WOUNDS THAT NEVER HEAL || tommy shelby x reader

chapter one

Two Years After Leaving Birmingham

There it was again; that same stationary; that same address—

Another letter from Tommy's estate. Two within the space of sixth months. The first; a wedding invitation, to the joining together of Thomas Shelby and Grace Burgess—you'd ripped it to shreds. You knew Polly had been the one to invite you anyway.

This one, you didn't know, and a part of you never wanted to break open the wax seal on the back.

A few times it had dawned on you how the hell the Shelby's knew where you operated now, but that was actually your fault. When you'd moved into The Red Rose, you sent Polly a letter, after far too much gin. It wasn't even a letter, it was just one of your business cards that you'd had made—your name, your business hours, and your business address. Maybe they knew that you lived in the same place, but maybe not.

You pondered about whether or not the Shelby's actually cared about you anymore. After you'd intruded on their lives, screwed up parts of their business, been a pain and got yourself kidnapped—

Left without saying goodbye.

Did they care about you now? After all the time that had passed?

From the look of things, the Shelby's were doing incredibly well for themselves. Tommy owned an estate, business was booming, they'd moved up in the world from a small bookies on Watery Lane. You didn't know if you were worth their pay grade anymore—probably not.

Besides, your life was here now.

You loved your speakeasy more than any person.

You craved the thrill of opening the doors at eight every night.

You needed the liveliness of the band, the cocktails, the laughter—

All of the things you'd thought you wanted from another person, you'd got on your own. All of that time you wasted overthinking things, you'd finally found a way to gradually get it back.

So why were you still thinking about them?

"What's that?" Martin chided from behind the bar. You fiddled with the letter in your hands.

"None of your concern," You replied, before folding it in half and sticking it in your trouser pocket. Martin almost pouted.

"Come on, fancy stationary, a bloody wax seal. It's not from the King, is it?" You shot him a scowl.

"Just do your job, Martin," The words that left your mouth tasted sour. Martin frowned at you, his brows furrowing into something sad. You kept your expression blunt, before turning away and doing the final checks before opening.

"You know, I'm your friend, right?" You stopped at Martin's words. "You don't think I notice how cut off you are from other people? You don't think I notice when something is on your mind?" You refused to look at him. "We've known each other, what, two years now? But still I hardly know anything about you. Sure, I know that you prefer coffee in the morning than tea. I know that you like to wear trousers instead of skirts. I know that you have a weird amount of knowledge about business that, frankly, a twenty-two-year old woman doesn't usually know,"

You held your breath, waiting for him to finish—praying for him to stop.

"But I don't know you, Y/N." He stopped, and a strange atmosphere floated through the room.

"I'm not important," You spoke. "You don't need to know me,"

"I'd like to, though. I just want to—help. Help a friend."