peaky blinders imagines

how many times i've tried, my love; tommy shelby

At some points, your envy grew so great you had to stop yourself from beginning to hate John and Esme. Their collective capability of bearing children was so foreign to you that you felt a slight pang in your chest whenever you saw your nieces and nephews. Tommy and you had been trying for a child for years. It had been enough of an emotional hurdle for the shut-off man to admit he saw both a future and a family with you, and you had a legitimate fear that it wouldn't be long before he shut you out entirely. It wouldn't be beyond his reach to convince himself that his wife's inability to bear children was God punishing him for a life of sin.
But you did fall pregnant, so maybe God didn't hate Tommy Shelby as much as he should. It happened in the midst of a brutally cold winter, so bad the Garrison only bothered to open on weekends and the horse races had to be temporarily suspended. Tommy was overjoyed when you told him, ecstatic that he'd finally get the chance to be a father. It was foolish of you not to reign him in, even when your doctor had told you miscarriages were not uncommon, but you were so relieved and happy you let him tell the whole city.
You lost the baby in March. It would have been better, easier, if you'd lost the baby because you'd been shot, or been in an automobile accident, or anything else that regularly damages the body. It was none of those things; it was you, sitting at your desk in the newspaper office, feeling a sudden, twisting pain in your stomach and looking down to see a puddle of blood on the floor.
It would have been a boy.
It devastated Tommy more than anything had ever done before.
You'd seen him shut down before, you'd watched him crack his skull and self-medicate with cocaine, you'd watched him pretend like killing Alfie Solomons did nothing to him, but even Tommy couldn't pretend losing a child had no effect on him. The gradual loss of emotions was a painful thing to watch; first came shock, and the lack of realization that the doctors could do nothing to save your child, then came denial, as he fled to the nursery and cried into the teddy he'd painstakingly picked out for his son. Then, finally, came acceptance. It wasn't directed at you, in the beginning, assumedly because he hadn't forgotten yet that it wasn't your fault. It was directed at Esme, and the many members of her brood, who were befuddled at Uncle Tommy's shift from mostly tolerant and occasionally friendly to rude and unwelcoming.
It eventually became too much for him, and you couldn't decide whether to hate him for it or not. The loss of a child was devastation neither of you could have predicted, and it wasn't the type of trauma Tommy had become acclimated to; being shot was something that could be explained and seen. There was nothing to see. The hospital disposed of the remains.
Your husband began to lash out at you in July, four months after your baby died. It began small, just as his acceptance of the death had been initially. It was cold glances over the rims of his glasses, a raised eyebrow and a shake of the head when you asked if he was coming to bed, and an increased reliance on Lizzy for emotional support, a role you thought you had filled.
The first fight was built out of a seemingly random collection of circumstances. You worked at the newspaper full time, had done so for the entirety of your and Tommy's relationship, but your knowledge of and ties within the press lent you to the role of unofficial Peaky Blinders spokesperson as well. You'd been forced to comment on the lack of business over the past winter, a season you'd prefer to forget about, and had given a terse response, something about how if the docks couldn't work, none of Birmingham could. Unbeknownst to you, the lack of work and income had built up a resentment in the dock workers that lasted well into the summer.
Your visit to the docks, an errand for the paper, was then not well received, and a particularly angry dock worker had fired a gun towards you, missing your right leg only by a millimeter.
You would have been hard pressed to find a reason why being shot at would cause Tommy's angst and pessimism to be directed at you, but nothing Tommy said or did surprised you anymore. He'd been an entirely different person since the spring.
"What kind of an idiot insults the docks and doesn't expect to be shot at?" He'd spit at you later that night, half exasperated and half condescending.
"They asked me about the wintertime, Tommy. I don't need to remember being pregnant."
"I don't need to fucking remember it either but I see it every time I look at you."
"That's not my fault, Tom."
"I don't know about that, sweetheart, I wasn't the one who killed our fucking baby."
You stopped, and let your hands curl over the edges of the kitchen chair in front of you.
"That's not fair and you know it," you mustered in a voice little more than a whisper.
"I don't want to hear it from you," your husband spat. "Go sleep at Ada's. Go play with Karl, he's the closest you'll ever have to a son."
