peaky blinders imagines

etched; tommy shelby

Unenviably, you had become fairly used to seeing your husband wrapped in some form of bandaging. He came home from the war with a makeshift wrapping made out of a torn shirt wrapped around his left arm, where he had been shot. In the early days of the Peaky Blinders, before he began delegating tasks in earnest, Tommy would often go out and do the dirty jobs himself, and you'd then have to patch him up and chide his reckless behavior to deaf ears. He'd lean on you with a childish grin and thank you for taking care of him one again, and you'd scoff and say you practically didn't have a choice.
The extent to which you had exerted a positive influence over Tommy Shelby's life was not something he endeavored to make clear to you very often. He had difficulty at the best of times expressing his love for you, years of emotional suppression and his time spent as a soldier stopping the words dead in their tracks as they prepared to be spoken aloud. He'd asked you to marry him six months before he'd shipped out to France, and even on your wedding day, when you were so radiant in your dress and were smiling up at him like he paved the streets with gold, the most he could muster was a "You look beautiful. I love you."
It was like a dream come true to Tommy that you were willing to wait for him for as long as the war would take. You originally thought he'd be gone only for a few weeks-so did he, but as four weeks became months became years, you still wrote him letters diligently and kept Polly company as best you could. You'd barely known Finn before you married into the family, but you'd become as close to a mother to the younger boy as a sister in law could be. Your marriage itself had to be rushed, knowing that you'd have more legal rights in the event of Tommy's death if you were his spouse. That kind of negative outlook could have lead you to be withdrawn and tentative to interact with your fellow Shelby's, but you'd enfolded yourself in good favor with the remaining members of the clan as best you could. When Tommy finally stepped off the train, four years later, scanning frantically for his family, the first person he'd seen was you, bending down towards Finn to reassure him his brothers would be home within minutes. Tommy made a beeline straight for his wife, blocking out even Polly's sons of happiness, clasping your cheeks in his hands and kissing you as deeply as he could muster. Even then, with the weight of the world on his back and the recollection of the years he'd spent missing you, the most he could muster was "Thank you for taking care of Polly. I love you."
Words would always fail him, he eventually realized. He was not a poet, not even a bad one, like Keats. He'd learned to communicate with fists and with threats, and neither of those were useful when a man tries to tell his wife he loves her. He was also not prone to bouts of logical thinking. Something so permanent that it stays with one forever should not be done rashly. But again, he was Tommy Shelby, and was no great thinker, no John Shelby, and so he did it without consultation.
He also did it without probable cause. His wife was mostly a creature of habit, sticking to the same actions most every day, so it was a mystery as to why, looking at her reading the newspaper at breakfast like she did daily, Tommy decided he needed to get her name tattooed on his chest.
You came home later than usual that night, having volunteered to watch Karl while Ada had dinner with some potential business associates. It was about a quarter to eleven when you arrived home, opening the door to see your husband sitting at the kitchen table, shirtless, with a tightly packed row of bandages sitting above his heart and extending out about seven inches.
"What happened?" You inquired, not particularly alarmed at the morbidly familiar sight.
"What do you mean?"
"You've got bandages, what happened to you, Tommy?"
"Ah. Well, you see..." and he stood up and made his way over to you, clasping your hands together and pressing them gently against where the bandages rested.
"It's a tattoo," he informed you.
"Oh. I didn't know you were getting a tattoo."
"Neither did I until twelve hours ago," Tommy said gruffly, sitting back down at the table and beginning to peel off the bandages. You rushed over, initially planning to tell him to stop and let it heal, but pausing when you saw letters that began to look like your name.
You took a step back and let him finish, eyebrows raising when you realized he did have your name tattooed, in a thick cursive, over his heart.
"Tommy...what?"
Your husband reached his hand out and you took it, stepping close to his chest. Tommy wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you ever closer, and guided your hand to rest on the tattoo again.
"So you're always with me," he murmured. "I can't always...tell you that I love you, because God knows I'm not that kind of man, but you're in my heart. Every day."
"Christ, Tommy."
"You don't like it?"
"I probably shouldn't, but...I have to admit, it's sweet."
"Like you," he retorted, leaning in to kiss you through your resulting laugh.