The fire burned, but their eyes blazed brighter. Blisteringly blue like the searing end of a flame, dangerous and deceptive as their cerulean hues softened the saturated glow of the citrine roar. For the currents of azure flowed like the running path of the canal, seemingly calm and inviting, but stormy seas lingered beneath the surface. A whirlpool of trouble residing in the form of chiseled sapphire eyes, just waiting for its tide to crash ashore and sweep the poor, unsuspecting souls who remained beneath their suffocating waves.
He strode in with the night, cloaked in his long black coat, like he carried the secrets of the shadows behind on his trail. He nearly vanished into the haze of ebony stained indigo, like a mere ghost wandering the cobblestone streets, a soul lost to the abyss of Small Heath.
But as his foot stepped over the threshold, the orange blaze of the flickering fire that enveloped the Shelby parlor, discovered Thomas Shelby like a moth to a flame. Illuminating him in a washing glow of contrasting light, as if the fire awaiting his presence at the gates of hell, had seeped up through the floorboards and shone down upon him like a heady glow from the heavens instead.
For it crept along the lines of his expression, sinking into the crevices of his swaggering frame, and nearly made it seem as if every taint of sin, every evidence of hardship, every trace of callousness, was softened and eradicated by the gentle touch of the roaring fire's beam.
The last of his cigarette, a mere burned out end, had been tossed behind him and left to clatter to the darkened cobbles as he made his way into the Shelby home. His last exhale of tainting smoke tumbling over his bottom lip, like a thick cloud of ashen haze that burned with the flickering bite of a thousand embers but appearing like the exhale might just feel like a cold fog rolling over an abandoned field. Seeping into the atmosphere already laced with the scent of stale cigarettes and flickering warmth emanating from the crackling fire.
He didn't remove his cap, keeping it snuggly in place low over his eyes as he strode further into the room. As if the razors woven into the stitching of thread, sharp silver slashing through the density of knitted charcoal tweed, were a menacing threat meant to intimidate her. But Thomas Shelby's crown of a king, didn't frighten her. Not when she herself had enough Shelby blood running wildly through her own veins to terrify the whole bloody world.
The tension that engulfed the Shelby parlor could be cut with all the razor blades the Peaky Blinders adorned, and still, not a single breath of relief would ooze from the wounds. It was palpable, clutching onto each and every trace of oxygen that dipped down into the lungs of those who occupied the small space, until their breaths were tainted with the thick presence the rigidness had to offer. As if it beat with its own bloody pulse, the thumping sensation low in the background like a searing snare drum, building towards the explosion of a bomb lingering still and dormant in the center of the room.
She watched him, just as he watched her. Like two predators of the wild, lions circling in wait. Paws beating the Earth perfectly in tandem with one another, until one finally made the first pounce. Calculated and calm, an illusive demeanor that radiated from the flesh of both beings, all the while, eyes boring into the other like they had the power to burn holes straight through like a cigarette put out on the skin.
No words were spoken, although many haunted the dense atmosphere with the echoing whispers of thoughts gone unspoken, but voices were silenced and stilled as they both awaited to see who might just strike first.
Her mane was that of his same raven locks, but unlike the shaven, fringe swept classic cut of Thomas's own, hers cascaded like an ebony river down the curve of her spine. Curls swept up and lost in a stream of thick tendrils, softened by the scent of honeysuckle and faint jasmine, but ruthless and sharp in their spotless black hue.
