WOUNDS THAT NEVER HEAL || tommy shelby x reader

chapter fifteen

When Tommy and the others left, you let out a sigh of relief that you hadn't realised you'd been holding.

At 3am, the Red Rose closed its doors. You and Martin waved goodbye to the staff and made your way upstairs. You changed, washed your face, got yourself ready for another night of no sleep at all.

It was all too real, all too fast. The Peaky Blinders were in your life again—something you'd silently vowed yourself not to let happen—yet here you were. Though, in this sense, it wasn't your fault; Tommy had been the one to appear, guns blazing, men stationed. It was him. Not you.

You stared at the ceiling, the minutes blurring into hours, until the sun began to shine through your curtains. You let out an exhausted sigh and got up, rubbing your tired eyes until they were red and irritated. You slipped on your night gown and made your way down the corridor to Martin's room.

You creaked the door open. He stirred, sitting up in bed sleepily. "Y/N?" He said softly, his voice nothing more than a croak. You smiled sadly at him and shut the door, making your way to his bed.

He lifted the covers and you slid in. He tucked you in, bringing his arms around you in an embrace. "Have you slept at all?" He asked.

"What do you think?" You said, nuzzling your head into his shoulder. Martin sighed through his nose.

"I hate that he makes you feel like this," He whispered. "He's a bastard. I can't believe—"

"I don't want to talk about him right now," You interrupted, and Martin stopped.

"Can you answer me one question about him? Then I'll be done," Martin asked. You didn't have the heart to refuse him. You nodded. "Do you still love him?"

You closed your eyes, and suddenly you were with Polly at the stables at Tommy's mansion. Her eyes were wide, glistening, the hint of a smile on her lips. Do you still love him?

You hadn't answered her back then.

"I don't know," You let out, finally. Martin only held you tighter. That's when the tears started. You hid your face from Martin as they fell down your face, too ashamed of this behaviour. You knew Martin didn't mind, but still—it was unprofessional. It was weak. "I don't want him taking any percentage of my business, Martin. That would truly kill me,"

"I know," He replied.

That's what Tommy was—a killer.

A player—

A man so out of touch with his emotions he couldn't even separate work from his wife and child.

"Get some sleep, now. You need it," Martin said, bringing his hand up to stroke your hair. You almost choked at his gentle touch—that's when you realised how long it had been since you'd felt genuine love and care from another.

Since you'd felt the embrace of your father, or the care from your brothers.

Since you'd had the warm touch of your mother, or eaten her fresh bread.

You hadn't thought about home—your old home—in so long, it was like you'd almost forgotten that it existed, that somewhere, about an hour away, it was all still there.

And art—

What happened to that creative side of you? Had it been sucked away by all the guns, the blood, the violence?

You hadn't painted since you'd done the walls for the Red Rose. You hadn't so much as picked up a pencil—

Maybe you were more like Tommy than you'd thought.