Tommy Shelby drabble inspired by a song You'll be in my heart by Phil Collins
“Thomas, you can’t just take a newborn off the street! It belongs to someone!”
Polly’s voice cracked through the room as she paced, glaring at the infant lying in the box.
Thomas leaned on the table, shoulders tense, head low. He exhaled sharply before slamming his palms down.
“What the fuck was I supposed to do, eh?” His eyes snapped up, cold and sharp. “I’m a devil, Pol, but not a monster. I wasn’t about to leave it to die in that rotten city.”
“Take it to the police! It can’t stay here!” she shot back, gesturing wildly—avoiding even looking at the child.
His jaw tightened. He pointed at her.
“You, of all people, should know why I didn’t take it to the police.”
That hit home. Polly’s face softened, her anger fading as she slowly sat down, sighing.
“So what now?” she muttered, rubbing her temple.
“I’ll figure it out,” Tommy said, jamming his cap on his head. “What’s it supposed to eat?”
Polly snorted. “Formula, Tom. I’ve got some from Karl.” She disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a small bag and bottle.
The sight was ridiculous: the most dangerous man in England, blood on his hands, a baby bag slung over his shoulder, and a box for a cradle.
~~~
The baby screamed like a banshee. Thomas already had a headache. He’d fed it, rocked it, even talked to it—nothing worked.
He stood by the window, phone pressed to his ear.
“Full nappy!” Ada’s voice barked through the receiver.
Tommy sighed. Of course. No diapers.
He tore one of his shirts in half, remembering what Polly used to do when Finn was little. Approaching the box, he eyed the baby like it was some strange new creature.
“Bloody hell…” he muttered, grimacing as he unwrapped the heavy cloth. After cleaning her up with wipes, he tied the makeshift diaper snugly.
“So—a girl,” he said quietly, watching her go still.
He laid back, hoping that was the end of it. The moment his eyes shut, she started wailing again.
“Fuck.”
He trudged over. The crying stopped as soon as she saw him. Typical. He rolled his eyes, scooping her up.
She burrowed into his chest immediately. Another sigh. He lay back down, placing her beside him. As her breathing slowed, so did his.
~~~
“Sorted it out yet?” Arthur asked two weeks later, stepping into the betting shop. Tommy looked wrecked—dark circles, unshaven, exhausted.
“Working on it,” he muttered, tossing his cap aside and pouring himself a drink.
Arthur glanced at Polly in the corner. She was smirking behind her glass.
They both knew exactly how “sorted” Tommy was.
Polly’s eyes caught the folded paper peeking from his pocket—the familiar colors of a certificate.
Oh, Tommy...
~~~
Tommy groaned awake, hand searching the other side of the bed—empty.
His eyes opened. There was… a horse?
He blinked, rubbing his face. Not a real one—a plush toy, sitting proudly on the blanket. Behind it, two bright blue eyes peeked out.
“Rosie…” he groaned.
Giggles followed. She scrambled up and climbed onto his lap.
“Ho’se!” she declared, waving the toy.
Tommy chuckled, kissing the top of her messy hair. “You scared me. Where’d you go?”
“O!” she shouted, hopping off and running to the window. “Da! Wha’s dat?!”
Snow was falling thick outside. Tommy stood beside her, his voice low and rough.
“That’s snow, Rosie.”
She smiled up at him, eyes wide. He lifted her onto his hip.
“We’ll go outside later, yeah? But first—breakfast.”
“Yaaay! Toasties!” she squealed, hugging her toy tight and pressing her cheek against his.
Tommy needed a cigarette, a shower, and about ten hours of sleep.
But right then, he couldn’t imagine being happier.
Lately I don't have much going on when it comes to writing stories as you can probably tell. I was wondering what I could do to make it easier for myself to imagine myself in new story scenarios.
So I came up with an idea! Have you watched Superman? I'm closer size wise to Clark Kent than to Cillian Murphy, so we could definitely play around a bit more with size kink for example. Explore a bit further in a way that wouldn't make much sense with CM characters (or I'm just being too specific about characterising my little story people, idc)
So here comes the question.
Would you want to read some Clark Kent fics coming from me? I don't care much for the movie so probably it would be OOC sometimes. Let me know your thoughts.
(I'll keep writing for CM, just gonna occasionally do superman stuff)
I KNOW MY LOVE SHOULD BE CELEBRATED– BUT YOU TOLERATE IT
Thomas Shelby x Reader
A/N: Story based on Taylor Swift song and it's my old fic as a repost, just rewritten. Enjoy.
She had met Thomas Shelby through business. As the eldest daughter of Aberama Gold, she had always been part of her father’s dealings—and eventually, part of Tommy’s world as well.
Thomas had looked at her differently from the start. His gaze followed her wherever she went, quiet and calculating, as though he was memorizing her. Many nights he waited outside her house, and together they sat by the lake, talking until the early hours.
She couldn’t have been happier when her father told her she was to marry Thomas Shelby. After all, she had known he would choose someone eventually—and for a brief moment, she believed fortune had chosen her.
But on her wedding day, Thomas didn’t so much as glance at her.
She felt small and insignificant—at her own wedding.
“Maybe it’ll pass. Just a rough beginning,” her sisters had said. And she listened.
She knew about Grace, about Thomas’s life before her. She never dreamed of replacing anyone; she only wanted a small corner in his restless mind.
They taught her how to live as a Shelby. Sweep the floors. Cook dinner. Fold his clothes. Take care of Charlie.
Polly smiled at her with approval, John hugged her like a sister, and Arthur’s eyes carried a gentle warmth. Every Shelby welcomed her—except her husband.
Each day she waited. Dinner cooked, house spotless, she sat for hours until Charlie fell asleep asking for his father—questions she never knew how to answer. She smiled anyway, holding up the mask everyone expected.
“Survive the hard part. It’ll get easier,” they said.
Easy to say, when they didn’t have to smell the perfume of other women clinging to his clothes as he came home around ten.
She often fell asleep at the table, beside a plate gone cold—just like her heart, growing dull and numb with every passing day.
“Tell me about your day,” she would ask, forcing a smile as she stepped into his office.
He rarely looked at her. His sighs were long, heavy—as though her presence itself was an inconvenience.
Another crack formed inside her. She swallowed her shame and busied her shaking hands with crocheting while he muttered a few indifferent words about business.
Smile. Nod. Pretend.
Until one day she passed a woman leaving his office—short skirt, smeared lipstick. Her head throbbed, shame biting through her like frost. She said nothing, just went to Charlie’s room and tucked the boy into bed. Ignored by his father, just like her.
Eventually, Thomas began coming home earlier, cigarette in hand. Each time she placed a plate in front of him, he sighed—the same crushing sound that stomped on her hope like an insect on the floor.
He’d stay up late in his office, then slip into bed smelling of smoke and strange perfume. He’d kiss her cheek goodnight, and she’d feel filthy.
She held herself together until sleep came. Then she cried—every night, silently, as tears soaked her pillow. The reality of being an obstacle in her husband’s life eroded what little worth she still felt.
“Are you alright?” he asked once, when dinner wasn’t served, when she no longer hovered around him offering tea or chatter.
She nodded without turning around. Two years—that was the minimum she had to stay a Shelby for her father’s deal to hold.
“You’re fading away,” Polly told her one evening, rubbing her shoulders. Gone was the bright, hopeful girl who had first stepped into Arrow House.
Soon after, she moved in with Ada, needing to breathe again.
Thomas came home to silence. No smell of food. No soft laughter. No woman waiting by the window.
That strange, piercing feeling returned—something missing, though he couldn’t name it. Months passed before he understood. It was her. He had ignored her for so long that her absence felt like nothing more than a change in scenery.
And she thought, for a long time. Spoke with Ada. Her eyes lost their light.
One afternoon, there came a knock at his office door.
“Come in,” he said, glancing up from his papers and froze. It was her.
Relief washed over him, unbidden. For the first time in months, he smiled.
Without a word, she stepped forward and laid a single sheet of paper on his desk. Her back was straight, her chin high like Ada, like Polly.
She looked every bit a Shelby woman, he thought, until his gaze dropped to the paper.
Divorce papers.
His eyes widened. When he looked back up, she was still watching him– expressionless and distant.
In that silent stare, he understood. He had wasted her.
...and what he had broken could never be repaired.
Lately I don't have much going on when it comes to writing stories as you can probably tell. I was wondering what I could do to make it easier for myself to imagine myself in new story scenarios.
So I came up with an idea! Have you watched Superman? I'm closer size wise to Clark Kent than to Cillian Murphy, so we could definitely play around a bit more with size kink for example. Explore a bit further in a way that wouldn't make much sense with CM characters (or I'm just being too specific about characterising my little story people, idc)
So here comes the question.
Would you want to read some Clark Kent fics coming from me? I don't care much for the movie so probably it would be OOC sometimes. Let me know your thoughts.
(I'll keep writing for CM, just gonna occasionally do superman stuff)
Lately I don't have much going on when it comes to writing stories as you can probably tell. I was wondering what I could do to make it easier for myself to imagine myself in new story scenarios.
So I came up with an idea! Have you watched Superman? I'm closer size wise to Clark Kent than to Cillian Murphy, so we could definitely play around a bit more with size kink for example. Explore a bit further in a way that wouldn't make much sense with CM characters (or I'm just being too specific about characterising my little story people, idc)
So here comes the question.
Would you want to read some Clark Kent fics coming from me? I don't care much for the movie so probably it would be OOC sometimes. Let me know your thoughts.
(I'll keep writing for CM, just gonna occasionally do superman stuff)
it is absolutely terrifying how narcissistic, smug and self-righteous a fan of a particular character of Peaky Blinders are. they actually think that everybody else is watching a different show and they are the only one that sees it clearly and precisely. you have got to have something wrong with you to actually put in writing that everyone, but you is wrong.i have actual serious concerns abut the mental health of this obsessive fan and even for the actress and her safety at this point. it is an odd obsession that probably impacts their daily life. i hope they seek help
So I'm assuming more stuff is happening with that chick? Lol
Summary: Hauntings aren't always like in the movies. Some ghosts are.. lost in the journey that was supposed to be smooth and easy. Some carry heavier weight than just the pain of being dead and slowly forgotten. Arrow House as beautiful as it is, hides its own secrets and events, but what if... There's something more than that, hiding in the walls?
Her pretty dress swayed with every step as she followed the older woman through the massive living room. Everything looked… perfect. Restored furniture, tall windows, and rooms kept in their original, elegant 20th-century style. It was everything Y/n could dream of—and the price for such a property was shockingly low.
“Anything else you want to see, Miss?”
She looked up at the current homeowner, blinking back the daze that came from staring too long. The house, the atmosphere—everything was extraordinary. She’d walked in just hours earlier and was already smitten.
When she’d moved from her hometown to the place she’d always wanted to live, she hadn’t expected to find something like this. And yet here she was, facing the older woman who smiled kindly, waiting for her answer.
“Uh… I think we’ve seen everything. I’ve seen enough,” Y/n said, stopping herself from jumping around in excitement.
“So, do you need a few days to decide?” the woman asked in a raspy, pleasant voice. She couldn’t have been younger than sixty; her curly gray hair framed her round, wrinkled face in the most endearing way.
“No, no,” Y/n laughed, shaking her head. “I can’t risk someone swooping in and stealing it from me.”
The older woman chuckled as Y/n pulled a pen from her pocket. The paperwork didn’t take long; the seller was prepared, and less than forty minutes later, Y/n Y/l/n was officially the new owner of Arrow House.
“…And here are your keys,” the woman said.
Y/n took them with both hands, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.
As the woman turned to leave, Y/n called after her. “Sorry—I forgot to ask earlier.” Her tone softened. “Who did it originally belong to?”
“Ah,” the woman smiled, amused. “It was my great-grandfather’s. He… unfortunately died in his early thirties. The house stayed closed for a long time after that.”
Y/n thanked her, and they parted ways.
It took only a few days to make sure everything was ready to move in. The moving team helped carry her furniture and boxes—and that’s when the problems began.
At first, it was the simple things. Random noises, cracks and creaks coming from nowhere—especially when one of the workers was alone. Then came the shifts. Boxes moved closer to the door. Tools changed places. Once, a fire started in the bed Y/n had brought from her old house. That was the final straw; the workers left, and Y/n was suddenly alone.
The stories she’d heard about the place were easy to brush off—until she started unpacking.
