peaky blinders imagines

benedict arnold and his son; michael gray

It was odd, waking up to the sound of birds chirping instead of machines revving and smokestacks belching out acrid air. The time you were roused was about the same as it would have been in Small Heath, never later than half past five, but you had yet to get used to country living.
You'd never been one for peace and quiet and wheat rustling in the wind, but you could tell Michael was happier for being there.
As well as he had adjusted to the fast-walking, head down life in the city, he had spent the strong majority of his life in a small village, and you knew that was always where he would feel most at home.
The silence might drive you insane sometimes, but there was no denying how thrilled you were to be away from the Shelby family business. Even while you were eight months along with your son, Tommy was always one heist that needed bait away from putting you and your family in danger. He'd barely spared a congratulations when Michael had announced your pregnancy, and he'd always seemed to regard the two of you as objects he could use to further advance his business interests, not Polly's son and his wife.
The final straw had come the week before you were due to give birth. Arthur had come by your small house by the docks and gruffly informed Michael he would be needed for two weeks up in London, to police some suspicious German activity around Sabini's club. Your protests fell on deaf and uncaring ears.
You gave birth to a son, George James, eight days later. By the time Michael returned, his first child was nearly a week old.
There were perhaps three instances you could recall of Michael crying in the four years you'd known him, but when you handled him his son, with his eyes and your nose, he burst into tears.
He was so sorry, he told you. He should've told his cousins no, should have been there for you when you gave birth.
The decision to leave was made that night.
You packed up all you deemed necessary, and took the first train out to the country the next morning.
The town you resided in now was two hours from where Michael had spent the first seventeen years of his life. It was called East Egg, and though grudgingly, you had grown to love it.
It helped, of course, the peace of mind the town gave you. No one knew where you were, and it was a freedom you'd not experienced in years to know that there was not even a possibility of a frantic phone call or begging letter from any number of Shelbys beseeching you to return.
A week ago, George had taken his first steps with his father waiting for him on the other side of the parlor, arms outstretched.
"It's all I ever wanted," he said, pulling you to him and dropping a quick kiss to your forehead. "To be there for you and the kids."
You didn't comment, then, on his use of a plural to refer to your offspring; so safe and cooped up here in your pocket of the English countryside, what was there to stop you from having four or five more?
You should not have been so quick to doubt the resourcefulness of Thomas Shelby.
It was a year and a half to the day you'd left when he found you again. It was just past breakfast time, and Michael was the one who answered the door, face half covered in shaving cream.
"Love?" He called into the house. "Take Georgie and bring him into the bedroom, alright?"
"What's going on?" You asked, inadvertently walking directly into Tommy's line of sight with your son balanced on your hip.
"So it's a boy," he commented acridly, nodding a greeting towards you. "Congratulations."
"We don't want your bloody congratulations," your husband spit. "Get the fuck out and leave us alone."
"...Your mother misses you terribly."
"My mother fucked the man your wife used to work for to get me out of prison. There's something terribly wrong with that woman."
Something akin to anger flashed in Tommy's eyes when Michael mentioned Campbell, but he tampered it down expertly, taking a step into the house and reaching a casual arm towards you.
"Can I say hello to my nephew, then?"
You shook your head vehemently and he sighed, turning to clamp a hand onto your husband's shoulder.
"The business needs you, Michael."
"I don't bloody need you people, Tommy. I've a wife and a son and I'd like to know I'll live to watch him get married. Leave us the fucking hell alone and forget you even figured out where we live."
You expected the ensuing stare down to be aimed at Michael, but instead, Tommy looked directly at you.
"Grace misses you, you know. If you ever decide chickens and three neighbors at the most aren't the life for you, you'll always know where I am."
Tommy left in his typical dramatic fashion, coat swinging behind him and door slamming shut harder than was necessary, cringing against its hinges.
"Promise me we're never going back," you implored Michael, hand reaching out to smooth his collar while he stared into the entryway with a snarling expression.
"I promise," he told you, tugging you into his side and kissing your son on the forehead.