Grey Skies 2
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. three parts ish.
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Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
That night, you make another mincemeat pie. You wrap it up in linen and twine. You leave it in the ice box until the morning. You find yourself as cold as if you were in with it.
You’re scared. A dozen times you wished Stuart away but you never truly thought of the reality. Without him, what do you do? Certainly, you could put your needle to task for some money, or seek a job at the factory as he once had. Yet there are many men in line for the same and a woman is always chosen second.
You don’t sleep. You don’t even try. You languish on the withering old couch and watch the window tint through the shades of the ebony and slate night. When the time comes, you rise without much feeling or thought.
You wash up as best you can. You pin your hair as tidily as you can and find a hat that isn’t moth-bitten or ragged. Then a dress. The old moss green with the belt. The brooch that was once at the cinch of it is gone; Stuart pawned it. Better off, it would only bring more attention to the tension in the fabric that wasn’t there before.
Gloves, coat, shoes. All brown. All dull. All aged and worn.
You hook your purse over your elbow and walk out with the pie. Mary Lynn sits on her step smoking. Her head is in her hand as she puffs out. Another late night for her.
You pay the trolley for your ride and sit, ankles crossed, shoulders stiff. You transfer to another, your heart fluttering the closer you get to your destination. You try to think of the last time Stuart took you anywhere.
You disembark as you thank the conductor again. You step onto the cobbles and barely avoid collision. Riders squeeze by you as pedestrians don’t slow in their path. You stumble through and hide against the brick wall until you find a way through.
You pass a newspaper seller and ask which way to The Garrison. He gives you a look but tells you. You thank him and he asks if you need a paper. You feel bad declining.
You press on. You see the moniker demarking your destination. As you get closer, you notice a group of men smoking and chortling in the caps. Those caps. The caps worn by Shelby and many of his comrades. Stuart chattered on the last night you saw him about having one of his own.
The men quiet as you near. You sense their gazes. You know you must stick out sorely.
You approach the door and one cuts away from the rest to open it for you. “Ma’am. Lookin’ for something?” He asks.
You stop before the door as he holds it. You clear your throat, “Mr. Shelby.”
“Which one?” The man chuffs.
“Thomas, I believe.”
“You believe,” he scoffs.
“Willy, leave off,” gritty voice comes from within. A skinny man in a brown cap and suit stands just inside, “Let the lady in.”
“Art” the man holding the door nods and shows a palm in deference.
You set your feet and chin and enter. Your legs struggle to bend, your feet fight to turn back. The door falls shut as you step into the mostly empty bar. It’s early yet.
There’s one man slumped over the trim of the bar snoring loudly and the one who bid off your accoster.
“Mornin’, sir, I’m seekin’ Mr. Shelby.” You say as you hug the pie dish.
“I’d be him. Less you mean Tommy.”
“Yes, I believe I’m looking for him.” You say. “I… I brought him a pie and… I hoped to speak with him.”
The man’s slender face lines in amusement. “Eh, you don’t look his type.”
“Pardon, sir?” You utter.
“Eh, nothin’, love, nothin’. Forgive me. An old soldier carries old habits.” He pulls the cigar from behind his ear and bites it. “Have a seat, then. I’ll see if I can hunt him down.”
“Thank you, sir. Uh, Mr. Shelby.”
“Arthur,” he offers before he spins away.
He goes behind the bar as you look around. You go to a table and sit. You keep your hands on the dish and sniff. Is this a mistake? Imagine you go home and Stuart’s right there waiting and this was all a big panic for nothing.
“Oi,” Arthur’s voice grinds. You glance over as he holds a phone receiver to his ear. “Tommy?... Well, get ‘im on. I’ve gotta talk to him.” He huffs. “It’s bloody Arthur. Don’t fuck with me.”
You look down. These men are rough. The kind you shouldn’t speak to. The sort that whistle at you when you take a turn down the wrong street. Well, not you anymore, but a lovely young women in a lovely dress.
“Lady here. She’s got a pie. Lookin’ fer ye…” you hear the low conversation. “I didn’t ask. I ain’t even slept yet, Tom.”
The receiver slams down. Arthur turns halfway and strikes the wheel on his lighter. He lights his cigar. He puffs rings.
“He’ll be ‘round. Soon.” He lets the cigar hang between his lips as he pulls a pint glass from the shelf. “Want som’in to drink?”