Kneeling on the floor, pulling out decorations, she felt something strange. The air grew heavier. Then, the window flew open, a sharp gust of cold wind slapping her face. Her heart thundered.
She pressed a hand to her chest and crossed the room to shut it again.. only to feel a hand on her shoulder.
Y/n gasped, spinning around.
A man stood there.
He wore a suit that looked decades out of place. His blue eyes held a spark of mischief and irritation, and the cold touch of his hand sent a tremor down her spine.
For a second, she froze. Then fear burned into fury.
“What the fuck are you doing in my house, you— you cunt!” she snapped, making him actually stumble back, eyes wide.
The stranger turned around as if checking for whoever she was shouting at.
She blinked. “Are you deaf?”
He didn’t answer, still scanning the room.
Y/n grabbed a heavy metal figurine from the shelf, clutching it like a weapon. “One last chance before I knock you out!”
He frowned, then waved a hand in front of her face as if testing something.
“So you’re stupid and deaf?” she said flatly. “Not a great combo for a home invader.”
He stared at her, baffled. “Huh?”
“Oh, thank God,” Y/n sighed, lowering the figurine. “Thought I’d have to show you my deadly moves.”
Then his voice dropped, rough and brimming with disbelief. “You… you see me?”
She tilted her head lightly. “Do you need medical assistance?”
Reaching out to push him back, her hand passed right through him.
The breath hitched in her throat.
“You— you…”
A grin spread across his lips.
“I’m Thomas Shelby,” he said with a low, dangerous edge, “and you’re in my house, sweetheart.”
Those impossibly blue eyes were the last thing she saw before everything went black.
Her temples throbbed painfully as she came to, sprawled across the floor of her new bedroom. When she finally sat up, the room spun, and she hissed as her fingers brushed the bump on the back of her head.
What a crazy fucking hallucination… she thought. That’s why Mom always nagged me about drinking more water.
“You good, darling?” The mocking voice came from the old bed she hadn’t managed to throw out yet. Her head snapped toward it—and there he was. The same man. The same goddamn man.
Guess it wasn’t a hallucination after all.
With a groan, she dragged herself to her feet, glaring at him. His mouth was curled into a smug grin, one arm draped lazily behind his head like he owned the place.
“What the fuck are you doing on my bed? And—why are you even here? You’re dead!” she snapped, massaging her temples as if that might somehow make the situation less insane.
Thomas just laughed, shaking his head as he propped himself up. “First off, it’s my bed. And that’s exactly why I’m here, sweetheart. My house. My money.” His voice was rough, low, and just irritatingly self-assured.
He lit a cigarette.
The faint scent of smoke spread instantly, and Y/n wrinkled her nose. “That’s why the whole fucking house smells like tobacco!” she hissed.
He rolled his eyes. “Look, let me explain something to you—what’s your name again?”
“Y/n,” she said flatly.
“Right. Well, you see, Y/n, dove, I’m a ghost. Cigarettes came with me into the coffin, so they’re on my side of the veil, not yours.” He said it theatrically, swirling his cigarette like he was on stage.
Y/n had to admit, the smoke didn’t seem any thicker. She didn’t want to admit that, but there it was.
“Great,” she muttered. “Ghost logic. Wonderful. So what the fuck do you want then?”
Thomas swung his legs off the bed and stood, moving toward her with slow, deliberate steps.
“You see, it’s very simple.” His voice changed—silky, dangerous, the kind that wrapped around you like velvet and barbed wire all at once. “I’ll stay here. In my house.” The cigarette hung from his lips, and the glow of it caught the sharp lines of his face. Old-fashioned, yes—but irritatingly attractive. Y/n hated that thought as much as she hated the way he was now standing just two feet away.
“And you,” he finished, leaning slightly closer, “will move out.”
That smirk of his was infuriating. The kind that belonged to a man who never heard the word no and actually believed it stayed that way after death.
She could smell him—something smoky and old, like whiskey and rain and whatever cologne men used back when wars were fought with bayonets. Heavy, masculine, and addictive in the worst way.
Y/n waved her hands through the air where he stood, as if she could swat him away like a bad dream.
Thomas scowled. “Watch yer hands, woman.” His tone dropped, half amused, half warning. “Trying to get laid or something, eh? Never been with one like you, dove.”
He inhaled from his cigarette, smirking when her face contorted in shock.
“Disgusting,” she muttered, glaring at him. He was clearly a product of a different century—and every damn bit of it showed.
Pacing now, Y/n barked out a dry, nervous laugh. “Whatever you say, Thomas Shelty…”
“Shelby.” He corrected, annoyed, but she didn’t care and kept talking. “I’m not moving anywhere. I worked six years to afford this place. I spent everything on it. So no matter how many little ghosties you parade around, I’m not leaving.” Her words were sharp, full of the sleepless nights and part‑time shifts that had bought her this house.
Tommy met her stare and huffed, folding his expression into something equally determined. “We’ll see.”
“We’ll see,” Y/n repeated, confident as ever, giving him a quick once‑over and muttering something about his height.
Days slid by. Tommy never missed an opportunity to make her life miserable—cups rattled, lights flickered, doors slammed at inconvenient moments—but Y/n pretended she didn’t notice. Snapping back would only encourage him. Besides, she had work, bills, a million tiny tasks that demanded all her attention.
One morning in the kitchen she poured cereal and reached for the milk only for the bottle to slide away across the counter as if some invisible hand were nudging it. She groaned.
“Thomas, really?” she called without turning. She didn’t need to: he was lounging on a stool, propped against the shelves, smirking like someone who’d just gotten away with stealing a cookie.
Tommy tried to look nonchalant, but there was admiration under the attitude. People usually lasted a day or two in Arrow House before packing up and running. Y/n was still here—stubborn, loud, human. It intrigued him.
Because guests fled, she couldn’t invite anyone over. So they talked. Not just snipes and pranks; sometimes conversations that stretched longer than a cigarette break. Y/n learned that he’d loved horses, that he’d had three brothers, that he’d grown up in Small Heath. He learned about her odd little rituals, her fascination with stars, the persistent itch that she belonged somewhere and somewhen else.
They had good days.. small, ridiculous pockets of truce—and they fought like an old married couple the rest of the time.
“Get out, you pervert!” Y/n screamed one morning when Tommy strolled into the bathroom as if he had a right to be there. She grabbed a shirt and slammed it around herself.
“C’mon, don’t be so crude,” he teased, enjoying how red she went. “We both know you like me watching.”
She pulled the tee over her head and faced him, furious. “I swear I’ll call a priest to kick your sorry, pale‑freckled ass out of here!” she barked, jabbing a finger at him... Or trying to.
Tommy just chuckled, hands raised in mock surrender. “Oh, so I wasn’t the only one watching, eh? Curious, are we?” He laughed, head thrown back. Then, with a theatrical sniff, he added, “... besides, I’m a gypsy, darling. Not exactly scared of your priest.”
She scoffed, but when the laughter faded there was a smidge of something softer behind his eyes—something that belonged to the man who’d once loved horses and family and small private victories. He kept pushing her buttons because it was easier than admitting he cared. And she kept staying because leaving would mean letting go of the strange, unexpected thing they’d built between them: a house turned halfway into a home, an argument that ended with them both refusing to be alone.
Like always. Well… almost always. Some days, when the weight of the world pressed in, it was hard to deny how much they’d gotten used to each other. Like that night when Y/n woke up screaming, pulled from sleep by another relentless nightmare.
She sat up in bed, burying her face in her hands, trying to steady her breathing and hold back tears.
“Nightmares?” Thomas asked quietly, his deep, raspy voice coming from the armchair across the room. Y/n didn’t have the strength to fight him for being nosy, so she just nodded.
“I used to have them too… all the time,” he admitted softly. She looked up at his dark silhouette, her eyes wet. Clearing his throat, he added more, his voice almost a whisper.
“After coming back from the war… they never left.”
There was a strange intimacy in the quiet confession, a shared vulnerability that made the air feel lighter between them.
“Mine… mine are about my father,” she confessed, voice trembling. “About what he did… after coming home drunk. Sometimes on drugs.” Thomas nodded, his understanding silent but palpable. The room settled into a comforting silence, both of them holding onto the solace of each other’s presence.
“You know…” she said after a pause, attempting a laugh to ease the tension. “This is the first time I actually regret that I can’t… physically touch you. I could use a hug.” Her voice dropped, almost to a whisper, and she wrapped her arms around herself.
Thomas rose from the armchair and moved closer. He looked into her eyes, leaning in gently.
“If I could… I would.” He promised with a soft, almost shy smile before sitting on the edge of her bed. “I’ll be here, always. No nightmares will come anymore.”
Y/n mumbled a quiet “thank you” before letting herself sink back into the mattress, drifting off to sleep without noticing how he shifted closer, lying beside her in what used to be his bed, his presence creating an odd but comforting buzz against her body.
That night, as he had promised, no nightmares came.
Months passed. Tommy had come to accept it—she wasn’t going anywhere. Her stubbornness had matched his own, forcing him to grow used to her quirks, her warmth, her presence in a house that had long felt hollow.
But for Y/n… life had become far more complicated. She lost her job for three months, fell behind on bills, and each letter about potential foreclosure shredded her nerves thinner and thinner. Her mental state frayed, unraveling under the stress.
One night, Thomas found her in the kitchen, tears streaming freely. Watching her, the care and love she poured into the house, his chest ached, a bitter taste creeping into his mouth—the same he had felt when Lizzie had been hurt, back when he was alive. He didn’t speak, just sat silently on the chair beside her. She felt his presence, as always, and shook her head, sobbing.
“I’m… I’m sorry, Tommy,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I… I guess you won. I’ll have… have to move out.”
He didn’t answer. The thought of her leaving twisted something in his chest, something long dormant. Panic, a strange and foreign feeling spiked through him.
No, no, no. She can’t… leave me.
The care he felt for her, this impossible, living presence in his home overrode his old possessiveness. He swallowed hard, trying to steady the lump that had formed in his throat.
“Safe in the wall.” He blurted the words suddenly, surprising both himself and her. Y/n’s watery eyes snapped open, filled with confusion.
“What?” she asked, not understanding what he meant.
“In the bedroom. Safe in the wall.” Thomas repeated, his disbelief almost tangible. The woman next to him had become so important that he was willing to give up his own money for her. Not even his family—or his two wives—knew of the secret.
“Two, six, one, nine,” he added, his voice flat, emotionless, as he avoided looking at her.
“Tommy, I… I don’t understand.”
“In the main bedroom, there’s a safe in the wall, Y/n,” he said sharply. “The money inside… it’d be worth around a hundred thousand pounds today.” He snapped the last words like a command. “Take it. Pay for the house.” Without waiting for her reaction, he stood and headed downstairs. He couldn’t believe he had just done it—and that he felt no regret.
The realization of how much he cared for her terrified him. He needed space to process it. Swearing under his breath about his horses, he vanished as he had when alive, retreating to the stables to be alone with the animals.
Two days later, after receiving yet another letter about her debts, Y/n followed Thomas’s instructions. She took only enough to cover the house, leaving the rest of the money locked away in the safe, forgotten. Guilt gnawed at her, and the fact that she didn’t see him for the following days made the emptiness in her gut worse.
“Tommy?” she called carefully as she reached the top of the stairs. The silence was deafening. Only now did she realize how much she had come to rely on his presence in the vast house. She checked every room, feeling the absence keenly—until she reached the last bedroom.
Or, rather, what used to be a bedroom. Now it was storage, filled with furniture draped in white covers, dust settling thickly over everything. Yet her attention went straight to him—he was perched on a shelf, staring at a piece of furniture she soon recognized as a vanity. The air thickened with unspoken tension, and she waited silently, letting him speak first if he chose to.
“At first… it was my mother. She drowned.” His voice broke the stillness, making her snap her gaze to him. “Then my father. He left us all… never came back.” Each word seemed to cost him, heavy with memories he didn’t want to revisit.
“When I grew up… I thought that chapter of my life was closed. Finished. That I wouldn’t react or feel so strongly when someone left me again.” His eyes stayed locked on the vanity, his hand brushing it with a sad, fleeting laugh.
“Then she happened. Appearing in my life like… a dream turning out to be a spy. Trying to get me hanging. She left. Then… my brother died. My whole family left. My wife and kids stayed for… a while.” He struggled through the words, forcing them past the lump in his throat, avoiding her eyes entirely.
