After an unexplainable accident Annabelle finds herself hundred years in the past. In the boom of the 1920s, the era of Jazz and bootleggers. But it's not just the 20s she now has to deal with, she also happens to find herself stumble right into the...
My eyes finally left his face and trailed down to his bandaged chest. Just that the bandage wasn't white anymore, but instead a deep red where he was shot earlier.
In a swift motion, I rolled out of bed and opened the Shelby's wardrobe. There was no way I was going to put my bloody clothes from the day before back on. Luckily Thomas Shelby was a man ahead of his times and possessed a few somewhat modern briefs opposing the common union suits. Wearing one of his shirts, messily buttoned and a pair of briefs, I hurried into the bathroom, collecting a wet cloth, not paying attention to his mutters of protest.
"Come on sit up, we need to clean and change that bandage, otherwise it'll get infected."
Seeing my stern glance, he heaved himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, partially covering himself with a blanket.
"Yes Ma'am."
As carefully as possible I removed the sweaty bandage from around his torso and simultaneously cleaned the skin beneath it with the washcloth. The nurse in me felt awful for having him physically active even though he had fresh stitches. However the immature part of me couldn't help but slightly chuckle.
"Imagine explaining this to a doctor. 'sorry doc, my stitches opened because I was fucking too hard.'"
An ugly snort escaped my throat, after voicing my thoughts. Even Tommy chuckled slightly while shaking his head in disapproval. Much to my delight the stitches were still mostly intact and I wouldn't have to redo them. A simple compressor bandage would suffice.
"Where do you keep your bandages?"
"The drawer below the sink."
Five minutes later he was all patched up again and I even managed to tie a sling that would allow him to wear his shirts normally.
"Ok I want you to change that bandage at least every second day and as soon as the scabbing starts to apply some ointment. Otherwise that wound will leave a nasty scar."
A slight chuckle escaped his throat as he started playing with the hem of the shirt I was wearing.
"I don't care much for another scar on my body, there's plenty already."
After buttoning up the last button of his own shirt I let my hands rest on his shoulders, simply enjoying the moment of silence. Tommy's hand moved from the hem of my somewhat open shirt to the skin of waist, consequently pushing aside the fabric covering my stomach.
