sweet french. peaky blinders

58

Tommy

The doors settled with a rough clang. Tommy was silent for a moment, his jaw set and eyes clouded as he looked at Lucille and Dawson who sat by the bar. They weren't supposed to be here.

"Tommy, are you alright?" Lucille asked, starting toward him.

He shook his head. "What are you doing here?" He shouted. Lucille stepped backward, startled. "You weren't supposed to be here!"

He rounded the bar, hands sliding across the bottom shelves that were thick with dust. His hands shuffled around the gun that's he'd left. Pulling it up, he slid it across the bar.

"Tom, lad, calm down! What's going on?" Dawson said, eyeing the gun on the bench.

Tommy hurried toward the back door, ignoring the question. He threw his hat to the table after opening the latch, hair dripping with water, coat soaked through to his shirt. The table was pulled back from the middle, two chairs pulled in front and one behind.

"Tommy. Tell us what's going on, please," Lucille said, catching him by the arm.

They weren't supposed to be here. Tommy wanted to scream out, to throw the table from its legs, to let out his anger with a hard hit. It wasn't supposed to go like this. Lucille wanted to be involved, to help, but this was too much.

"Tommy."

"When the St Andrew's bell strikes midnight, two IRA men are gonna come through that door," he stepped forward, taking her chin between his fingers.

Her forehead was creased, as it always was these days, setting fine lines on her soft skin. Clearing his throat, his eyes flashed away, before coming back to rest on her own sparkling eyes.

"When they have what they want, they plan to kill me," he said.

He felt her hands tighten in a fist around the thick material of his coat. Lucille's eyes flashes wide, and from behind her, Dawson swore loudly.

But before she could speak, he said, "it wasn't supposed to be like this, Lucille. But I need you to stop that from happening."

She nodded eagerly, head resting weakly upon her neck. The look that flashes upon her face was solemn, but desperate. Lucille would do anything for him, and though he appreciated it... she was the mother of his child. He loved no one more than her and their daughter. Tommy oils to have her putting herself in harms way just for him.

"I'll do anything, to stop that from happening," she said, moving a hand to rest on his cheek.

He leaned into her touch, but shook his head. "No. You won't do anything. You'll do what I tell you to and nothing else, you understand Lucille?" She blinked up at him in response. "Say you understand. You can't do things on a whim. Not this time."

Lucille eventually nodded, her eyes flickering nervously to the door. Tommy let his hands gravitate toward the gun that weighed down his pockets.

"Dawson, it's a lot to ask-"

He cut him off. "I owe you this," he said. "Whatever you need."

"The gun in the bar. I need you to stay in the private room. When I make a toast, you're gonna come out with that thing raised," he said, watching as his friend picked up the gun in his shaking hands. "Don't shoot. You just point. I'll do the rest."

Dawson nodded, but his hands still shook. He imagined it was the first time the boy had picked up a gun since the war. It just made Tommy all the more resentful to himself.

"Lucille, you'll be in the back room with this," he said, hesitating to put his own gun into her small hands. "You only come out if I make a second toast."

Her breath was wobbling. "Will you kill them?"

"No, the police want them alive," he said. "But if it comes to it... Lucille, you know how to use this."

He moved forward again, placing to hands strongly on either side of her face, her blonde hair falling over his finger tips. "You shot a bloody gun in France to get us out, remember?"

She nodded, the recognition not quite reaching her eyes. But then the clock struck quietly from behind them, crashing through the sudden silence with an ominous ring. It was seconds early, as the St Andrew's bell began to chime.

Tommy let out a hurried breath as he glanced back down to Lucille. He place one last peck to her forehead before he was rushing her to the back room. Dawson fled toward the private room, close to shutting the door before Tommy stopped it with his foot.

"I'm sorry to involve you," he said, glancing back down to his hands that hadn't stopped shaking. "But thank you."

Dawson just nodded, closing the door and ducking beneath the patterned glass.

The room was silent as Tommy made his way back to the middle of the room. He sat still, eyes trained on the door and the fogged windows that wrapped around the side of it.

The bell still rang as the doors were forced open, two men slipping through with dark stares on their faces. He was unmoving as he watched them sit, until he motioned to the whiskey, pouring a glass. The man to the right shook his head, pushing the glass of golden liquid back.

"Lost your thirst, eh?" Tommy said, head tilting to the side.

The man barred his teeth. "Just show us where," he said.

Tommy's eyebrows raised, he shook his head. "Give me the cash."

A piles of it was chucked to the table. Tommy reached over, pocketing the money. In his own turn, he pulled a slip of paper from his pockets and unfolded it once. A map lay face up as he slid it toward them.

"You're gonna need a shovel," he said, face remaining straight.

The two men glanced to each other, then to the paper, and then to Tommy. The map was folded and hidden. They shook their heads with a raw chuckle.

"You thick fucking tinker. Did you think we'd let you live?" The man to the left said.

Tommy smirked as the flash of a silver gun met his gaze. It was pointed to him, finger already itching to fire.

"Make your peace, Mr Shelby."

"I make peace my own way."

Tommy nodded. Hands reached toward the drink he'd poured minutes ago. It was raised, and Tommy made his first toast.

"To wanting things from life, without wanting life itself."

The door to the private room was ripped open, and Dawson came barrelling out, his arm raising, the gun an extension to his shaking hands. The men shouted, but Dawson advanced out, finger trembling, eyes darkening and grip tightening to a close around the trigger.

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