“Money,” he said suddenly, catching her off guard. Silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. “That’s all I’ve ever been to everyone. Fucking money.” He laughed—a hollow, bitter sound, the saddest she had ever heard. Y/n hung her head, shaking slowly.
“I thought… ‘Don’t worry, Tom. You’ll show them.’ But… I died shortly after. Showed them nothing.” His voice cracked slightly as he mocked himself, heavy with dread, a desperate attempt to hold himself together.
Pieces of understanding clicked into place in Y/n’s mind. She shifted her gaze downward, letting the weight of it sink in. Thomas didn’t speak again, staring out the window, breathing deeply.
“That’s… that’s why you’re still here.” Her voice was weak, almost a whisper. Pain, loneliness, and anger coursed through her, leaving her trembling. The grief in his voice pressed against her chest, suffocating and relentless. A sob escaped, quiet but inevitable, as she let the overwhelming weight of it all crash over her.
“Why would I go? I bought this whole fucking house with my own money. Everything in it was mine—still is! Money’s all I’ve ever been to everyone, so why the fuck would I leave, eh, Y/n?!” His voice rose, anger and frustration spilling out, the weight of his life’s regrets pressing down on him.
Y/n didn’t feel anger or fear at his yelling. She felt everything he carried. His pain, his isolation and it overwhelmed her. Tears ran freely down her face.
Minutes passed in tense silence before he finally let out a long sigh and met her gaze.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to,” he said quietly, his voice heavy with exhaustion, as if he’d aged several years in a few minutes.
Looking him in the eyes, Y/n turned to fully face him.
“Maybe that’s not very comforting… but for me, you weren’t ever money. I don’t know who you were back then, but here, now… you’re Tommy. And I wouldn’t change you for anything or anyone else.” Her voice was a whisper, fragile but unwavering. She cursed herself for not being able to touch him, to wrap her arms around him and squeeze the breath from him, to stroke his hair and simply hold him.
It took a few moments for her words to sink in. Tommy nodded slowly, hiding his face in his hands.
“I… I know, Y/n,” he groaned, the last defense against breaking down. “That’s the issue. I’m… dead, Y/n. You shouldn’t have gotten so close.”
Y/n fiddled with the fabric of her blouse nervously, feeling like a teenager again, standing before someone she desperately wanted but couldn’t have.
“I know. But… I couldn’t control it. And I don’t regret it,” she said, her voice gaining surprising strength. Tommy’s blue eyes narrowed, a mix of shock and annoyance flashing across his face, yet he still looked impossibly beautiful.
“I’m fucking dead, Y/n. There’s no happy ending. No next chapter. My book ended long before you were born.” His words were sharp, but they didn’t hurt her.
Y/n rose, nodding gently. A weak smile touched her lips.
“It’s okay, Tommy,” she said softly, her voice full of understanding... something he hadn’t often experienced in his thirty-plus years alive. Standing beside him, she looked out the window. The sky was gray, heavy clouds gathering, but the weather still held a strange, quiet beauty.
After a few minutes, she stepped away from the window, her eyes falling on the vanity. Tommy noticed immediately.
“It belonged to Grace,” he said, and though Y/n had never heard the name before, she knew exactly who he meant.
From that day on, they lived like a couple—everything except physical affection. Neither dared to confess, for in Thomas’s mind, none of it truly mattered. He was dead; she was alive.
Y/n’s longing, however, grew heavier. She wanted to know what he had been like alive, to feel his touch, to know the press of his lips against hers.
“You’re fading away,” he said one day, breaking the silence that had become too thick to ignore.
“Don’t worry about it,” she replied, keeping her emotions locked away but inside, her mind spun with the thought of living without ever feeling his love in the physical world. She was drowning, sinking deeper into her misery.
Then one morning, Y/n awoke with an unfamiliar peace. She completed her routine, spoke to Tommy, and left the house with a calm she hadn’t felt in months. But fate intervened.
A deer appeared suddenly, darting across the road in front of her car. Reflexively, she swerved to avoid it, crashing through a barrier and plunging into the lake beyond.
Her head spun violently with the car, branches scraping the roof and windows, but she felt none of it. Slowly, consciousness separated from pain as she sank deeper into the water. She could see the scene from above, the dread and blood—her own death unfolding before her.
“I’m scared,” she thought as darkness consumed her.
“Everything will be okay,” a familiar low voice replied.
“Nothing hurts,” she realized, and then… sunlight. Soft, golden, warm.
She pushed herself up from the grass and looked around. Sunflowers stretched endlessly in every direction, the air sweet and perfect. She knew, with clarity, that she was dead.
“What am I doing here?” she whispered. “Where’s Tommy?”
A gentle touch on her shoulder made her spin around. Sapphire eyes, the same she had longed for—looked back at her, brighter than ever.
“Tommy… what are we doing here?” she asked, panic threading her voice as she clutched his shoulders.
“It’s okay,” he said with an unnatural ease, the weight of sadness gone. “We’re free now, love. We’re free.” His joy faltered for a moment as he realized the circumstances of her death. “Why?” he demanded, anger and panic warring in his tone.
Y/n understood immediately and sobbed quietly, holding onto him. She drew him into an embrace, her tears soaking into him, finally allowing herself to release all the grief she had carried.
“I… I didn’t mean to… the deer just appeared out of nowhere…” she stammered, cradling his face. “But it doesn’t matter, Tommy. I’m here with you. We’re together now… here.” Her voice broke, but a laugh of relief slipped through.
“You… you were so young, love,” he whispered, caressing her cheek with a thumb, studying the tears and joy as he shook his head with sadness.
“No… I felt my time ran out the moment I woke that day. It’s okay. I’m happy, Tommy. I’m here with you,” she reassured him, her forehead resting against his chest.
A smile slowly spread across his face, softening into a giggle. The sound was contagious, and she laughed with him, holding each other close.
Then, with a careful motion, he lifted her chin, drawing her closer. Their lips met, hesitant at first, sweet and tender, before the need for closeness took over.
“I love you, Y/n,” he whispered after they parted, his forehead resting against hers.
“I love you, Thomas,” she answered, wrapping her arms around him, savoring the warmth and reality of him at last.
After a moment, Thomas pulled her hand into his larger one.
“Come on, love. There’s so much I want to show you.”
Summary: Hauntings aren't always like in the movies. Some ghosts are.. lost in the journey that was supposed to be smooth and easy. Some carry heavier weight than just the pain of being dead and slowly forgotten. Arrow House as beautiful as it is, hides its own secrets and events, but what if... There's something more than that, hiding in the walls?
Her pretty dress swayed with every step as she followed the older woman through the massive living room. Everything looked… perfect. Restored furniture, tall windows, and rooms kept in their original, elegant 20th-century style. It was everything Y/n could dream of—and the price for such a property was shockingly low.
“Anything else you want to see, Miss?”
She looked up at the current homeowner, blinking back the daze that came from staring too long. The house, the atmosphere—everything was extraordinary. She’d walked in just hours earlier and was already smitten.
When she’d moved from her hometown to the place she’d always wanted to live, she hadn’t expected to find something like this. And yet here she was, facing the older woman who smiled kindly, waiting for her answer.
“Uh… I think we’ve seen everything. I’ve seen enough,” Y/n said, stopping herself from jumping around in excitement.
“So, do you need a few days to decide?” the woman asked in a raspy, pleasant voice. She couldn’t have been younger than sixty; her curly gray hair framed her round, wrinkled face in the most endearing way.
“No, no,” Y/n laughed, shaking her head. “I can’t risk someone swooping in and stealing it from me.”
The older woman chuckled as Y/n pulled a pen from her pocket. The paperwork didn’t take long; the seller was prepared, and less than forty minutes later, Y/n Y/l/n was officially the new owner of Arrow House.
“…And here are your keys,” the woman said.
Y/n took them with both hands, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.
As the woman turned to leave, Y/n called after her. “Sorry—I forgot to ask earlier.” Her tone softened. “Who did it originally belong to?”
“Ah,” the woman smiled, amused. “It was my great-grandfather’s. He… unfortunately died in his early thirties. The house stayed closed for a long time after that.”
Y/n thanked her, and they parted ways.
It took only a few days to make sure everything was ready to move in. The moving team helped carry her furniture and boxes—and that’s when the problems began.
At first, it was the simple things. Random noises, cracks and creaks coming from nowhere—especially when one of the workers was alone. Then came the shifts. Boxes moved closer to the door. Tools changed places. Once, a fire started in the bed Y/n had brought from her old house. That was the final straw; the workers left, and Y/n was suddenly alone.
The stories she’d heard about the place were easy to brush off—until she started unpacking.
Kneeling on the floor, pulling out decorations, she felt something strange. The air grew heavier. Then, the window flew open, a sharp gust of cold wind slapping her face. Her heart thundered.
She pressed a hand to her chest and crossed the room to shut it again.. only to feel a hand on her shoulder.
Y/n gasped, spinning around.
A man stood there.
He wore a suit that looked decades out of place. His blue eyes held a spark of mischief and irritation, and the cold touch of his hand sent a tremor down her spine.
For a second, she froze. Then fear burned into fury.
“What the fuck are you doing in my house, you— you cunt!” she snapped, making him actually stumble back, eyes wide.
The stranger turned around as if checking for whoever she was shouting at.
She blinked. “Are you deaf?”
He didn’t answer, still scanning the room.
Y/n grabbed a heavy metal figurine from the shelf, clutching it like a weapon. “One last chance before I knock you out!”
He frowned, then waved a hand in front of her face as if testing something.
“So you’re stupid and deaf?” she said flatly. “Not a great combo for a home invader.”
He stared at her, baffled. “Huh?”
“Oh, thank God,” Y/n sighed, lowering the figurine. “Thought I’d have to show you my deadly moves.”
Then his voice dropped, rough and brimming with disbelief. “You… you see me?”
She tilted her head lightly. “Do you need medical assistance?”
Reaching out to push him back, her hand passed right through him.
The breath hitched in her throat.
“You— you…”
A grin spread across his lips.
“I’m Thomas Shelby,” he said with a low, dangerous edge, “and you’re in my house, sweetheart.”
Those impossibly blue eyes were the last thing she saw before everything went black.
Her temples throbbed painfully as she came to, sprawled across the floor of her new bedroom. When she finally sat up, the room spun, and she hissed as her fingers brushed the bump on the back of her head.
What a crazy fucking hallucination… she thought. That’s why Mom always nagged me about drinking more water.
“You good, darling?” The mocking voice came from the old bed she hadn’t managed to throw out yet. Her head snapped toward it—and there he was. The same man. The same goddamn man.
Guess it wasn’t a hallucination after all.
With a groan, she dragged herself to her feet, glaring at him. His mouth was curled into a smug grin, one arm draped lazily behind his head like he owned the place.
“What the fuck are you doing on my bed? And—why are you even here? You’re dead!” she snapped, massaging her temples as if that might somehow make the situation less insane.
Thomas just laughed, shaking his head as he propped himself up. “First off, it’s my bed. And that’s exactly why I’m here, sweetheart. My house. My money.” His voice was rough, low, and just irritatingly self-assured.
He lit a cigarette.
The faint scent of smoke spread instantly, and Y/n wrinkled her nose. “That’s why the whole fucking house smells like tobacco!” she hissed.
He rolled his eyes. “Look, let me explain something to you—what’s your name again?”
“Y/n,” she said flatly.
“Right. Well, you see, Y/n, dove, I’m a ghost. Cigarettes came with me into the coffin, so they’re on my side of the veil, not yours.” He said it theatrically, swirling his cigarette like he was on stage.
Y/n had to admit, the smoke didn’t seem any thicker. She didn’t want to admit that, but there it was.
“Great,” she muttered. “Ghost logic. Wonderful. So what the fuck do you want then?”
Thomas swung his legs off the bed and stood, moving toward her with slow, deliberate steps.
“You see, it’s very simple.” His voice changed—silky, dangerous, the kind that wrapped around you like velvet and barbed wire all at once. “I’ll stay here. In my house.” The cigarette hung from his lips, and the glow of it caught the sharp lines of his face. Old-fashioned, yes—but irritatingly attractive. Y/n hated that thought as much as she hated the way he was now standing just two feet away.
“And you,” he finished, leaning slightly closer, “will move out.”
That smirk of his was infuriating. The kind that belonged to a man who never heard the word no and actually believed it stayed that way after death.