The last thing you wanted in that moment was to play the role of the obedient wife, but you could barely look at Tommy in that moment, and so you left.
You stayed at Ada's for a few days. He was right in one respect; Karl was hard to look at and his enthusiasm at seeing his auntie made your chest ache. You hoped to God your nephew wouldn't be the closest to a son, but it felt as though your window had all but closed.
She sent you home with kind words but a stern recommendation not to quit on her brother.
"You of all people know the man's not stable. How on earth he'd cope with losing his wife, I pray I never find out."
Tommy wasn't home when you arrived, and when he found you there a few hours later, he opted to act as if you'd never left, kissing the top of your head and asking what you felt like for dinner.
Uneasily, you and he fell back into what your routine was way back in the fall, before you'd had a glimmer of a child and you were content with one another. With the acclimation of your marriage case the resuming of your involvement with the family business as well, and they were mostly thrilled to have you back. John was especially aware of your struggle and had given you a strong hug and promised to lend an ear "when Tommy's inevitably a dick again."
Arthur was more than happy to greet you too, with an enthusiastic slap on the back and a "So it's good now, between you too, then?"
You nodded, glancing quickly towards Tommy and feeling stronger when he gave you a reassuring smile.
"Do you think you'll be trying again with the babies?"
You froze where you stood and the entire room seemed to freeze with you, with the one exception of your husband, who replied coldly; "No, Arthur, she'd probably kill off that one too."
You'd expected to be the one who'd have to run out of the office to hide her tears, but Tommy's brothers grabbed him by each of his arms and hustled him out of the office you'd convened in, calling him names and throwing apologetic glances over their shoulders.
"I'm going to tell him we're done tonight."
Polly nodded resolutely at your statement, brushing a comforting hand down your arm.
"You'll always have me if you need me."
It felt as though you'd been crying constantly since March, but that statement caused you to break down, resting on Polly's shoulder as you sobbed for the steaming wreckage of the life you assumed was secured.
You didn't have to wait long to confront Tommy. He came home not long past sundown, and stopped short when he saw you, somehow knowing you had to say something.
"I don't think this marriage is good for either of us, Tom."
He looked childishly confused, and it was nearly endearing.
"I lost our child nearly six months ago and you have not stopped making me feel like a murderer for it. I miss him just as much as you do Tom, I can't-" you started to choke up but swallowed hard to keep your emotions down "-I can't be with you when all you see me as is the mother I am not."
His expression changed to one of acceptance, and you found yourself wondering why he was reacting so oddly. He'd shown no interest in loving you since March.
"If that's...what you want."
"It is, Tom. I love you, but I haven't liked being with you in what feels like a lifetime."
Your husband nodded, unwilling or unable to make eye contact with you. "Just...give me a day to ask my attorney for the papers. And please don't feel like you have to find somewhere. You can sleep here tonight."
You nodded, stepping forward to press a gentle kiss to the center of his forehead. You turned around too fast to see him shudder.
A day turned into a few weeks, and you sensed he was stalling, but had felt so ill lately you barely had the strength to complain.
If you didn't know any better, you'd think the frequent sickness in the mornings and your slight gaining of weight was pregnancy, but you knew better. You knew better.
Polly didn't know whatever you'd told yourself you knew, however, and she insisted you see a doctor, driving you there herself. The entire appointment was a blur, but its outcome wasn't; you were pregnant. Again.
Fuck.
There was no point in keeping it from Tommy. He was the only man who could be the father, and he deserved to know. You could only pray this go around was better than the last.
You'd stepped into his study and he'd looked up, giving you a tentative smile (those had been more frequently administered lately, you figured he was trying something.)
"You need something, love?"
"I'm pregnant." You blurred out. "Again."
Tommy's face became lighter than you'd seen it in ages, a slow smile spreading as he stood up and made his way over to you.
"You're sure?"
"Went to the doctor's today."
He placed his hands on the curve of your waist, leaning in to touch his forehead with yours, gaze fixed on your stomach, not yet showing but containing what might be the salvation of your marriage.
"We have to try again," he told you. "We have to be better for this baby."
"What if I lose it again?"
He grimaced. "You won't. She'll be fine. I know it."
"She?"
"Father's intuition, my love. Come sit, we have a lot to catch up on."