“No, sir, it’s early.” You cheep. “Thank you.”
“Mmm,” he pulls the tap and pours the pint. “Polite one.”
You don’t know what to say to that so you say nothing. Arthur slurps loudly. You peek over as he wipes the foam from his mustache. He puffs from the cigar again. You stifle a cough behind your fist and look out the window.
“Ah, ma’m, forgive me.” He taps and you look over as he tamps out the butt of the cigar. He replaces it behind his ear. “Ya play cards?”
“At church,” you answer.
“Mm, yes, suppose we don’t play the same games,” he snorts.
“Suppose not,” you agree and trace the brim of the pie dish.
“Eh… I’ll keep an eye out for Tommy. Send him in when he gets here…” He moves out from behind the bar. “Make sure these other scoundrels don’t bother ye.”
“Thank you, Mr. Shelby.” You say.
He goes to the man at the bar and smacks his skull with his knuckles. “Georgie, get your ass up.” He grabs the scruff of the man’s wrinkled shirt and hauls him to his feet. “Go find somewhere else to sleep.”
He drags the drunkard out and you linger. The longer you sit there, the more your doubt floods your chest. You should just get up and go. What are you doing here? Stuart is not Mr. Shelby’s problem. When you find your husband, you will tell him to go back to the factory. He can’t be about with these men in their caps.
When the door opens at last, you look up. Mr. Shelby enters. Thomas. Tommy. He shuts the door gently with his hand as he sees you. He nods and removes his cap. He smoothes the black and silver strands over the top of his head.
You stand.
“Mr. Shelby, I apologise for disturbing.”
“Mornin’, ma’am,” he intones. He crosses to the bar and sets his hat down. “You’ve had a drink?”
“Bit early for me.”
“I could find some leaves.” He offers.
“Sir, truly, I mean no trouble.” You hover your fingers over the linen cover on the dish. “I wouldn’t mean to waste yer time. I only… my husbands, Stuart Cress, he’s not returned the last three… four days now.”
“No?” He reaches over the bar and pulls out a bottle. A thick walled glass bottle of whiskey with his name printed on the label. “Well, I wouldn’t know. I didn’t give him a job. I met him down the row, he got his cut, laughed, and went on his way.”
“Oh?” You blink, confused. “Of course, you must be busy…”
He uncorks the bottle and takes a swig. His throat bobs and he growls out the heat of the alcohol. He pushes the cork back in and puts the bottle down.
“I’m sorry to hear he’s not been around. I told him though, I’ve enough men in my employ. He’s better finding honest work. ‘Specially with a wife at home.” Mr. Shelby reaches in his coat and takes out his silver cigarette case. “It’s a big city. I do my best to keep the rabble in order but… things happen.”
Your eyes tinge and your cheeks pinch. Not only have you wasted his time and your own, you’ve been foolish. If Stuart got money, he went off gambling and no doubt got himself in trouble.
“I apologise again for takin’ yer time,” you grab the pie dish and step out from behind the table. You near Shelby cautiously. “I figured I’d bring ya something for it. And since you couldn’t stay th’other night.”
You place the pie dish up on the bar. He turns so his jacket brushes you. You back up as he reaches to loose the twine. He holds his cigarette between two fingers as he peeks under the linen.
“That’s rather kind of ye, ma’am,” he drawls. His eyes flick up to you and he teethes the inside of his lip. “Don’t got many bringing me pies.”
You feel even more foolish. You clasp your hands so your purse hangs at your wrist.
“I… I don’t have much money,” you look down at your handbag.
“Wouldn’t think of it.” He looms close to you. “I’ll keep an eye out for Stuart. I’ll even send some of my men around.”
“You– Oh I wasn’t meanin’ no–”
“It’s nothing, ma’am. Birmingham’s my city. I take care of it.” He assures. “How’d ye get here?”
You swallow. “The trolley.”
“Hm. Well, I’ll have my brother drive you back. For yer trouble comin’ down here.” He gently touches your sleeve. “And for my supper. Thank you. I’ll be slavering for that mincemeat til tea time.”
“Not at all, Mr. Shelby. I ‘preciate you puttin’ up with a lady’s worries.” You dip your head. “I’m sure Stu will show up. He must.”
🖤
It’s days yet. A full week. Your husband remains absent. You remain fraught. More so with each passing minute.