She could smell him—something smoky and old, like whiskey and rain and whatever cologne men used back when wars were fought with bayonets. Heavy, masculine, and addictive in the worst way.
Y/n waved her hands through the air where he stood, as if she could swat him away like a bad dream.
Thomas scowled. “Watch yer hands, woman.” His tone dropped, half amused, half warning. “Trying to get laid or something, eh? Never been with one like you, dove.”
He inhaled from his cigarette, smirking when her face contorted in shock.
“Disgusting,” she muttered, glaring at him. He was clearly a product of a different century—and every damn bit of it showed.
Pacing now, Y/n barked out a dry, nervous laugh. “Whatever you say, Thomas Shelty…”
“Shelby.” He corrected, annoyed, but she didn’t care and kept talking. “I’m not moving anywhere. I worked six years to afford this place. I spent everything on it. So no matter how many little ghosties you parade around, I’m not leaving.” Her words were sharp, full of the sleepless nights and part‑time shifts that had bought her this house.
Tommy met her stare and huffed, folding his expression into something equally determined. “We’ll see.”
“We’ll see,” Y/n repeated, confident as ever, giving him a quick once‑over and muttering something about his height.
Days slid by. Tommy never missed an opportunity to make her life miserable—cups rattled, lights flickered, doors slammed at inconvenient moments—but Y/n pretended she didn’t notice. Snapping back would only encourage him. Besides, she had work, bills, a million tiny tasks that demanded all her attention.
One morning in the kitchen she poured cereal and reached for the milk only for the bottle to slide away across the counter as if some invisible hand were nudging it. She groaned.
“Thomas, really?” she called without turning. She didn’t need to: he was lounging on a stool, propped against the shelves, smirking like someone who’d just gotten away with stealing a cookie.
Tommy tried to look nonchalant, but there was admiration under the attitude. People usually lasted a day or two in Arrow House before packing up and running. Y/n was still here—stubborn, loud, human. It intrigued him.
Because guests fled, she couldn’t invite anyone over. So they talked. Not just snipes and pranks; sometimes conversations that stretched longer than a cigarette break. Y/n learned that he’d loved horses, that he’d had three brothers, that he’d grown up in Small Heath. He learned about her odd little rituals, her fascination with stars, the persistent itch that she belonged somewhere and somewhen else.
They had good days.. small, ridiculous pockets of truce—and they fought like an old married couple the rest of the time.
“Get out, you pervert!” Y/n screamed one morning when Tommy strolled into the bathroom as if he had a right to be there. She grabbed a shirt and slammed it around herself.
“C’mon, don’t be so crude,” he teased, enjoying how red she went. “We both know you like me watching.”
She pulled the tee over her head and faced him, furious. “I swear I’ll call a priest to kick your sorry, pale‑freckled ass out of here!” she barked, jabbing a finger at him... Or trying to.
Tommy just chuckled, hands raised in mock surrender. “Oh, so I wasn’t the only one watching, eh? Curious, are we?” He laughed, head thrown back. Then, with a theatrical sniff, he added, “... besides, I’m a gypsy, darling. Not exactly scared of your priest.”
She scoffed, but when the laughter faded there was a smidge of something softer behind his eyes—something that belonged to the man who’d once loved horses and family and small private victories. He kept pushing her buttons because it was easier than admitting he cared. And she kept staying because leaving would mean letting go of the strange, unexpected thing they’d built between them: a house turned halfway into a home, an argument that ended with them both refusing to be alone.
Like always. Well… almost always. Some days, when the weight of the world pressed in, it was hard to deny how much they’d gotten used to each other. Like that night when Y/n woke up screaming, pulled from sleep by another relentless nightmare.
She sat up in bed, burying her face in her hands, trying to steady her breathing and hold back tears.
“Nightmares?” Thomas asked quietly, his deep, raspy voice coming from the armchair across the room. Y/n didn’t have the strength to fight him for being nosy, so she just nodded.
“I used to have them too… all the time,” he admitted softly. She looked up at his dark silhouette, her eyes wet. Clearing his throat, he added more, his voice almost a whisper.
“After coming back from the war… they never left.”
There was a strange intimacy in the quiet confession, a shared vulnerability that made the air feel lighter between them.
“Mine… mine are about my father,” she confessed, voice trembling. “About what he did… after coming home drunk. Sometimes on drugs.” Thomas nodded, his understanding silent but palpable. The room settled into a comforting silence, both of them holding onto the solace of each other’s presence.
“You know…” she said after a pause, attempting a laugh to ease the tension. “This is the first time I actually regret that I can’t… physically touch you. I could use a hug.” Her voice dropped, almost to a whisper, and she wrapped her arms around herself.
Thomas rose from the armchair and moved closer. He looked into her eyes, leaning in gently.
“If I could… I would.” He promised with a soft, almost shy smile before sitting on the edge of her bed. “I’ll be here, always. No nightmares will come anymore.”
Y/n mumbled a quiet “thank you” before letting herself sink back into the mattress, drifting off to sleep without noticing how he shifted closer, lying beside her in what used to be his bed, his presence creating an odd but comforting buzz against her body.
That night, as he had promised, no nightmares came.
Months passed. Tommy had come to accept it—she wasn’t going anywhere. Her stubbornness had matched his own, forcing him to grow used to her quirks, her warmth, her presence in a house that had long felt hollow.
But for Y/n… life had become far more complicated. She lost her job for three months, fell behind on bills, and each letter about potential foreclosure shredded her nerves thinner and thinner. Her mental state frayed, unraveling under the stress.
One night, Thomas found her in the kitchen, tears streaming freely. Watching her, the care and love she poured into the house, his chest ached, a bitter taste creeping into his mouth—the same he had felt when Lizzie had been hurt, back when he was alive. He didn’t speak, just sat silently on the chair beside her. She felt his presence, as always, and shook her head, sobbing.
“I’m… I’m sorry, Tommy,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I… I guess you won. I’ll have… have to move out.”
He didn’t answer. The thought of her leaving twisted something in his chest, something long dormant. Panic, a strange and foreign feeling spiked through him.
No, no, no. She can’t… leave me.
The care he felt for her, this impossible, living presence in his home overrode his old possessiveness. He swallowed hard, trying to steady the lump that had formed in his throat.
“Safe in the wall.” He blurted the words suddenly, surprising both himself and her. Y/n’s watery eyes snapped open, filled with confusion.
“What?” she asked, not understanding what he meant.
“In the bedroom. Safe in the wall.” Thomas repeated, his disbelief almost tangible. The woman next to him had become so important that he was willing to give up his own money for her. Not even his family—or his two wives—knew of the secret.
“Two, six, one, nine,” he added, his voice flat, emotionless, as he avoided looking at her.
“Tommy, I… I don’t understand.”
“In the main bedroom, there’s a safe in the wall, Y/n,” he said sharply. “The money inside… it’d be worth around a hundred thousand pounds today.” He snapped the last words like a command. “Take it. Pay for the house.” Without waiting for her reaction, he stood and headed downstairs. He couldn’t believe he had just done it—and that he felt no regret.
The realization of how much he cared for her terrified him. He needed space to process it. Swearing under his breath about his horses, he vanished as he had when alive, retreating to the stables to be alone with the animals.
Two days later, after receiving yet another letter about her debts, Y/n followed Thomas’s instructions. She took only enough to cover the house, leaving the rest of the money locked away in the safe, forgotten. Guilt gnawed at her, and the fact that she didn’t see him for the following days made the emptiness in her gut worse.
“Tommy?” she called carefully as she reached the top of the stairs. The silence was deafening. Only now did she realize how much she had come to rely on his presence in the vast house. She checked every room, feeling the absence keenly—until she reached the last bedroom.
Or, rather, what used to be a bedroom. Now it was storage, filled with furniture draped in white covers, dust settling thickly over everything. Yet her attention went straight to him—he was perched on a shelf, staring at a piece of furniture she soon recognized as a vanity. The air thickened with unspoken tension, and she waited silently, letting him speak first if he chose to.
“At first… it was my mother. She drowned.” His voice broke the stillness, making her snap her gaze to him. “Then my father. He left us all… never came back.” Each word seemed to cost him, heavy with memories he didn’t want to revisit.
“When I grew up… I thought that chapter of my life was closed. Finished. That I wouldn’t react or feel so strongly when someone left me again.” His eyes stayed locked on the vanity, his hand brushing it with a sad, fleeting laugh.
“Then she happened. Appearing in my life like… a dream turning out to be a spy. Trying to get me hanging. She left. Then… my brother died. My whole family left. My wife and kids stayed for… a while.” He struggled through the words, forcing them past the lump in his throat, avoiding her eyes entirely.
“Money,” he said suddenly, catching her off guard. Silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. “That’s all I’ve ever been to everyone. Fucking money.” He laughed—a hollow, bitter sound, the saddest she had ever heard. Y/n hung her head, shaking slowly.
“I thought… ‘Don’t worry, Tom. You’ll show them.’ But… I died shortly after. Showed them nothing.” His voice cracked slightly as he mocked himself, heavy with dread, a desperate attempt to hold himself together.
Pieces of understanding clicked into place in Y/n’s mind. She shifted her gaze downward, letting the weight of it sink in. Thomas didn’t speak again, staring out the window, breathing deeply.
“That’s… that’s why you’re still here.” Her voice was weak, almost a whisper. Pain, loneliness, and anger coursed through her, leaving her trembling. The grief in his voice pressed against her chest, suffocating and relentless. A sob escaped, quiet but inevitable, as she let the overwhelming weight of it all crash over her.
“Why would I go? I bought this whole fucking house with my own money. Everything in it was mine—still is! Money’s all I’ve ever been to everyone, so why the fuck would I leave, eh, Y/n?!” His voice rose, anger and frustration spilling out, the weight of his life’s regrets pressing down on him.
Y/n didn’t feel anger or fear at his yelling. She felt everything he carried. His pain, his isolation and it overwhelmed her. Tears ran freely down her face.
Minutes passed in tense silence before he finally let out a long sigh and met her gaze.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to,” he said quietly, his voice heavy with exhaustion, as if he’d aged several years in a few minutes.
Looking him in the eyes, Y/n turned to fully face him.
“Maybe that’s not very comforting… but for me, you weren’t ever money. I don’t know who you were back then, but here, now… you’re Tommy. And I wouldn’t change you for anything or anyone else.” Her voice was a whisper, fragile but unwavering. She cursed herself for not being able to touch him, to wrap her arms around him and squeeze the breath from him, to stroke his hair and simply hold him.
It took a few moments for her words to sink in. Tommy nodded slowly, hiding his face in his hands.
“I… I know, Y/n,” he groaned, the last defense against breaking down. “That’s the issue. I’m… dead, Y/n. You shouldn’t have gotten so close.”
Y/n fiddled with the fabric of her blouse nervously, feeling like a teenager again, standing before someone she desperately wanted but couldn’t have.
“I know. But… I couldn’t control it. And I don’t regret it,” she said, her voice gaining surprising strength. Tommy’s blue eyes narrowed, a mix of shock and annoyance flashing across his face, yet he still looked impossibly beautiful.
“I’m fucking dead, Y/n. There’s no happy ending. No next chapter. My book ended long before you were born.” His words were sharp, but they didn’t hurt her.
Y/n rose, nodding gently. A weak smile touched her lips.
“It’s okay, Tommy,” she said softly, her voice full of understanding... something he hadn’t often experienced in his thirty-plus years alive. Standing beside him, she looked out the window. The sky was gray, heavy clouds gathering, but the weather still held a strange, quiet beauty.
After a few minutes, she stepped away from the window, her eyes falling on the vanity. Tommy noticed immediately.
“It belonged to Grace,” he said, and though Y/n had never heard the name before, she knew exactly who he meant.
From that day on, they lived like a couple—everything except physical affection. Neither dared to confess, for in Thomas’s mind, none of it truly mattered. He was dead; she was alive.
Y/n’s longing, however, grew heavier. She wanted to know what he had been like alive, to feel his touch, to know the press of his lips against hers.
“You’re fading away,” he said one day, breaking the silence that had become too thick to ignore.
“Don’t worry about it,” she replied, keeping her emotions locked away but inside, her mind spun with the thought of living without ever feeling his love in the physical world. She was drowning, sinking deeper into her misery.
Then one morning, Y/n awoke with an unfamiliar peace. She completed her routine, spoke to Tommy, and left the house with a calm she hadn’t felt in months. But fate intervened.
