sweet french. peaky blinders

77

Dawson

Dawson had imagined his first time back in his beloved London as a sentimental time. Perhaps he would walk into the club that had once been his and would be his again, planning each change he would make in favour of forgetting it all. Maybe Lucille could have been there- Tommy too. In no time he could have invited Ada to the reopening party, a grand occasion that everyone who mattered would go to.

His actual first time in the city had ruined all dreams he had of his future there. The attack that took place during the purchasing of Thomas's new horse had only elevated the conflict. After all, the Peaky Blinders were not known for their forgiveness, nor known for their ability to forget. The family thrived on grudges, it would seem, as many of such familial organisations would. Not that Dawson would know- his family had never been much of a family. Not in the way the Shelbys were. They would circle the world five times over just to protect their own, to bring justice to those who'd wronged them.

It was only to be expected, in face of the attack, that the family would retaliate. Lucille had been present and in the small amount of time she'd been there, even without the wedding ring on her finger, still people knew to avoid her when it came to their petty grievances. Tommy's fuse was short when it came to all things involving his family, even shorter still when it came to the French woman and their lovable daughter.

That was not to mention Michael, the newest, fresh-faced cousin who'd finally made an appearance in Birmingham. Dawson didn't yet know the extent of his involvement. Lucille had helped to bring him home sure, but why he'd ever been away, he had not been told. It seemed to be a touchy subject, for Polly especially, and though her boy had been in some way involved in the attack, she did not know of their retaliation immediately, nor did she know of the purpose. Not yet, anyway.

But London greeted the Peaky boys with violent delight.

Dawson could not describe the sense of elation that swelled within his body, for he had not felt it before. It was a strange feeling, spurring him forward from beside John, following Arthur's loud and boisterous suggestions. A sensation that might have terrified him, had it not been his own pub they were heading to, readying to barge through the front doors like soldiers at war, like the men they used to be.

Perhaps he'd missed it, in some, messed up way. Dawson had never really given himself time to think of such a thing. The breaks in conflict had always been distracted with something else: first, it was the time with Lucille, injured and hiding away from occupying enemy soldiers, and then, after the war, he'd thrown himself full force into his business in the town. Before all that, there had been multiple ventures that'd clouded his mind of all the problems his life had brought as if they were metal to his magnet. The romance with the lady had come at the worst time of his life, worse than his time in France if that was even possible, and she only saw that his life went even further south still, demanding the takeover of his beloved club and the threatening of his very life.

As they bounded up the front steps, voices whirling into the wind and disappearing within the booming notes of jazz, Dawson could feel his blood boil beneath his skin. This had all once been his. The golden ceilings, casting a distorted reflection of what took place below. The bar that wound perfectly around the room, lined with drinks imported from every country possible. The openness that occurred amongst the crowds, no shame allowed, whether it be of partner or dress sense. Sabini had ruined only a little of what he had left behind, but still, he could feel the tightness in the air.

It was only as he caught a look at Arthur's face, that his confidence began to falter. Such excitement twisted his face cruelly, that it was almost as if looking at the devilish carvings that were placed outside graveyards. It was fitting, Dawson thought with a startle, that Arthur Shelby should look like the creatures that prayed on the solemness of graveyards when he himself had placed so many men there.