peaky blinders imagines

brutal murder with gentle intentions; tommy shelby

Occasionally, Tommy would find squatters outside his house. They'd hold out their palms, and he'd give them a few pounds and send them on their merry way. But still, they were very rare, and they usually stayed outside the gate, alert for the first moment they heard tires crunching the gravel of the driveway.
These people generally only popped up in the summer months, taking advantage of the loose pockets and loose attitudes of August, and went back to London in the autumn.
There was a body crumpled up on Tommy's doorstep on a Sunday in mid-December. It looked like a woman, from what he could see from a distance, and her head was turned away, envelope resting lightly in her right hand.
He stopped the car and sent one of the men in the back seat to investigate. The Blinder jogged up casually and gently turned the woman's head to face him, before doing a double take so violent it looked straight out of a Chaplin movie.
"What is it?" Tommy called, anxiously drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
"Sir, it's...it's your wife."
The blood that was thrumming in his ears stopped abruptly, and he wondered vaguely if finding his wife crumpled up on their doorstep was a sign he'd died and gone to some heinous circle of Hell.
"She's bleeding, sir!" The Blinder called back, and he snapped out of his musings of purgatory, throwing the car door open so wildly it nearly snapped back and crushed him, sprinting towards you.
He dropped to his knees in front of you so hastily he was surprised his knee bones didn't shatter, cradling your face and shaking his head rapidly as the Blinder gently grasped the envelope and pulled it from your hand. Tommy crouched and maneuvered you into his arms, standing up slowly as your head lolled onto his shoulder and you sighed against his suit.
"Sir," the Blinder said suddenly, "it's from Mr. Kimber. He says Happy Holidays."
"Kimber."
"Yes, sir."
"Kimber bloody did this...FUCK!"
The Blinder turned and left rapidly, picking up unspoken signals from Tommy and unwilling to stay and watch his boss have a mental breakdown.
He kicked the door shut and set you down on a chair so he could double bolt the lock and slide all the chains into place. When he walked the few paces back to you, you were half-awake, blinking groggily and inquiring as to what happened.
"You need to rest for now, my love," he told you.
Your sleep addled brain seemed to accept this answer, and you were asleep before he could even pick you up again.
-
When you woke up, the sun was just beginning to rise, the pale light in the room harshly highlighting the bruises on your arms as you blinked the sleep out of your eyes and began to observe your surroundings.
Tommy was sitting in the rocking chair on the opposite side of the room, head in his hands; he was clearly not asleep, as every muscle in his body was tensed and he was tapping his foot incessantly, as if performing the most stressful tap dance ever conceived.
"Tommy," you said softly, hand gripping the blankets that faced out towards him, too weak to lift your arm and reach.
His head shot up like you had yelled fire, and he said your name in the most broken tone you had ever heard. Slowly, he extricated himself from the chair, dragging it over to your bedside so he could sit and frame your face with two broad, clammy hands.
He repeated your name again, thumbs tracing up and down your cheekbones, back and forth like the pendulum of a grandfather clock, making up for the time he nearly lost with you.
"I am," he swallowed, "so sorry."
You shook your head, still bewildered.
"I still don't know what happened, Tommy."
"Kimber. Took you from me. Decided to beat you half near death to prove a fucking point, I don't know..."
He swore loudly and launched the chair he had been sitting in across the room, panting and resting his hands on his knees.
After about thirty seconds, he turned back to face you, expression oddly calm, even though you thought you could see tears brewing in his eyes.
"I've never been so angry in my life, my love. Billy Kimber and his men will get what is coming to them, I swear to you. I will rip out every tendon of muscle from every single one of those pathetic, worthless, cowardly bastards until they are all screaming for their mothers and I ask them if they're sure their mothers would be proud of what they were doing."
You looked back up at his eyes; he was crying now, great heaving sobs that bent him in half and, when you streaked blood on his face trying to wipe the tears away, made him look three-quarters insane, as if you were already dead and he was living in hell. He stopped after a while, and very abruptly crouched down to untie his laces and chuck his shoes by the doorway. Tommy made his way over to your bed, and you began to move over to make room for him, but there was a hesitancy you had not seen in his face since the night he came back from the War and you had to convince him you loved him still, and it gave you pause.
"I...would you...can I hold you?"
"Tommy," you grasped his nearest hand to you with both of your own, "you never have to ask me that question."
Your husband looked at you for a while, and you knew he would willingly banish himself to the couch in the parlor for the rest of his life if it could take back what happened to you. He got under the covers with you very, very slowly, giving you time to adjust to all the small movements he made, before you settled against his chest and he breathed out a choked-up sigh.
"I don't see how I'd go on living if you were dead." At your questioning look he smiled, tracing your face with the back of his index finger. "If I'd come home and found you dead, I most likely would have killed myself." The abrupt admittance of his hypothetical suicide was a brutal juxtapose to the careful, precious way he was holding you and the pure love burning in his eyes whenever they met with your own.
"Your family needs you, Tommy."
"And I need you to live, my love, so forgive me if I don't leave your side for the next month."
You laid your head back on his chest and he stroked your hair absentmindedly, and you pretended not to notice his hands were shaking.