A deer appeared suddenly, darting across the road in front of her car. Reflexively, she swerved to avoid it, crashing through a barrier and plunging into the lake beyond.
Her head spun violently with the car, branches scraping the roof and windows, but she felt none of it. Slowly, consciousness separated from pain as she sank deeper into the water. She could see the scene from above, the dread and blood—her own death unfolding before her.
“I’m scared,” she thought as darkness consumed her.
“Everything will be okay,” a familiar low voice replied.
“Nothing hurts,” she realized, and then… sunlight. Soft, golden, warm.
She pushed herself up from the grass and looked around. Sunflowers stretched endlessly in every direction, the air sweet and perfect. She knew, with clarity, that she was dead.
“What am I doing here?” she whispered. “Where’s Tommy?”
A gentle touch on her shoulder made her spin around. Sapphire eyes, the same she had longed for—looked back at her, brighter than ever.
“Tommy… what are we doing here?” she asked, panic threading her voice as she clutched his shoulders.
“It’s okay,” he said with an unnatural ease, the weight of sadness gone. “We’re free now, love. We’re free.” His joy faltered for a moment as he realized the circumstances of her death. “Why?” he demanded, anger and panic warring in his tone.
Y/n understood immediately and sobbed quietly, holding onto him. She drew him into an embrace, her tears soaking into him, finally allowing herself to release all the grief she had carried.
“I… I didn’t mean to… the deer just appeared out of nowhere…” she stammered, cradling his face. “But it doesn’t matter, Tommy. I’m here with you. We’re together now… here.” Her voice broke, but a laugh of relief slipped through.
“You… you were so young, love,” he whispered, caressing her cheek with a thumb, studying the tears and joy as he shook his head with sadness.
“No… I felt my time ran out the moment I woke that day. It’s okay. I’m happy, Tommy. I’m here with you,” she reassured him, her forehead resting against his chest.
A smile slowly spread across his face, softening into a giggle. The sound was contagious, and she laughed with him, holding each other close.
Then, with a careful motion, he lifted her chin, drawing her closer. Their lips met, hesitant at first, sweet and tender, before the need for closeness took over.
“I love you, Y/n,” he whispered after they parted, his forehead resting against hers.
“I love you, Thomas,” she answered, wrapping her arms around him, savoring the warmth and reality of him at last.
After a moment, Thomas pulled her hand into his larger one.
“Come on, love. There’s so much I want to show you.”
Summary: Hauntings aren't always like in the movies. Some ghosts are.. lost in the journey that was supposed to be smooth and easy. Some carry heavier weight than just the pain of being dead and slowly forgotten. Arrow House as beautiful as it is, hides its own secrets and events, but what if... There's something more than that, hiding in the walls?
Her pretty dress swayed with every step as she followed the older woman through the massive living room. Everything looked… perfect. Restored furniture, tall windows, and rooms kept in their original, elegant 20th-century style. It was everything Y/n could dream of—and the price for such a property was shockingly low.
“Anything else you want to see, Miss?”
She looked up at the current homeowner, blinking back the daze that came from staring too long. The house, the atmosphere—everything was extraordinary. She’d walked in just hours earlier and was already smitten.
When she’d moved from her hometown to the place she’d always wanted to live, she hadn’t expected to find something like this. And yet here she was, facing the older woman who smiled kindly, waiting for her answer.
“Uh… I think we’ve seen everything. I’ve seen enough,” Y/n said, stopping herself from jumping around in excitement.
“So, do you need a few days to decide?” the woman asked in a raspy, pleasant voice. She couldn’t have been younger than sixty; her curly gray hair framed her round, wrinkled face in the most endearing way.
“No, no,” Y/n laughed, shaking her head. “I can’t risk someone swooping in and stealing it from me.”
The older woman chuckled as Y/n pulled a pen from her pocket. The paperwork didn’t take long; the seller was prepared, and less than forty minutes later, Y/n Y/l/n was officially the new owner of Arrow House.
“…And here are your keys,” the woman said.
Y/n took them with both hands, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.
As the woman turned to leave, Y/n called after her. “Sorry—I forgot to ask earlier.” Her tone softened. “Who did it originally belong to?”
“Ah,” the woman smiled, amused. “It was my great-grandfather’s. He… unfortunately died in his early thirties. The house stayed closed for a long time after that.”
Y/n thanked her, and they parted ways.
It took only a few days to make sure everything was ready to move in. The moving team helped carry her furniture and boxes—and that’s when the problems began.
At first, it was the simple things. Random noises, cracks and creaks coming from nowhere—especially when one of the workers was alone. Then came the shifts. Boxes moved closer to the door. Tools changed places. Once, a fire started in the bed Y/n had brought from her old house. That was the final straw; the workers left, and Y/n was suddenly alone.
The stories she’d heard about the place were easy to brush off—until she started unpacking.
Kneeling on the floor, pulling out decorations, she felt something strange. The air grew heavier. Then, the window flew open, a sharp gust of cold wind slapping her face. Her heart thundered.
She pressed a hand to her chest and crossed the room to shut it again.. only to feel a hand on her shoulder.
Y/n gasped, spinning around.
A man stood there.
He wore a suit that looked decades out of place. His blue eyes held a spark of mischief and irritation, and the cold touch of his hand sent a tremor down her spine.
For a second, she froze. Then fear burned into fury.
“What the fuck are you doing in my house, you— you cunt!” she snapped, making him actually stumble back, eyes wide.
The stranger turned around as if checking for whoever she was shouting at.
She blinked. “Are you deaf?”
He didn’t answer, still scanning the room.
Y/n grabbed a heavy metal figurine from the shelf, clutching it like a weapon. “One last chance before I knock you out!”
He frowned, then waved a hand in front of her face as if testing something.
“So you’re stupid and deaf?” she said flatly. “Not a great combo for a home invader.”
He stared at her, baffled. “Huh?”
“Oh, thank God,” Y/n sighed, lowering the figurine. “Thought I’d have to show you my deadly moves.”
Then his voice dropped, rough and brimming with disbelief. “You… you see me?”
She tilted her head lightly. “Do you need medical assistance?”
Reaching out to push him back, her hand passed right through him.
The breath hitched in her throat.
“You— you…”
A grin spread across his lips.
“I’m Thomas Shelby,” he said with a low, dangerous edge, “and you’re in my house, sweetheart.”
Those impossibly blue eyes were the last thing she saw before everything went black.
Her temples throbbed painfully as she came to, sprawled across the floor of her new bedroom. When she finally sat up, the room spun, and she hissed as her fingers brushed the bump on the back of her head.
What a crazy fucking hallucination… she thought. That’s why Mom always nagged me about drinking more water.
“You good, darling?” The mocking voice came from the old bed she hadn’t managed to throw out yet. Her head snapped toward it—and there he was. The same man. The same goddamn man.
Guess it wasn’t a hallucination after all.
With a groan, she dragged herself to her feet, glaring at him. His mouth was curled into a smug grin, one arm draped lazily behind his head like he owned the place.
“What the fuck are you doing on my bed? And—why are you even here? You’re dead!” she snapped, massaging her temples as if that might somehow make the situation less insane.
Thomas just laughed, shaking his head as he propped himself up. “First off, it’s my bed. And that’s exactly why I’m here, sweetheart. My house. My money.” His voice was rough, low, and just irritatingly self-assured.
He lit a cigarette.
The faint scent of smoke spread instantly, and Y/n wrinkled her nose. “That’s why the whole fucking house smells like tobacco!” she hissed.
He rolled his eyes. “Look, let me explain something to you—what’s your name again?”
“Y/n,” she said flatly.
“Right. Well, you see, Y/n, dove, I’m a ghost. Cigarettes came with me into the coffin, so they’re on my side of the veil, not yours.” He said it theatrically, swirling his cigarette like he was on stage.
Y/n had to admit, the smoke didn’t seem any thicker. She didn’t want to admit that, but there it was.
“Great,” she muttered. “Ghost logic. Wonderful. So what the fuck do you want then?”
Thomas swung his legs off the bed and stood, moving toward her with slow, deliberate steps.
“You see, it’s very simple.” His voice changed—silky, dangerous, the kind that wrapped around you like velvet and barbed wire all at once. “I’ll stay here. In my house.” The cigarette hung from his lips, and the glow of it caught the sharp lines of his face. Old-fashioned, yes—but irritatingly attractive. Y/n hated that thought as much as she hated the way he was now standing just two feet away.
“And you,” he finished, leaning slightly closer, “will move out.”
That smirk of his was infuriating. The kind that belonged to a man who never heard the word no and actually believed it stayed that way after death.
She could smell him—something smoky and old, like whiskey and rain and whatever cologne men used back when wars were fought with bayonets. Heavy, masculine, and addictive in the worst way.
Y/n waved her hands through the air where he stood, as if she could swat him away like a bad dream.
Thomas scowled. “Watch yer hands, woman.” His tone dropped, half amused, half warning. “Trying to get laid or something, eh? Never been with one like you, dove.”
He inhaled from his cigarette, smirking when her face contorted in shock.
“Disgusting,” she muttered, glaring at him. He was clearly a product of a different century—and every damn bit of it showed.
Pacing now, Y/n barked out a dry, nervous laugh. “Whatever you say, Thomas Shelty…”
“Shelby.” He corrected, annoyed, but she didn’t care and kept talking. “I’m not moving anywhere. I worked six years to afford this place. I spent everything on it. So no matter how many little ghosties you parade around, I’m not leaving.” Her words were sharp, full of the sleepless nights and part‑time shifts that had bought her this house.
Tommy met her stare and huffed, folding his expression into something equally determined. “We’ll see.”
“We’ll see,” Y/n repeated, confident as ever, giving him a quick once‑over and muttering something about his height.
Days slid by. Tommy never missed an opportunity to make her life miserable—cups rattled, lights flickered, doors slammed at inconvenient moments—but Y/n pretended she didn’t notice. Snapping back would only encourage him. Besides, she had work, bills, a million tiny tasks that demanded all her attention.
One morning in the kitchen she poured cereal and reached for the milk only for the bottle to slide away across the counter as if some invisible hand were nudging it. She groaned.
“Thomas, really?” she called without turning. She didn’t need to: he was lounging on a stool, propped against the shelves, smirking like someone who’d just gotten away with stealing a cookie.
Tommy tried to look nonchalant, but there was admiration under the attitude. People usually lasted a day or two in Arrow House before packing up and running. Y/n was still here—stubborn, loud, human. It intrigued him.
Because guests fled, she couldn’t invite anyone over. So they talked. Not just snipes and pranks; sometimes conversations that stretched longer than a cigarette break. Y/n learned that he’d loved horses, that he’d had three brothers, that he’d grown up in Small Heath. He learned about her odd little rituals, her fascination with stars, the persistent itch that she belonged somewhere and somewhen else.
They had good days.. small, ridiculous pockets of truce—and they fought like an old married couple the rest of the time.
“Get out, you pervert!” Y/n screamed one morning when Tommy strolled into the bathroom as if he had a right to be there. She grabbed a shirt and slammed it around herself.
“C’mon, don’t be so crude,” he teased, enjoying how red she went. “We both know you like me watching.”
She pulled the tee over her head and faced him, furious. “I swear I’ll call a priest to kick your sorry, pale‑freckled ass out of here!” she barked, jabbing a finger at him... Or trying to.
Tommy just chuckled, hands raised in mock surrender. “Oh, so I wasn’t the only one watching, eh? Curious, are we?” He laughed, head thrown back. Then, with a theatrical sniff, he added, “... besides, I’m a gypsy, darling. Not exactly scared of your priest.”
She scoffed, but when the laughter faded there was a smidge of something softer behind his eyes—something that belonged to the man who’d once loved horses and family and small private victories. He kept pushing her buttons because it was easier than admitting he cared. And she kept staying because leaving would mean letting go of the strange, unexpected thing they’d built between them: a house turned halfway into a home, an argument that ended with them both refusing to be alone.
Like always. Well… almost always. Some days, when the weight of the world pressed in, it was hard to deny how much they’d gotten used to each other. Like that night when Y/n woke up screaming, pulled from sleep by another relentless nightmare.
She sat up in bed, burying her face in her hands, trying to steady her breathing and hold back tears.
“Nightmares?” Thomas asked quietly, his deep, raspy voice coming from the armchair across the room. Y/n didn’t have the strength to fight him for being nosy, so she just nodded.
