right."
"Sorry," you managed to say. "It's been a week since the last time someone tried to kill me, and the waiting is the worst part."
"It's not the part where they're trying to kill you, eh?" He lit a cigarette, passed it over. You took it, because it must have been rude not to, and there was a little relief in the brush of fingers. There was a little relief in that he was trying, a little dignity in managing to smoke without coughing. You passed the cigarette back to him, and he exhaled slowly, gave you another handkerchief.
Finally, you got ahold of yourself, ran out of tears, and handed him back his handkerchiefs. "Thank you."
"So, Sigrid. What happened the last time they tried to kill you?"
His low voice, the casual lilt of it, helped you enormously. You felt yourself getting into the rhythm of a quite normal conversation, even if the subject matter was wild. "Car bomb. But it didn't go off properly. Why are you carrying a gun?"
"I like to be prepared."
"Prepared for what?"
"Anything. What happened three weeks ago?"
"It's a long story."
"We have time."
You teetered on the edge of it, looking at him. The rational answer was a flat no, but something in the steadiness of his broad shoulders, the calm of his voice, his hands, made you want to trust him. And then that instinct was probably fucked too, wasn't? God, you weren't cut out for not trusting people.
"I'd rather not tell it to you if it's only for the sake of your curiosity," you said. "Though you have been kind. I'm sorry, it's not a good story anyways. Not as interesting as it seems."
"It's more than rubbernecking. I'm beginning to be concerned that while someone tries to kill you, I might get mixed up in it. There's several stops on this train, you know."
"I know. I'm sorry." You rubbed your forehead. You were beginning to get a headache, as you usually did when you cried that hard. Or when the weather was bad. Or for no reason at all. You had to at least keep up the conversation, though. "What is rubbernecking?"
"Turning your head to look at something. Gawking. Like a tourist. Maybe it's a thing only Americans say. I barely know anymore."
"Do you work in America?"
"I live in America. Used to. Fuck knows where I live now," he said bitterly. "I've been summoned."
"By who, the queen?"
He smiled a smile that reached his eyes. He looked a world different when he did that. "Almost. She's worse, and better. My mum."
"Oh. Summoned for what?"
"A family meeting." He gave you a sidelong glance. "Have you heard of Tommy Shelby?"
"Maybe? I think? He's some politician?"
Michael gave another smile, this one of private amusement. "Yes. He's family. He called a meeting, and my mum wants me a part of it."
"Is that why you have the gun, then?"
"No, if Tommy wanted me dead, he'd have me killed in London. Not Birmingham."
"I didn't mean that your family hated you—I only meant—sorry. I only wondered if it was family troubles that made me cautious. It's family troubles that have made me cautious, you see. That's all."
"'Family troubles' is accurate," he said dryly. "So, what was Oslo like?"
You went into it, from your store of memories, careful to paint each one with the patina of a false familiarity, taking a wharf-side restaurant you'd eaten at once and turning it into a family favorite, turning a pretty painted church into a weekly spot, and so on and so on. You tried to give something of the flavor of its people, but found yourself speaking mostly in negatives and contrasts; the difference between Oslo and London, that is, because you had so little else you could compare it to. None of it was quite a full lie.
In turn, he told you about New York, and that seemed to unfold him, after a while; he grew animated, talking of its internecine battles amongst glittering socialites and politicians and gangsters, his favorite club, rolling his eyes about some third-generation construction magnate trying to bring in his pet peacock, trying to put into words an apparently tangible difference between the social classes in New York and those in London—
"What's wrong?" he said abruptly.
"Nothing. You don't have to stop, it's only one of my headaches. I get them for no reason, they last however long they last, and I won't let them get in the way."
"What does it feel like?"
"Like my head is a small nut being slowly crushed between the teeth of a giant. But," you added, "I can still hold a conversation."
"Here." He produced a silver flask, engraved in a cursive you couldn't well read at that angle.
"What is it?" You unscrewed the top and sniffed.
"Whiskey."
"Is this medically sound?"
"No, but it feels good," he said matter-of-factly. "And it'll help you fall asleep. You're going to Birmingham, right?"
"Yes."
"I'll wake you up when we hit the stop."
It was deeply unwise to drink anything offered, of course, but fuck if sleep didn't sound good, and if he wanted you dead, as he himself said about his cousin, you'd have been killed already. So you had your drink, and he had a little too, and then you slipped away into a light, unsatisfying sleep.
The sleep didn't help much, and when you woke, he offered to show you how to get to to the address of your new house.
"I should take a cab," you said.
His lips quirked in a smile. Another one of those amused little things.
"What?"
"So you do have some self-preservation in you."
"It's not because I don't want you to see the address. It's because I don't want to walk on strange streets. I'm no city girl, and I'm not in any state to deal with complications."
"Never mind complications, if by complications, you mean people trying to kill you. If I walked with you," he said quietly, "I could take you through the factories of the Gun District, and past the brothels downtown, and along the shipping docks, and no man would so much as say a word to you."
It had not occurred to you before, but it occurred to you then: perhaps the interest he had taken in you was more than simply polite. Your mouth went dry.
Before you could muster an appropriate response (whatever the hell that would sound like), he had hailed a cab for you, and opened the door. "Here you are."
"Michael..." There was absolutely no polite way to say I take it back, I'd love to walk with you and your odd ugly gun and your beautiful dark eyes and your strange New York tongue and your quick half-smiles, I'd want all of it. Really there was no acceptable way to say that. So: "...thank you."
He nodded, expressionless, then turned and began hustling your bags into the back of the cab.
"Do you have a business card?" you said, after a second.
"I didn't say what my business exactly was."
"You didn't have to."
He fished one out of his wallet and handed it over to you. "Ignore the American number. And in the Birmingham number, change the last two numbers to 71, all right? Otherwise, you'll be in for it with one of the secretaries."
"In for it?"
"They're not exactly hostile, but they are inquisitive."
"All right."
"Are you comin' or not?" the cabbie demanded.
"Coming, sorry. Sorry." God, you must have been obvious. You must have been so obvious, the little black card clutched in one hand, hair rumpled from the train nap, unwilling, even then, to leave him.