You’ve not much to sell to make the lease. You’ve the tin of coins that won’t meet half of it. Nothing in Stuart’s drawers or tucked away his side of the mattress. You’ll have to pawn every piece of furniture or vacate… to where. And when he returns, what then? How would he find you?
You sit with a cup of cold tea. You brewed it but lost your thirst for it as you sat and mulled. You hold your head and exhale.
What are you going to do?
There’s a knock at the door. Please don’t be Mr. Brenton. You’ve not the heart to explain that you haven’t got his money. Not the stomach to admit that you’re as good as vagrant without your husband.
You get up after the third series of raps. You answer the door. You hiss out a gasp. It isn’t Mr. Brenton and his greasy grey hair.
“Mr. Shelby,” you great. “Ahm, good afternoon.”
“Ma’am, I hope I’m not imposing.” He says.
You shake your head. “No, sir. Can I help ya?”
“Might I come in?” He glances past you then peeks over his shoulder. Mary Lynn’s smoking with Danny next door.
“Yes, sir, please.”
You back up to let him inside. He takes off his cap. You shut the door and sidle back by him.
“Would you like me to hang that?” You offer.
He puts it on the rack himself. “You’re a good woman but I can deal with my hat.”
“Pardon, I only–”
“No apologies. I’ve come to issue my own.” He takes off his coat and hangs it.
“Oh?” You breathe slowly. “Would you like some tea?”
His lips curve grimly. “Ma’am,” he says softly and stares at you. “Well, I can’t deny that kindness.”
You back up and turn to lead him through to the next room. You direct him to sit in the front room. The beaten old armchair creaks with his weight. You retreat to the kitchen to boil the water and gather your nerves. There’s enough time for you to steady yourself.
You come out with cup and saucer.
“Splash of milk, ye take, do I ‘member right, sir?” You set it on the table by the armrest.
“That’s right,” he rolls a cigarette between two fingers. It’s unlit.
“Sir, what’ve you come for? Stuart? I’ve not see him yet.” You clasp your hands.
“Please, sit, ma’am,” he gestures.
You sit on the couch, right on the edge. He takes the tea cup, his cigarette cradled between his fingers, and he blows away the steam. He sips.
“Lovely steep,” he praises. “As lovely as that pie you brought me.”
“Mr. Shelby,” you plead weakly.
He sighs and stares into the tea. He puts the cup down and slowly leans forward. He drags the tip of the cigarette along his lip then presses his lips around it. He thinks better of it and takes it out. He looks at you.
“I’ve not seen Stuart. My men report they haven’t either.” He says firmly.
You nod. “I didn’t think so…”
“It’s been a week now…”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s a long time.” His throat tightens and he sits straighter. “Do you work, ma’am?”
You shake your head. His eyes are thoughtful as they drink you in. His jaw clenches.
“He’s not here, that means… his money won’t be.”
“Sir. I… I’m looking… for work–”
“Yes, I supposed you would be. You’re a clever woman. You found me out at my bar, after all.” He wiggles the cigarette as he talks.
“But I can’t find… him.” You look away.
He sighs again. He puts the cigarette down and you flinch as he reaches across the space to touch your hand.
“I don’t know what happened to your husband. He was happy to have his money and he skipped off. I don’t know where. I’m trying.” He proclaims. “I can’t help feel some guilt…”
“Sir, my husband…” you look at his hand then in his face. “My husband wasn’t always… wise.”
“You are kind.” His lips twitch and he pulls back. “Much too kind for him or me.” He swipes up the cigarette again. “Let me give some back to ye. For it all.”
“It’s… you don’t–”
“You saw how empty my bar was, didn’t ya?” He interjects.
“It was early.” You shrug.
“Yes, it was. But I was thinking, people needa eat. Break their fast, sit for lunch, tea…” he explains. “It’s not much of a business opening six hours a night to drunks. So… I’ve thought a proper restaurant during the day light…” he lets the thoughts hang. “I’ll need a cook.”
You stare at him, confused. He reaches for his cup. He drinks again.
He hums as he lowers the brim. “Fine tea, indeed.” He muses and licks his lips. “Ma’am, you need work, I need a cook.” He tilts his head.
Your lips part and your lashes flick. “But I never… worked in no kitchen. Not a proper one.”
“But I know you can figure it out,” he winks.
Wow. Mr. Shelby seems like quite a stand up guy. 🤩