“I used to have them too… all the time,” he admitted softly. She looked up at his dark silhouette, her eyes wet. Clearing his throat, he added more, his voice almost a whisper.
“After coming back from the war… they never left.”
There was a strange intimacy in the quiet confession, a shared vulnerability that made the air feel lighter between them.
“Mine… mine are about my father,” she confessed, voice trembling. “About what he did… after coming home drunk. Sometimes on drugs.” Thomas nodded, his understanding silent but palpable. The room settled into a comforting silence, both of them holding onto the solace of each other’s presence.
“You know…” she said after a pause, attempting a laugh to ease the tension. “This is the first time I actually regret that I can’t… physically touch you. I could use a hug.” Her voice dropped, almost to a whisper, and she wrapped her arms around herself.
Thomas rose from the armchair and moved closer. He looked into her eyes, leaning in gently.
“If I could… I would.” He promised with a soft, almost shy smile before sitting on the edge of her bed. “I’ll be here, always. No nightmares will come anymore.”
Y/n mumbled a quiet “thank you” before letting herself sink back into the mattress, drifting off to sleep without noticing how he shifted closer, lying beside her in what used to be his bed, his presence creating an odd but comforting buzz against her body.
That night, as he had promised, no nightmares came.
Months passed. Tommy had come to accept it—she wasn’t going anywhere. Her stubbornness had matched his own, forcing him to grow used to her quirks, her warmth, her presence in a house that had long felt hollow.
But for Y/n… life had become far more complicated. She lost her job for three months, fell behind on bills, and each letter about potential foreclosure shredded her nerves thinner and thinner. Her mental state frayed, unraveling under the stress.
One night, Thomas found her in the kitchen, tears streaming freely. Watching her, the care and love she poured into the house, his chest ached, a bitter taste creeping into his mouth—the same he had felt when Lizzie had been hurt, back when he was alive. He didn’t speak, just sat silently on the chair beside her. She felt his presence, as always, and shook her head, sobbing.
“I’m… I’m sorry, Tommy,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I… I guess you won. I’ll have… have to move out.”
He didn’t answer. The thought of her leaving twisted something in his chest, something long dormant. Panic, a strange and foreign feeling spiked through him.
No, no, no. She can’t… leave me.
The care he felt for her, this impossible, living presence in his home overrode his old possessiveness. He swallowed hard, trying to steady the lump that had formed in his throat.
“Safe in the wall.” He blurted the words suddenly, surprising both himself and her. Y/n’s watery eyes snapped open, filled with confusion.
“What?” she asked, not understanding what he meant.
“In the bedroom. Safe in the wall.” Thomas repeated, his disbelief almost tangible. The woman next to him had become so important that he was willing to give up his own money for her. Not even his family—or his two wives—knew of the secret.
“Two, six, one, nine,” he added, his voice flat, emotionless, as he avoided looking at her.
“Tommy, I… I don’t understand.”
“In the main bedroom, there’s a safe in the wall, Y/n,” he said sharply. “The money inside… it’d be worth around a hundred thousand pounds today.” He snapped the last words like a command. “Take it. Pay for the house.” Without waiting for her reaction, he stood and headed downstairs. He couldn’t believe he had just done it—and that he felt no regret.
The realization of how much he cared for her terrified him. He needed space to process it. Swearing under his breath about his horses, he vanished as he had when alive, retreating to the stables to be alone with the animals.
Two days later, after receiving yet another letter about her debts, Y/n followed Thomas’s instructions. She took only enough to cover the house, leaving the rest of the money locked away in the safe, forgotten. Guilt gnawed at her, and the fact that she didn’t see him for the following days made the emptiness in her gut worse.
“Tommy?” she called carefully as she reached the top of the stairs. The silence was deafening. Only now did she realize how much she had come to rely on his presence in the vast house. She checked every room, feeling the absence keenly—until she reached the last bedroom.
Or, rather, what used to be a bedroom. Now it was storage, filled with furniture draped in white covers, dust settling thickly over everything. Yet her attention went straight to him—he was perched on a shelf, staring at a piece of furniture she soon recognized as a vanity. The air thickened with unspoken tension, and she waited silently, letting him speak first if he chose to.
“At first… it was my mother. She drowned.” His voice broke the stillness, making her snap her gaze to him. “Then my father. He left us all… never came back.” Each word seemed to cost him, heavy with memories he didn’t want to revisit.
“When I grew up… I thought that chapter of my life was closed. Finished. That I wouldn’t react or feel so strongly when someone left me again.” His eyes stayed locked on the vanity, his hand brushing it with a sad, fleeting laugh.
“Then she happened. Appearing in my life like… a dream turning out to be a spy. Trying to get me hanging. She left. Then… my brother died. My whole family left. My wife and kids stayed for… a while.” He struggled through the words, forcing them past the lump in his throat, avoiding her eyes entirely.
“Money,” he said suddenly, catching her off guard. Silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. “That’s all I’ve ever been to everyone. Fucking money.” He laughed—a hollow, bitter sound, the saddest she had ever heard. Y/n hung her head, shaking slowly.
“I thought… ‘Don’t worry, Tom. You’ll show them.’ But… I died shortly after. Showed them nothing.” His voice cracked slightly as he mocked himself, heavy with dread, a desperate attempt to hold himself together.
Pieces of understanding clicked into place in Y/n’s mind. She shifted her gaze downward, letting the weight of it sink in. Thomas didn’t speak again, staring out the window, breathing deeply.
“That’s… that’s why you’re still here.” Her voice was weak, almost a whisper. Pain, loneliness, and anger coursed through her, leaving her trembling. The grief in his voice pressed against her chest, suffocating and relentless. A sob escaped, quiet but inevitable, as she let the overwhelming weight of it all crash over her.
“Why would I go? I bought this whole fucking house with my own money. Everything in it was mine—still is! Money’s all I’ve ever been to everyone, so why the fuck would I leave, eh, Y/n?!” His voice rose, anger and frustration spilling out, the weight of his life’s regrets pressing down on him.
Y/n didn’t feel anger or fear at his yelling. She felt everything he carried. His pain, his isolation and it overwhelmed her. Tears ran freely down her face.
Minutes passed in tense silence before he finally let out a long sigh and met her gaze.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to,” he said quietly, his voice heavy with exhaustion, as if he’d aged several years in a few minutes.
Looking him in the eyes, Y/n turned to fully face him.
“Maybe that’s not very comforting… but for me, you weren’t ever money. I don’t know who you were back then, but here, now… you’re Tommy. And I wouldn’t change you for anything or anyone else.” Her voice was a whisper, fragile but unwavering. She cursed herself for not being able to touch him, to wrap her arms around him and squeeze the breath from him, to stroke his hair and simply hold him.
It took a few moments for her words to sink in. Tommy nodded slowly, hiding his face in his hands.
“I… I know, Y/n,” he groaned, the last defense against breaking down. “That’s the issue. I’m… dead, Y/n. You shouldn’t have gotten so close.”
Y/n fiddled with the fabric of her blouse nervously, feeling like a teenager again, standing before someone she desperately wanted but couldn’t have.
“I know. But… I couldn’t control it. And I don’t regret it,” she said, her voice gaining surprising strength. Tommy’s blue eyes narrowed, a mix of shock and annoyance flashing across his face, yet he still looked impossibly beautiful.
“I’m fucking dead, Y/n. There’s no happy ending. No next chapter. My book ended long before you were born.” His words were sharp, but they didn’t hurt her.
Y/n rose, nodding gently. A weak smile touched her lips.
“It’s okay, Tommy,” she said softly, her voice full of understanding... something he hadn’t often experienced in his thirty-plus years alive. Standing beside him, she looked out the window. The sky was gray, heavy clouds gathering, but the weather still held a strange, quiet beauty.
After a few minutes, she stepped away from the window, her eyes falling on the vanity. Tommy noticed immediately.
“It belonged to Grace,” he said, and though Y/n had never heard the name before, she knew exactly who he meant.
From that day on, they lived like a couple—everything except physical affection. Neither dared to confess, for in Thomas’s mind, none of it truly mattered. He was dead; she was alive.
Y/n’s longing, however, grew heavier. She wanted to know what he had been like alive, to feel his touch, to know the press of his lips against hers.
“You’re fading away,” he said one day, breaking the silence that had become too thick to ignore.
“Don’t worry about it,” she replied, keeping her emotions locked away but inside, her mind spun with the thought of living without ever feeling his love in the physical world. She was drowning, sinking deeper into her misery.
Then one morning, Y/n awoke with an unfamiliar peace. She completed her routine, spoke to Tommy, and left the house with a calm she hadn’t felt in months. But fate intervened.
A deer appeared suddenly, darting across the road in front of her car. Reflexively, she swerved to avoid it, crashing through a barrier and plunging into the lake beyond.
Her head spun violently with the car, branches scraping the roof and windows, but she felt none of it. Slowly, consciousness separated from pain as she sank deeper into the water. She could see the scene from above, the dread and blood—her own death unfolding before her.
“I’m scared,” she thought as darkness consumed her.
“Everything will be okay,” a familiar low voice replied.
“Nothing hurts,” she realized, and then… sunlight. Soft, golden, warm.
She pushed herself up from the grass and looked around. Sunflowers stretched endlessly in every direction, the air sweet and perfect. She knew, with clarity, that she was dead.
“What am I doing here?” she whispered. “Where’s Tommy?”
A gentle touch on her shoulder made her spin around. Sapphire eyes, the same she had longed for—looked back at her, brighter than ever.
“Tommy… what are we doing here?” she asked, panic threading her voice as she clutched his shoulders.
“It’s okay,” he said with an unnatural ease, the weight of sadness gone. “We’re free now, love. We’re free.” His joy faltered for a moment as he realized the circumstances of her death. “Why?” he demanded, anger and panic warring in his tone.
Y/n understood immediately and sobbed quietly, holding onto him. She drew him into an embrace, her tears soaking into him, finally allowing herself to release all the grief she had carried.
“I… I didn’t mean to… the deer just appeared out of nowhere…” she stammered, cradling his face. “But it doesn’t matter, Tommy. I’m here with you. We’re together now… here.” Her voice broke, but a laugh of relief slipped through.
“You… you were so young, love,” he whispered, caressing her cheek with a thumb, studying the tears and joy as he shook his head with sadness.
“No… I felt my time ran out the moment I woke that day. It’s okay. I’m happy, Tommy. I’m here with you,” she reassured him, her forehead resting against his chest.
A smile slowly spread across his face, softening into a giggle. The sound was contagious, and she laughed with him, holding each other close.
Then, with a careful motion, he lifted her chin, drawing her closer. Their lips met, hesitant at first, sweet and tender, before the need for closeness took over.
“I love you, Y/n,” he whispered after they parted, his forehead resting against hers.
“I love you, Thomas,” she answered, wrapping her arms around him, savoring the warmth and reality of him at last.
After a moment, Thomas pulled her hand into his larger one.
“Come on, love. There’s so much I want to show you.”
Pairing: Jonathan Crane aka Scarecrow (Nolan!verse Batman) x F Reader
Warnings: Very slight references to past trauma, otherwise Halloween fluff.
It's Halloween and Jonthan still isn't sure why he agreed to celebrate the holiday...
A/N: This is a Halloween special to go with this my Under His Skin series.
Disclaimer:The author of this work claims no ownership of characters aside from the reader, and original secondary characters mentioned. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content and darker themes. By reading this work or any works on my blog (jtargaryen18), you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I do not consent to have my work hosted on any third party app or site.
Jonathan Crane had survived riots, interrogations, psychological evaluations, and at least two direct assassination attempts. But nothing could have prepared him for the sight in front of him now. There were pumpkins being prepped for display on his porch. Five of them. Three, so far, were grotesquely smiling.
She was crouched over one of the two remaining pumpkins, an apron on over an oversized hoodie, orange pulp clinging to her elbow like a trophy of war. A horror film played low in the background, something campy, bloody, and seasonal, and a huge bowl of mini candy bars was already stationed by the door.
Jonathan stood just outside the kitchen, one hand wrapped around a mug of coffee, watching this unfold as if it were some kind of live psychological experiment. His house. His house, fortress, lab, safehouse, operating base, had become some kind of suburban holiday shrine. All because she’d looked at him that morning and, in the softest voice imaginable, asked: “Do… do you mind if we hand out candy tonight?”
