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JULIET DUBOIS HAD prayed every single day after the Shelby boys went off to war. Every day, she recited the same prayer, pleading with God to deliver them all home safely. They had too much here in Small Heath, too many people that cared about them, to die in some war for a king who didn't give two shits about them in the end. Polly Gray, bless her soul, would be devastated if she lost the only children she had left, and Juliet did not wish to think about what would happen to herself if they received news the boys died in some terrible gunfight or worse — an explosion that left no pieces behind.
So far, it had been a week and three days since the Shelby boys returned, and Juliet still found herself praying every single day as if they were still over in France; and, if she was being honest with herself, it was almost as if they were. They had changed so much from before — so much damage done to them physically and mentally — that Juliet felt like she was getting to know them for the first time. She could see the remnants of John peak through the war-torn memories at the forefront of his mind, but he still had quite a ways to go. Arthur, the oldest and yet the least responsible by any means that count, drowned his sorrows daily in the closest liquor bottle within reach. And Tommy, well ...
Thomas Shelby gave himself four days of reprieve before he was back to the betting shop, learning about everything that happened while he was gone. He knew his brother couldn't handle taking care of the family himself like he was supposed to, so Tommy was taking matters into his own hands and bringing the Peaky Blinders to new heights ... or something like that. Juliet wasn't there for his big speech, just heard the summary from Polly when she came to her shop afterwards to vent out her frustrations.
"Tommy's gone mad, Juliet," the woman had entered her store in a huff. "He's come back thinking the world's really just at his feet now, like he wasn't just at war and we don't still live in this bloody fucking city."
Juliet Dubois herself hadn't engaged with Tommy since his second night back home. He had passed out just past four in the morning on the couch, an arm draped over his head to block out the light from his eyes. His face was completely relieved of the terrors he faced during his time in France, and when Juliet walked into the room and saw him, she stopped clear in her step in awe.
The serene look of Tommy's face — it had finally shown the soft and youthful man she knew him to be, the man he now hid beneath his hardened shell. It swelled her heart so much to see him in that moment she thought it might burst. But she didn't want to linger for too long in fear of waking him, so she had quietly grabbed the taupe-colored blanket hanging against the back of the couch, and gently draped it over Tommy's figure. When the hem of the blanket hit Tommy's chest, his eyes shot open in a very clear panic.
Luckily for Juliet, and almost certainly for Tommy, her face registered in his brain before he could grab the gun hanging from his holster like the fear in him ached to do. Instead, he just stared at Juliet as if he was seeing her for the very first time since he returned. Juliet had apologized in hushed tones and promised to leave as soon as she grabbed her tea, but all Tommy did was stare at her until he eventually placed his arm back over his eyes and fluttered them shut without ever saying a word.
