peaky blinders imagines

the ghost of your memory haunts me to this day; tommy shelby

It was always cold at three in the morning. No matter if Birmingham was caught in the trap of sweltering summer months, or if the snow falling was stained black with soot, the early morning hours always brought with them a peculiar chill. You endeavored to stay in bed during those chilled hours, training yourself to stay asleep even if Tommy had to leave before the sun had risen.
It was your turn to leave early that day, shivering under a fur coat as you waited at the train station for the 3:30 to Edinburgh. Tommy was staying the night in London, so you slipped out under cover of darkness, unwilling to confront him while you were leaving.
You had loved him for the better part of two years, but your breaking point had been reached, and there was no coming back once you'd slipped over that ledge. It had been one too many nights of cleaning blood off of his face, one too many near-death scares, and the knowledge that every time you got even remotely angry with him he took his frustrations out with a prostitute.
Loving Tommy Shelby was, for lack of a better word, killing you.
There were three people at most aboard your train, so you occupied a compartment with a large window, balancing your chin in your hand and watching Small Heath slip away from you.
You'd left a small note, about a third of a page in your large handwriting.
I love you, it said, and I'm sorry, but I can't do this anymore.
He'd find it around ten, which was approximately when he'd return home. The initial reaction would be anger, you figured, which would melt into denial and then despair. He would try to find you, that much was certain. You were confident Edinburgh wouldn't be high on his list, and you planned to purchase a ticket to New York within the next month.
-
Polly figured out where you were far before any of the Shelby men.
Her father had died in Edinburgh thirty years to the day she encountered you on the street, on her way to visit his grave.
You were correct about Tommy's reaction, she'd told you; he'd been a ticking grenade for three days, conversation barren of any emotions besides a tightly simmering anger, but that had collapsed into a husk of a man, who went about his duties robotically.
"Come home," she implored. "Lord knows we all miss you."
But you were adamant, and so she agreed to keep your location a secret. It was lonely, by yourself in Scotland. You rarely saw the sun, and it had started to affect your mood, spending long days staring at the lumber yard across the street from your townhouse and pretending every man in a peaky cap was Tommy. You'd taken a job as a seamstress in a local shop, mending clothes for honest men; doctors and teachers who-you reminded yourself-were innocent, unlike the man you couldn't seem to wrench yourself from.
Polly had taken upon herself to write to you once every few weeks, letters which were manipulative at best and made you tear up from the breadth of which you missed your former life.
He'd framed a photo of the two of you and put it on his desk, one letter said.
He'd taken to long walks around his estate, staring up into the window of your former bedroom, another added as a postscript.
He's gotten impatient, the most recent one told you. He's coming to find you, and I don't intend to stop him.
-
There was, you reflected as a sharp, familiar knock sounded at your door, really no stopping Tommy Shelby.
You were hesitant to open the door, but there was no avoiding the situation. He knew where you were now, and if he had to return every day, he'd do it.
So you unbolted the door excruciatingly slowly, and as soon as the man on the other side heard the last lock slide out of place, he opened the door himself.
Tommy's face turned a pale grey at the sight of you, breathing in raggedly and leaning against the doorframe to steady himself. He was thinner than you recalled, cheekbones jutting out rudely like an interruption to a conversation, and his tie was loose around his neck.
He didn't say a word at first, stepping closer to you and tenderly moving a piece of hair behind your eye.
"How did you find me?" You ask in a low whisper, not wanting to ruin the mood he'd set.
"I have an OBE, my love. I was always going to find you one day."
You scoffed at him, offended by the use of his title of OBE as evidence of anything but how manipulative he was. Whatever expression had crossed your face at that point seemed to silence him. Moving ever closer, slowly as to ensure you didn't flinch or move away from him, he dropped his forehead to your shoulder, hands holding your wrists.
"I love you," he said lowly. "More than I...ever made you aware. It didn't...occur to me how desperately I need you before I tried to function without you for six months."
"So you didn't love me until I left you."
"Yes," he groaned, digging himself further into the bones of you. "I am a fool. You know that. Please don't leave me to navigate it on my own."
You sighed and eased his cap off his head, careful not to touch the razors. He sighed as you ran your hands through his hair, the pounding against his skull retreating.
"I missed you more than I thought was possible," you said honestly.
"Come back. Please. My life is crumbling around me," he beseeched, and though sentiments such as these would have made you roll your eyes even a month earlier, there was a hole in your heart that could only be filled by Tommy Shelby beside you, so you dropped a kiss to the center of his hair, and he clutched you tighter.