And for some godforsaken reason, he’d said, "No."
He’d spent the entire day asking himself why. Oh, he knew the answer, and he hated it. Still, when she’d skipped out of the room looking like he’d just approved a nuclear weapons treaty, some ridiculous part of him had… warmed.
Hell.
Jonathan didn’t announce himself. She was elbow-deep in pumpkin guts and didn’t notice him until he walked past her, paused at the table, and wordlessly picked up the carving knife she’d left there.
She just stared. "You want to help?”
“No,” he said flatly. “I’m reclaiming at least one of these seasonal abominations for science.”
Placing a fresh pumpkin on the table, he cleaned it. It was cut with precision, top off, guts out, and face drawn with surgical control. A few minutes later, he turned it toward her.
“This is an anatomically accurate cranial cross-section,” he said coolly. “Don’t waste it.”
She stared at it like he’d handed her a Fabergé egg. "I love it,” she whispered.
He blew out an exhale. Somewhere behind them, the horror movie slashed through a high-pitched scream.
He had intended to spend the evening in his study, catching up on real work. Something rational, predictable, and quiet. But as the sun went down and the first shouts of 'trick or treat!' echoed faintly down the street, that plan died an efficient death. There was no version of reality in which he was going to let her stand at the front door, smiling at strangers, handing out candy by herself. Not in this city.
So he closed the file on his desk, adjusted his sleeves, and decided it was time to relocate to the living room where he could supervise the festivities.
The pumpkins were now on full display, grinning on the porch steps with their soulless faces aglow from battery-operated lights inside. At least she’d used those. He could tolerate smiling gourds. He could begrudgingly tolerate candy. But open flames? No, not near her.
Jonathan was already mentally calculating the risk factors of foot traffic, sugar, and poorly supervised children when she passed him in a blur, still in her apron and hoodie, murmuring something about needing to change. Jonathan returned to his armchair, folding one leg over the other and sipped his coffee. He told himself this would be over in just a few hours.
Then she came back down the stairs, and he almost dropped his mug.
A pointed black hat. A tight-fitting black dress with a skirt that was too short, showing off the fishnet stockings covering her long legs. Oh, and kitten heels and black nail polish to complete the effect. She was a damn Halloween pin-up.
And still, she looked at him with this innocent, hopeful little smile. Like she didn’t know what she was doing. Like she hadn’t just casually detonated every ounce of composure he had left.
“I figured it was more festive,” she said sweetly, executing a playful turn so he could see everything. “Too much?”
Jonathan just stared.
With a sigh, he lowered the mug to the end table with care. “You plan to answer the door dressed like that?”
“Yes?”
He nodded slowly. It was going to be a very long night...
Most of the evening had been tolerable. Even, he hated to admit, mildly endearing. Most of the children were small, dressed as princesses and superheroes, their parents standing on the walkway with warm smiles and coffee cups. She lit up each time the doorbell rang, offering candy with theatrical enthusiasm and complimenting every costume like it was the highlight of her year.
Jonathan stayed behind her, slightly out of view but always present.
Then came them. Two dads, six kids between them, all in some level of chaos. The men hung back while the kids raced to the door. She knelt to greet them, complimenting their costumes as usual, and handed out the last of the candy in the bowl. With a bright laugh, she stood and told the men she’d be right back with more.
Jonathan watched closely as their eyes followed her. Not in an innocent, distracted kind of way. In a way. One of them even muttered something low to the other. The grin that followed made Jonathan’s jaw tighten.
He stepped fully into view then. He didn’t say a word, just stood there in the doorway pinning them with an expression that had worked on men who were a lot more aggressive and a lot less lucid than either of them. He got their attention.
One of them coughed. “Nice house.”
Jonathan didn’t answer.
By the time she returned with a refilled bowl of candy, the men were herding the kids away with exaggerated cheer and avoiding eye contact. She didn’t seem to notice. She was too busy gushing over a toddler in a ladybug costume with the next family that approached.
Jonathan resumed his post behind her, colder now. Keeping watch.
The next voice carried the unmistakable tone of social authority. The kind that came from old money, excellent posture, and decades of charity luncheons.
“Oh my! Look at you!”
Jonathan didn’t need to see her to know who it was.
Mrs. Halsey. Wife of Dr. William Halsey, current chairman of the Arkham Board of Directors, former administrator, and staunch believer that all psychiatric matters could be solved with optimism, structure, and a generous grant. She was already halfway up the walk, her four small grandchildren buzzing around her like sugar-powered satellites. Her silver hair was coiffed to perfection, and her cashmere coat was both seasonally appropriate and ludicrously expensive. And she was beaming.
“You are just darling,” she said to the young woman in the witch costume, taking both of her hands like a favorite niece. “I didn’t know Jonathan was a fan of Halloween! What a wonderful surprise.”
Jonathan, still standing just behind the door, straightened ever so slightly. If he didn’t intercept now, she’d get chatty. With practiced composure, he stepped forward into the porch light as his little witch handed out candy to the grandchildren.
“Mrs. Halsey.”
She startled for half a second before her smile returned. “Dr. Crane! What fun! I was just saying how adorable your other half looks. A lovely change from... well, Ares. He always was such a fun-sucker at the holidays.”
Jonathan’s jaw twitched.
She leaned in conspiratorially. “You’re doing much better, dear.”
Then, louder, to the porch in general: “We’re on our way to the haunted house fundraiser downtown. Jonathan, you should bring her. Come out and support the cause. It’s such fun.”
She produced a glossy flyer from her handbag and slipped it into the witch’s hands before Jonathan could block it. And with a theatrical goodbye and four overstimulated grandchildren in tow, Mrs. Halsey breezed off into the night.
Jonathan stared after her. He already knew where this was going.
Within the hour, official trick-or-treating hours had come to a merciful close. The porch light was off, the candy bowl empty, and his living room rug was now lightly dusted with glitter and a couple of pumpkin seeds.
He was nursing a scotch in the den and mentally calculating how much longer he needed to pretend to enjoy the season before he could consider the night a success and call it over.
Maybe he’d make it out of this. Maybe, just maybe, she’d forget about Mrs. Halsey’s damn invitation. He could almost convince himself of that… until he heard her soft footsteps padding in his direction. Then came the gentle rustle of paper, and the unmistakable voice of temptation itself.
“So… this is the haunted house Mrs. Halsey mentioned.”
He turned slowly to see her standing there, flyer in hand, as if summoned from the depths of his personal hell.
Of course she didn’t forget. Of course.
And now she was looking at him. Hopeful and sweet. Bright-eyed and bashful like she was asking for something impossible, like oxygen on the moon or compassion from the Gotham City Council. His drink suddenly felt inadequate. The evening, it seemed, was far from over.
She hadn't changed yet. Still in that absurd little witch costume that he'd been struggling with since he saw her in it. Well, if she wanted to ride a broomstick...
She was still staring at him, waiting for an answer looking very much like a trick-or-treater who knew she'd already pushed her luck.
Jonathan blew out an exhale.
“You’re not wearing that out of the house.” He didn't even look up from his drink.
There was a beat of silence. Then, her voice, trying for innocence: “It’s festive.”
“It’s borderline criminal,” he replied flatly, finally meeting her eyes. “No.”
She rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath about someone needing to relax. “Okay… maybe just a Halloween shirt?”
He nodded. Finally, a victory, however minor.
“And are you going to dress up?” she asked, trying not to grin.
“I’m going as a man whose night was just hijacked,” he muttered, draining the last of his scotch. “Would you like to see the costume notes?”
She giggled, which only irritated him further because he liked the sound of it.
The parking lot was an active crime scene of its own. Sugar-rushed children in costumes, shrieking teenagers, and packs of adults armed with hot cider and questionable parenting instincts, all braving the Gotham chill. Music blared from tinny speakers outside the building, and the unmistakable scent of kettle corn and cider hung in the air like a trap.
Jonathan stepped out of the car with the grim air of a man being led to execution.
“Delightful,” he muttered as a twelve-year-old vampire nearly sideswiped him with a foam scythe.
She, by contrast, was bouncing on her heels in black jeans, boots, and a glow-in-the-dark "HOCUS POCUS & CHILL" sweatshirt. Still annoyingly adorable.
“Be honest,” she said as they walked toward the entrance. “You’re having a little fun.”
“I’m mentally preparing to be surrounded by strangers in cheap costumes and fake blood. I am not having fun. I am surviving.”
She just beamed at him. “You’re such a trooper.”
But before they could resign themselves to the snaking line that wrapped around the building like a coiled python, Mrs. Halsey appeared out of nowhere, beaming.
“There you are!” she exclaimed, clutching her clipboard like a general marshaling her troops. “I told the board you might show, Jonathan. And here you are!”
He managed a tight smile. “Here we are.”
She leaned in conspiratorially and plucked two passes from her clipboard. “You’re my personal guests. Front of the line. I won’t have you waiting out here for hours with the general public.”
He blinked. “How thoughtful.”
“Board perks,” Mrs. Halsey said brightly. “Do enjoy yourselves. And Jonathan, I do hope this means you’ll consider next year’s charity auction.”
He was then promptly handed a waiver form, and a glowstick “for safety.”
He nodded to the glowstick. “I’m going to be wearing this, am I?”
“Yes,” she said brightly. “Or you won’t be able to see.”
“I’ll risk it.”
"Thank you!" his girl said, pulling him along toward the entrance.
“This is where people pay money to simulate trauma,” he muttered. “I could have just stayed at work.”
“Oh come on,” she nudged him. “Live a little. You might even get inspired.”
He cast her a sidelong glance. “Careful. I might take that as permission.”
The doors opened with a burst of fog and flashing red lights. An actor dressed as a butcher bellowed something incoherent, swinging a plastic cleaver.
Jonathan stepped forward with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man. “After you,” he said smoothly.
It smelled like fog machines, latex, and anticipation. The lobby of the haunted house was dimly lit, decorated with synthetic cobwebs and flickering LED candles. Somewhere overhead, muffled screams echoed through a speaker system, a cheap attempt to raise cortisol. It was working, for everyone but him.
Jonathan cast a skeptical eye around the staging area. “You do realize these events are designed to activate the primitive fear centers of the brain in the most low-effort way possible,” he murmured.
“Uh huh,” she said, eyes alight with excitement as she bounced on her heels. “Isn’t it great?”
No. No, it wasn’t.
She looked adorable, of course. Her Halloween sweatshirt hugged her figure, her eyes were bright with anticipation, and she was carrying a miniature flashlight like a child about to hunt ghosts.
He was surrounded by amateur hour. Teens hyped on energy drinks, adults attempting to relive their youth, all willfully entering a structure designed to disorient and alarm. The irony wasn’t lost on him. He had spent years mastering the psychology of fear. And now, here he was, sandwiched between a couple dressed as Beetlejuice and Lydia, and a trio of high schoolers filming TikToks in line.
And yet, he stayed. She was smiling. She’d never done this before, and she'd always wanted to. For all the chaos and irritation surrounding him, she was...happy. And that did something to him he hadn’t yet found a name for.
They passed through a wooded set thick with artificial fog and the scent of fake pine. Up ahead, a decrepit cabin loomed, its windows glowing faint red. A scream echoed in the distance. Prerecorded, but convincing. Tree branches hung low over the narrow path, and plastic leaves crunched beneath their feet.
She stayed close to Jonathan’s side, her hand curled tight around the fabric of his coat sleeve. He felt her tense a second before it happened. From behind one of the trees, a hulking figure burst into view, wearing a dirt-smeared hockey mask and brandishing a massive machete.
She jumped with a startled gasp, stumbling back half a step.
Jonathan…did not. He simply watched the figure advance, unbothered.
“That mask is acrylic,” he muttered. “The blade is foam rubber.”
“I know,” she whispered, breath shallow as she clutched his arm tighter. “But he’s really tall.”
Jonathan’s gaze flicked up and down the actor. “Six-three, maybe six-four. Decent posture. Still not a reason to panic.”
The figure let out a growl, dragging the dull blade along the wall for effect.
Jonathan leaned closer to her ear and said flatly, “Don’t reward height with fear. That’s how they win.”
Despite herself, she gave a short, nervous laugh. “Is that an actual psychological principle?”
“No,” he said dryly, “but it should be.”
They kept walking, her grip still firmly attached to his arm. The fog thickened as the scene shifted. Another scream rang out somewhere up ahead, but she was already focused on him.
