peaky blinders imagines

your father nearly loved me part one; tommy shelby

You had been staring at your shoes for a minute now. They were the only thing that still fully made sense. The weather, this inexplicable June cold, made no sense. The doctor's hand, heavy on your shoulder, made no sense, because you were perfectly healthy. His voice, a low, deep echo, that you figured Tommy would sound like if he were a coal miner instead of an expert criminal, in your ear, telling you you were pregnant, made no sense.
You and Tommy had always, always been safe, and you knew that was because of Grace. You didn't know all the details, doubted you ever would, but you knew she was something to Tommy that you or any other woman were never be.
But she betrayed him, you justified to yourself, night after night as you lay in Tommy's bed and he told you he loved you and you heard an unspoken, Grace, at the end.
She was an agent of the Crown. She tore a hole in the business. She ran away to America rather than face what she'd done.
But she was gone now, you told yourself, over and over and over again, as you lay awake at night and he held you in a way that told you Grace was just a bit shorter than yourself, with a slightly longer neck.
He loved you, in his own way. Of that you had no doubt. But the love he had for you was convenient; you'd never make him fight for you, never endanger the name Shelby in any way. And now he was the father of your first child.
You hadn't seen Tommy all day. Polly was the one who took you to the doctor; she never liked Grace, she told you, and if he tied you down, that'd be one Shelby woman she'd trust. Harrumph!
You're a replacement, a little voice in the back of your head told you. You're not you, you're 'instead of Grace'.
Tommy hadn't shown his face in the Garrison all day. None of the women knew where he was, and you mustered Esme from her books to sit and stress about your respective Shelby men.
He returned a little past midnight, finding you in your shared room, staring at the bottle of whiskey he kept on the dresser. He was ashen, and bleeding from somewhere above the eyebrow, and as you rose to greet him, he grabbed your wrists and held you still with a look that said you wouldn't like what you were about to hear.
"I respect you," he told you. "I have a great deal of respect and admiration for you, and that's why I won't sugarcoat this. Grace has returned, I have gotten her pregnant, and I intend to marry her."
He didn't say love, that little voice reminded. He respects you. He admires you. He doesn't love you.
You took a step back from him, and he gave you a pleading look, as if genuinely surprised you weren't on board with this.
"You cheated on me."
"Yes."
"With Grace."
"Yes."
"You've gotten her pregnant."
"Yes."
"You intend to marry her."
"Yes."
"If you say yes one more time I will not be held accountable for what I do to you, you pathetic bastard," you nearly screamed, startling him into taking three steps back.
He looked nearly scared, and that satisfied you.
"I'm sorry," in a voice a shade hoarser than a whisper.
You shook your hand, and subconsciously, your hand came to rest over your stomach protectively. He noticed, and blanched a few shades paler.
"You're..."
"Yes."
"And it's..."
"Yes, Tommy. I'm not a cheater."
He looked into your eyes for the first time in the conversation, and dropped to his knees, staggered, wincing like the impact jostled some more serious injury. He rested his forehead against your stomach, mumbling swears and gripping your waist lightly with broad palms.
"Marry Grace."
"What?"
"You don't love me, Thomas Shelby. Maybe you never did. I won't play second fiddle to that woman for the rest of my life. Marry her. Be the best father you can be to that child. I'll take care of this one."
He had nothing to say, a situation you considered an absolute first.
And so you walked out of the door of the Garrison for the last time, leaving behind your almost lover and whatever shred of a life you'd built with him.