Kimber's Dilemma - Tommy Shelby x Reader Fan Fic

Chapter 4

Tommy

I ignore Kimber's protests as we leave the garage. At this point, I'm beginning to wonder if she's whining just for the sake of it. It might have been a bad idea to come back here. Stupid, John had scoffed, shouting about shotgun ranges and protection.

But I can see the girl knows more than she's saying.  I'm sure of it. And I've had enough of Billy Kimber. He's become a toothache, irritating and painful and more hassle than he's worth to deal with once and for all. But I had Arthur triple check Billy's alibi and, infuriatingly, he really was at the fucking opera the night the robbery happened.

Not that I'm surprised. I already knew Billy wouldn't be likely to dirty his own hands. He'd have someone else do it instead.

Is that someone his daughter?

Was it a sign, that she had come darting along the woodland path just as I'd arrived, like a gift-wrapped present straight from the spirits? I know what Pol would say if I asked her about it, and that's good enough for me. And then she'd led me straight to the cars, not a guard in sight, when I'd been prepared to observe for days to learn shifts and routines before acting. It's fate, I decide. It's meant to be.

"Fine," Kimber mutters, catching up as we reach the house. "I'll go in and get them. But you stay here and keep watch, okay?"

Fine by me. I don't know the house layout, and it'd be a lot harder to explain why I'm here if I were seen.

I tell her, "Be quick."

She leads me through a thicket of trees and shrubbery, until we reach a nondescript door, old and rickety. Interesting, I note. She has ways in and out of the house undetected. Billy's insistence that she'd been at home reading on the night of the robbery is crumbling in likelihood before my very eyes.

The door clicks open, Kimber's face set in grim determination. I wonder, for a moment, which is more likely. Whether she's so desperate to investigate this because she truly is innocent and wants to know what happened — or whether she's searching for any shred of proof that might serve to exonerate her. Maybe she even planted it herself.

I watch her silhouette through the patterned glass window on the other side of the door. She doesn't move. Her head tilts. The lock clicks. She raises her middle finger, visible blur through the glass.

"Kimber," I warn, my voice low.

She disappears from view. A small hiss of air escapes my teeth. I glance around — nobody strolls into view, not a soul for company save the trees and the gentle nickering of a far away horse. This isn't the time for fucking games. I have to beat away the urge to hammer down the door, compromising with a firm tug on the handle — but it's well and truly locked and refusing to budge.

"Open the fucking door," I say, fighting to keep my voice even.

Only as I stand in the responding silence do I realise, searching the car in my presence might be the last thing she wants. Maybe she was removing evidence when I caught her. Or planting fake evidence instead. Maybe this was her ploy all along — to draw me out, distract me, play games. Leave me waiting at the secret entrance while she's telling her father about the dark haired man she spotted prowling the grounds, rousing the guards...

"Alright," I say. "I'll come back with my brothers. We'll pick the lock. Or smash the fucking car in if we have to."

My jaw loosens in relief as her silhouette finally comes into view again. The door clicks open and she steps out, her eyes bright.

"Got the key," she says, holding it up. "What's the matter, Tom? You look stressed."

I blink slowly and disdain positively drips from me, thick like honey. How I want to wrap my fingers around her pretty little neck in this moment. She knows it, too — her eyes widen in response, no doubt trying to decipher what thoughts are flickering behind my gaze.

No doubt sensing the warning that I'm running low on patience.

But she swallows down her fear and takes the lead, heading along the same path back to the garage once more. 

"I killed a boy once," she says, as casually as though she's discussing the weather. "When I was thirteen."

I hide my surprise. "Early starter."

She continues, "He tied me to a tree on the school grounds. He didn't speak English, so I couldn't understand him, but he made his intentions clear when he ripped off my uniform."

Suddenly, there's a very different neck I want to strangle. A surge of protective instinct overcomes me, a ghost of the fury I feel when my brothers are in danger. Only habit, I decide. This same drive is the reason I could keep the men on my unit alive during the war. Kept me alert, listening for footsteps as we lay buried beneath the ground, drenched in layers of sweat and clutching explosives. But even if I'd never fought in France, I don't imagine I'd ever take it lightly to hear about a thirteen year old girl in such a situation.

"Good girl," I murmur. "I hope you made it hurt."

A light flush grazes her cheeks. "I did. And I know how to do it again." She stops walking and spins around, blazing as she faces me. "So if you have any thoughts of killing me while we're alone together, forget about them. I've got years of experience in dealing with pricks."

My eyebrows raise slightly. So that's what this is about. Does she really think so little of me? Retorts form on my tongue — how many men I killed in the war. How just two nights ago, I'd watched as Arthur slashed a man until he could have been considered drawn and quartered.

How, if I wanted her dead, she would be.

I don't voice any of them. "Alright," I reply, rustling in my pocket for a cigarette.

The urge strikes me during moments of stress — which is practically every waking moment. The familiar needling at the back of my mind. My hands get restless, my mind craves the nicotine, and my lungs ache to be drawing in that harsh taste, to feel the lightest rush in that first inhale, to balance myself once more.

Kimber nods, like she's deciding something. "I think we should work together. My father didn't do this. But between us, we can find out who did."

I assess her for a moment as I smoke. So that's what this has all been building up to. Threaten to kill me if I cross her, then propose an alliance. My mind runs through its familiar calculations, predicting every move in the never ending game of chess that is life. She's either sorely lacking in confidence and resources — which I don't believe for a second — or she's craftier than I'd thought. Almost impressively so. It's the sort of thing I would do, after all, if I wanted to throw someone off my scent. I can't help but respect it.

But there's one thing I can't work out, one puzzle piece that would allow me to form a clearer view of what's going on here. "Why are you so desperate to clear your father's name?"

I know the rumours that swirl around Billy Kimber, the way he treats his own flesh and blood. It'd be enough even if I hadn't heard the way he spoke to his daughter. She ought to hate him. It would be enough to make me hate him, if I didn't already. I know what it's like to have a shit father. I refuse to ever look mine in the eye again, to ever lower myself to speaking to him. John and Arthur are different. They're not hardened off like I am. Maybe that's the case for Kimber, too. Maybe she still holds out hope.

But she simply says, "Because it's my name too."

And then she ends the conversation, her feet scuffing softly against stone as she turns and continues the path back to the garage once more. I give a small shake of my head in bemusement, and I follow.