His aura proceeded him. As though the very essence of Thomas Shelby entered the room, far before his powerful shadow even crossed over the threshold to your bedroom. Perhaps, it was the smoke that clung to his each and every step, following behind like a low blowing breeze. Or the way the atmosphere appeared to shift once Tommy's footsteps tore through it. But you knew, as you felt the cast of his sudden appearance spread across your back as if it were the beam of the rising sun, that it was Tommy's presence that made him a force in each and every room he found himself occupying.
For in a city where violence was as routine as the very falling of night over the smoke stacks and cold current of the calm canal, Tommy's manner surpassed the razor blades sewn into the peak of his cap or the weapon hanging heavy at his waist. It was a trait rare to most men, but with Thomas Shelby, all he had to do was step into a room for it to fall silent as if the very voice of death whispered itself over the crowd. The intimidation and pure exudation of power, that some men found when they aimed the pistol of their revolver at the face of their enemy, came from the mere glance of Tommy's iced over eyes. His face could be completely stoic as if it were chiseled out of stone by the very hand of God himself and yet, his eyes of pure and unscathed cerulean blue that belonged in a place far beyond the smoke and the smog of Small Heath, commanded a force which might even leave the Devil himself shaking.
They were a deadly beauty, one that could draw you in, only to drown you in a single shift in expression. But Tommy used his strong presence in place of bloodshed when he could and you had yet to met a single man, who could compete with the intensity that came from a man of such composed and unnervingly calm dignity.
"I ought to start locking my door up at night," Your voice broke through the void of silence that had settled over the night engulfed shadows of your bedroom, listening to your words meld within the warm marigold glow of the nearby flickering candlelight. "you never know what kind of bad men and drunken scoundrels might come strolling right on in."
The softest ghost of a knowing smirk tugged at the edges of your lips, as your fingers continued to work against the fabric of clean clothing you folded, setting them down against your quilt clad mattress. You knew he hovered in the doorway, leaning his body weight against the deep stained oak doorframe, nearly making it creak with it's olden age and worn wood. The smoke that trailed from his cigarette creeped into the atmosphere of the quaint bedroom, seeping a tinge of sweetness into the slightly humid air that curled itself around your senses. Forcing your lungs to inhale a deep breath tainted with the strong and unforgettable scent of Tommy Shelby.
For whenever you found him standing in the confines of your less than spacious bedroom, you discovered that all of the little tinges of himself that lingered long after he abandoned the room, resurrected with a strength that was staggering. The aroma of his smokes, the intoxicating scent of his cologne, the breath of whiskey and the hint of evening wind seeped through the tweed of his clothes, appearing stronger than every before. Instantly, commanding control of every room Tommy entered, even if it were merely the bedroom you called home.
"Bad men," Tommy's deep voice rumbled through the atmosphere, as though it crept through the shadows like a predator, stalking it's prey through long blades of swaying grass. But even as it sent a single shiver climbing up your spine, spreading goosebumps across your flesh that remained exposed with your sleeves barely brushing over the tops of your shoulders, there was something in the essence of his Birmingham infused voice that was comforting in nature. As if it's slightly lulling quality, wrapped itself around you in an embrace that made you feel safe and protected in a way not another's hand ever could. "is that what I am, ey?"
Your lips twisted into the smile they'd fought to keep at bay, feeling as it curled up against the swell of your lower lip until it punctured the softest hint of dimples into the crevices of your cheeks. Thomas Shelby hardly laughed as he used to, since he returned home from France nearly a year ago now. The sound threatening to fade from your memories as each new day passed by, another set of hours untouched by the heartwarming sound of his laughter. But even as his laughter was as rare as the smile to stretch wide against his beautifully plump lips, there remained a playfulness inside of him that couldn't be killed. Perhaps, it appeared imperceptible to others or rather blunt and insensitive to some, but to you it reminded you of the man who laughed as if it were a gift from God that he hadn't intended to waste.
