The Balls in Our Courts [F.SxO.CxT.S]

Chapter Nine

A/N: Sorry for the late update. I had a bout of writer's block. But! I forced through. :) Hope you enjoy it. Please comment and vote. Below is a playlist of songs that represent Amelia's relationship with each of the characters. Please, let me know what you think. Funny enough, I used AI to select songs for fun. 

"What did you do to those boys?" Amelia had randomly asked, a bit apprehensive and regretful as his eyes slowly glanced over, unreadable. He'd just picked her up from her final practice before her match in Manchester. Initially, after the incident, Amelia did not want to know. When he noticed the deep lash on her forearm, fury filled his face and he left the parlor. Scarily, though, was when he came home just an hour later, cool and collected, as if nothing happened. Morbid curiosity was never her forte. It was clear that Tommy Shelby led a certain life of wicked excitement and cruel intentions, and she hadn't a need for any explanations.

For a moment, there was silence except the crying sound of the car as he took a quick turn towards home. "What do you imagine I did?" he replied, tone laced with amusement.

"I try not to think too hard into your business, Mr. Shelby," she replied, carefully.

"Oh, but you are. From your shivered tone, something tells me you imagine something severe," he humored, and to her surprise, he laughed, shaking his head. Wedging his smoke between his lips, he reached over and grabbed her arm to inspect it. "It's healing-"

"It'll scar!"

"I'll remove the stitches tonight," he said, noting to himself that he should have done that a few days prior as they would definitely leave scars. When Amelia asked if it would hurt, he sarcastically said, "no, it will tickle."

"That's worse," she mumbled, and went to rest her head against the glass window.

It was one of the rarer occasions when young Amelia Clarke was allowed in Tommy Shelby's office. Without all the fuss and sneaking, it was a lot less daunting. Kindly, he allowed the girl his special chair while he pulled up a wooden stool. "Give me your arm," he said, taking it before she could outreach it. Gently, he brought her arm into his lap, caressed the tender skin around the stitches before picking up the tiny metal scissors. "It shouldn't hurt," he said, reassuringly, snipping Arthur's messy work and pulling out each black thread. The grip on her forearm increased each time she whimpered. "Stay still, just a few more is all...doesn't hurt."

A little tear from her eyes slithered down her rosy cheeks before dropping like a spot of rain on her arm. You're crying, he had hummed, but not unkindly as he thumbed at the wet droplet. He was right, it did not hurt. Perhaps a little tug and pinch, but the memory hurt a bit. "Will they hurt Finn again?"

"Not worried of yourself," he said, arching his brows, fluttering his eyes up. "Boys get rough," he settled. "It's good for us to get into a good fight. It's no new phenomenon, Amelia."