𝐲𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐬 ; tommy shelby

12 - 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐲 𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐧𝐭

12.

               Emma let the cold wind whip her hair as she walked up the misty drive away from the Petrova's mansion, hugging her long blue coat closer to her body. She had no intention of staying to continue her duties as Martha, the maid, or in fact ever stepping foot in that mansion again. She'd just done it to prove a point, and it was pretty easy considering how Polly had basically told her they were in business with the Petrova's.

"Ey!" A voice called out behind her. Tommy.

Emma didn't turn. This wasn't part of her plan. The next time she saw Tommy was supposed to be when he tracked her down to her hotel and demanded where she'd been all those months and how she'd found him. But it didn't seem to be working out like that.

He caught up with her, grabbing onto her shoulder. She turned around, her face still.

"Morning, Thomas," she said.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Emma?" He asked.

"I could ask you the same question," she said, smirking.

"You wanted to play another one of your little games, did you?" He demanded. He looked angry.

She shrugged, smiling.

"My brother?" He said. Or maybe he looked hurt, but all of a sudden Emma couldn't read him at all. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?" She challenged.

"Why do you play games with me?" He asked. "Is it some sick form of entertainment?"

Emma's smile grew. He was finally doing it. Finally beginning to rise to her challenge. She reached out a gloved hand and caressed his cheek with her leather fingers. She came closer, so that her lips were right by his ear.

"Maybe you should be asking yourself a question," she whispered. "Why do you care?"

Tommy shook her off and she stepped away. Maybe she hadn't got to him after all.

"Who the fuck are you?" He said quietly, his eyes scanning her face wildly for some sort of recognition, but she didn't give him anything.

"Don't you know already?" She asked, smirking. "I thought you had me figured out."

"Just fuck off," he whispered angrily.

"Genuine emotion looks good on you, Thomas," she taunted.

Tommy shook his head, heading past her towards his car.

"You can't keep running from me," Emma called after him, but he didn't look back.

Oh well, she thought with a smirk. He'll come back for more soon enough. After all, they always did.

               Patrick Burgess sipped tea from his China cup, his fat fingers clenched around the dainty handle like Cumberland sausages. Emma watched him add a dollop of cream to his scone messily, splattering some on his salmon tie.

"Do you have my money?" She said.

They were at the Birmingham tea rooms by a window that looked out onto the scenic countryside. Patrick did do a good job of ruining the view as he licked clotted cream off his thumbs.

Patrick pursed his lips begrudgingly as he pulled an envelope out of his inside jacket pocket, chucking it down onto the table.

"It's all there," he assured her. Not that his word meant anything to her.

Emma picked up the envelope, and sifted through the notes, counting quickly.

"Miss Burgess," an all too familiar voice said behind her as she added up the money.

Emma turned in her seat, eyes landing on Thomas Shelby. He looked down at her from where he was standing with a challenging look on his face. She knew that look. She saw it every time she looked in the mirror.

"Mr Shelby," she said, smiling back equally challengingly. She didn't want to seem thrown by his arrival, but it was hard not to show it. This was skimming too close, him in the same room as her uncle when he knew. "How are you?"

"Good," He said, nodding pleasantly. "And this must be the famous Uncle Patrick."

Emma gulped. Patrick set down his teacup disapprovingly and nodded with a grimace on his face.

"I've heard so much about you," Tommy said. Emma's head snapped towards him, her eyes open wide. "And your family."

Emma felt a growling pit form in her stomach. Why would he do that? A low grumble came from where Patrick was sitting.

"Anyway, I won't keep you," Tommy said, putting on his hat. He walked towards the door without looking back.

Emma turned back to her uncle, who's eyes were as wide with fret as her own.

"What did you tell him?" Patrick demanded in a hushed rage.

"Nothing, I swear," she pleaded.

"What the fuck was that then?" He spat.

"I don't know, I promise," Emma tightened her grip on the money. "I promise."

"I knew you weren't to be trusted," he shook his head, standing up. Emma jumped to her feet.

"I am," She said urgently. "You have to believe me."

"I don't have to do anything, child," he snapped, snatching the packet of money out of her grip. "And until further notice, consider yourself cut off."

"No, please!" Emma begged. She had barely any money left, enough to stay another few nights at the Grand Hotel, but after that...

Patrick marched out of the tearooms and Emma followed, her eyes fixed on the envelope swinging back and forth as he strode through the building.

She followed him out onto the gravel courtyard, where he climbed into his Rolls Royce.

"Please, Uncle Pa—," she called after him.

"Fuck off!" He interrupted, slamming the door.

The rolls Royce drove away, leaving Emma stranded and alone.

"Fuck," she muttered, blinking back tears.

She turned around, and there he was, right behind her leaning against the front door of the tea rooms.

"What was that?" She yelled, her eyes filled with tears. "Some twisted revenge?"

"You're one to call me twisted," he retorted. "Brother-fucker."

Emma shook her head and blinked. "I didn't fuck your brother, Thomas," she said. "It was just a kiss."

"Call it an eye for an eye," he said, lighting a cigarette carelessly.

"I have no money and I'll be homeless in a few days," she spat. "I'd hardly call that a fair blow for kissing your brother."

"Genuine emotion looks good on you," he said.

Emma stepped back, scanning his face. He didn't move, didn't give anything away, as usual. He must've thought he'd taught her a lesson or something, but he hadn't. All he'd done was prove what she'd thought all along: he was a worthy opponent for her game.

But him seeing her genuine emotion could mean she would lose. And Emma Burgess hated to lose.

The girl turned on her heel and marched through the gravel, her boots grinding against the white stones.

"You can't run from me forever," he mimicked.

"If I wanted a parrot I'd buy one," She called back angrily.

"You don't have any money, remember!" He shot back.

Damn you, Thomas Shelby. Damn you to hell.