“You’re really not scared at all?”
“Of him?” Jonathan arched an eyebrow. “I’ve dissected more frightening things in undergraduate anatomy class.”
She managed another shaky laugh, but he could feel her pulse racing through her palm.
He adjusted his pace slightly, making sure she stayed tucked into his side.
This is supposed to be fun, he reminded himself.
The moment they stepped into the next room, flashing strobe lights disoriented the edges of her vision. A hospital corridor, dimly lit and streaked with something meant to resemble blood, stretched ahead of them. A rusted gurney suddenly crashed across their path, the wheels squealing like a scream. She flinched.
Then Michael appeared, tall and silent, looming from the shadows with his signature mask and kitchen knife. He tilted his head at them like a curious predator.
Jonathan’s voice was maddeningly calm. “This man escaped from a psychiatric facility?”
The mask turned. Advanced another step.
“Somehow I’m not surprised.”
“Jonathan--”
“He’s operating an EKG machine backward.”
“Jonathan.”
She grabbed his sleeve again, pulling him forward before Michael could lunge. Jonathan cast one last unimpressed glance over his shoulder.
“Poor form. Doesn’t even check his corners.”
The smell of steam and oil hit them first. A flickering light bulb revealed a narrow boiler room, its walls slick with condensation. Metal pipes curved like ribs overhead, hissing softly.
Then came the screech, metal claws on a metal surface. Freddy Krueger stalked into view, dragging his glove along a pipe as he advanced on the group with theatrical menace.
Jonathan leaned down and whispered near her ear, “You know, sleep studies have never actually produced evidence of shared dream states.”
She didn’t even glance at him. “Please shut up.”
He smirked faintly. “Just saying. If your dreams are trying to kill you, it’s usually a sign of—”
“Jonathan.”
Freddy hissed and lunged toward them. She jolted and shoved herself closer to Jonathan’s side, half-hiding behind him. His hand automatically came to rest against the small of her back, guiding her forward.
They stepped into a damp, echoing tunnel. Water dripped from above, and a dim, eerie glow came from a single red balloon floating mid-air. The sound of distant childlike laughter mixed with the occasional squish of water beneath their shoes.
She instinctively reached for Jonathan’s hand, her eyes locked on the shadow ahead.
A figure stepped into the light, very tall. Easily 6’5”. Bald cap, exaggerated skull structure, white greasepaint, blood-smeared lips stretched into a grotesque smile. This Pennywise didn’t speak. He just stared, head tilted, eyes following her.
Then, with a sudden jerk, the clown lunged.
She let out a startled gasp and jumped back against Jonathan.
He didn’t flinch.
“That’s a latex bald cap with a silicon brow prosthetic,” he murmured. “Probably FX paint and Kryolan on top. The hair’s hand-laid yak or synthetic blend.”
She clung to his arm, half horrified, half exasperated. “How do you know that?”
“I used to volunteer at a mortuary. You learn things.”
The next room was a narrow hallway enclosed by transparent plexiglass walls. Beyond either side, dim lighting revealed a grotesque crowd of zombies clawing, moaning, slamming against the clear barrier. The sounds echoed, inhuman snarls and ragged groans, all designed to convince your body that escape was narrowing.
She was visibly trembling now. Every new thud against the glass made her jump. Jonathan’s posture shifted. He lowered his shoulders, his arm slightly extended as if to block her path if necessary.
A decaying face slammed against the barrier inches from her. She gasped and reflexively grabbed his coat, pressing close to his side. Her breath was coming quicker now.
He leaned down, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “Don’t worry. The dead don’t rise.”
A pause.
“Not unless you give them tenure.”
Despite the surge of fear, she laughed, just a little, and he smiled to himself.
But inwardly, Jonathan took note. Her fear wasn’t playacting anymore. Her body language was shifting. Her pupils were dilated, her heart rate accelerated.
Each room was hitting her harder than the last.
They entered the last set through a heavy steel door, and the air changed. It was colder and drier. The lighting was dim and green-tinged. Jagged shadows stretched across the cracked asylum walls. The floor creaked beneath their feet. Distant audio played the looped sound of distorted breathing, overlaid with maniacal laughter and clinical rambling.
She slowed her steps. Her hand gripped Jonathan’s coat as they stepped forward. Hanging fluorescent lights buzzed and flickered above what looked like an abandoned lab. Broken glass, fake blood, and long-forgotten patient records littered the floor. There were cages and restraint chairs. A blood-smeared chalkboard with equations. The air reeked of ammonia and burnt rubber.
Then came the voice. “They said fear was irrational. But I studied it. I grew it.”
A man stepped from the shadows, thin, cloaked in tattered burlap and leather. A stitched hood masked his face, the outline of a gas mask beneath. Rusted syringes hung from his belt. A tank hissed on his back. He moved with precision. The performance was unhurried and methodical. And his height? Unnervingly close to Jonathan’s.
“You’re all infected now,” the fake Scarecrow said. “Let’s see what breaks first. Your body… or your mind.”
She froze.
Even though she knew it was an actor, knew it was all for show. The voice, walk, and the hiss of compressed air was all too real. Too deliberate. Her breathing grew shallow, her grip on Jonathan’s arm tightening to the point of pain. She'd faced the real Scarecrow before. She wouldn't have been the only one. And since he was still unknown, not identified, the trauma for some would be so much higher.
Jonathan stopped walking. He stared at the figure without fear or even analysis.
The Scarecrow actor raised a finger and pointed at them. “You… look like a volunteer. Step forward and face your fear.”
She shrank back, shaking her head. Her whole body was trembling now, and her eyes were wide, locked on the looming figure in burlap.
Jonathan moved between her and the actor.
The actor tilted his head. “Scared, Doctor?”
It was part of the script. A line they probably said to half the guests. But it struck something.
Jonathan stepped forward, his voice low and level. “You’re doing an excellent job,” he said, tone deceptively calm. “But if you come any closer, I'll teach you the difference between performance and pathology.”
The Scarecrow actor faltered, clearly thrown by his words or the steel in his voice. He backed up without a word.
Jonathan turned, shielding her with his body, and guided her out of the set.
As soon as the door closed behind them, she exhaled shakily and dropped her head against his chest.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know it’s just a guy in a costume--”
He wrapped his arms around her. “That wasn’t fear of a costume,” he murmured. “That was something deeper.”
She nodded. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Jonathan’s expression was unreadable. But he pressed a kiss to her hair. “Let’s go home.”
They waved to the staff on their way out and headed for the car. Thanks to Mrs. Halsey’s pass, they were in and out in just over an hour. She was still visibly rattled, her arms folded tightly in her lap on the ride home. But it was fading now, unraveling like a held breath.
By the time they pulled into the driveway, her tension had softened. She thanked him again, brushing her hand against his on the center console. He nodded, but inside, he was watching and cataloguing, still not entirely sure how he gotten roped into this tradition. Or why he didn’t hate it.
Upstairs, he quietly drew a bath for her. He didn’t say anything, just ran the water, added the rain scent she liked, and stepped out to give her time.
A few minutes later, he came back to check on her. The overhead light was off now, replaced by a dozen flickering tea lights lining the counter and tub. The scene had the hush of a private ritual with low candlelight flickering against tile, steam rising in lazy curls around her as if the whole room exhaled. She’d sunk into the water, her arms resting on the porcelain edge, her skin dewy with steam. She was letting go, retreating somewhere safe. There was a stillness to it, like walking in on something sacred.
Her gaze lifted to meet his, and she smiled. “You could join me,” she says softly.
He raises a brow. “Why not.”
It wasn’t something he’d planned on. Baths were a little too slow and vulnerable for him. But he wasn’t about to walk away from her, not when the night had unsettled her more than she wanted to admit. And maybe, if he was being honest, he wanted that quiet closeness. The way her body relaxed when he was near. The strange, unfamiliar comfort of being wanted not for what he could do, but just for who he was.
He stripped off and stepped in, settling behind her. She leaned back against his chest and exhaled, and for a moment the world just stilled. The haunted house was forgotten, the darkness quiet.
“Feel better now?” he murmurs against her temple.
She nodded. “I do.”
They stayed like that for a few heartbeats more before she spoke again.
“It was different,” she says, voice low. “Seeing that… fake version of him.”
He just knew that’s what she was still lingering on. It had clung to her since they walked out. And the moment she said it, the tight coil in his chest pulled tighter.
Of course it had gotten under her skin. Of course it was him she couldn’t let go of.
Jonathan leaned his head back against the porcelain, still angry. Not just because the actor had gotten too close, but because they dared to turn the Scarecrow into spectacle. Some cheap jump-scare for suburban thrill-seekers to giggle through. Never mind that he was still active. Still an unknown. Still feared.
They had no idea.
And yet… she did.
Jonathan doesn’t move. “How so?”
She stared into the water. “The one at the haunted house... he talked too much. He was trying to be scary. The real Scarecrow didn’t have to try. He didn’t move unless he meant to. He didn’t speak unless he had something to say. He was quiet. And when he did look at you…”
She shivers, but not from the water.
“He was fear.”
She wasn’t just recalling it, she was reliving it. Like some echo of that night had risen up from memory and was now sitting with them in the steam.
He was fear. The words rang in his chest like a bell struck too hard. She understood.
Not the way Falcone did, not the way the League tried to, not like those poor fools in the sewers whispering about monsters under Gotham. This wasn’t mythos or branding or terror for power’s sake. This was pure. The kind of fear that strips a person down to their instincts, their truth.
She’d seen the Scarecrow for what he really was. And she’d survived. No, more than that. She’d emerged changed. Marked by it and somehow, still capable of curling up beside him afterward without ever knowing.
Jonathan didn’t interrupt, just let the silence settle between.
He was supposed to be in control. The architect of fear. And yet, he couldn’t help but wonder what it meant that she had met that part of him face-to-face… and didn’t run.
“What’s really strange,” she says, “is that even as scared as I was… I was more afraid for Lexi that night at the gallery.”
His chest rises slowly behind her. “Why?”
“I could feel his intention,” she whispers. “He wanted to hurt her. I don’t know how I knew, I just… did. And I remember thinking, I had to protect her.”
There’s a long pause.
“And what about you?” Jonathan asks, voice deceptively soft. “Were you afraid for yourself?”
She turned her head slightly, just enough to glance back at him. “No,” she says quietly. “I know it sounds crazy, but… I didn’t feel like he wanted to hurt me.”
Jonathan swallowed, unsettled in ways he couldn’t define, because it was him. She should have been afraid. But she wasn’t.
And yet, some treacherous part of him is… relieved.
She smiled then, a little tired but still warm. “Tonight was wonderful,” she says. “Thank you.”
He didn’t know what to do with that, the gentle trust she gave him so freely. But it made something inside him settle.
They relaxed into the quiet together, wrapped in steam and candlelight, the weight of Halloween giving way to something tender, and private.
Leaning against him, her heartbeat was a steady cadence beneath his hand. He felt the last traces of fear leaving her system, replaced now with peace. She felt safe here. With him.
It should have comforted him. Instead, it unsettled him.
She didn’t understand what he was. Not yet. She didn’t know what he’d done, what he was still capable of. And yet, she looked at him like he was some kind of anchor in the dark. She trusted him. Believed in something better than the man who stood by the bed early each morning and watched her sleep just to make sure no one else ever would.
"Also, his voice was all wrong," she added cautiously, “The Scarecrow guy? Whoever they hired sounded like he had bronchitis.”
Jonathan smiled. “I’ll be sure to pass that along to the casting department,” he muttered dryly, wrapping his arms around her.
She smirked. “Tell them to lose the straw hat, too. The real one wasn't wearing one of those."
“Blasphemy,” he said, settling his chin on her shoulder. “The hat stays.”
She laughed, and the sound echoed warmly off the tile.
And just like that, fear retreated and she relaxed back into his arms.
I wasn't about to repost one of my most anti Grace fics but since I'm being loved on by several pro tommy grace accounts anyway, I'll make it happen. ❤️
Someone has lost their absolute mind on tumblr today. The thing that is so funny is they are accusing the absolute wrong people! There are so many people that do not like the blogger who actually causes negativity and has made the whole fandom unpleasant. I only know what is posted because I get screen shots.
I genuinely have no idea, feel free to send me screenshots and give me all the tea ☕! Lol
(my health lately sucks so I'm pretty much grounded home and bored, don't blame me for being nosey)
