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If Nancy Cochran had a shilling for every time she avoided the Shelby clan while quite literally working for them nine-to-five, Nancy would have two shillings; which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice. In about a week.
Though this time, instead of being able to disappear amongst the animosity of The Garrison, Nancy was cornered in the betting shop gathering the new accounts from Esme. The evening had overtaken the midday sun, and the moon had camouflaged itself in between the musty clouds by the time she had even thought of leaving the comfort of the shop.
Over the hours of which Nancy had spent avoiding Tom like the plague, she grew more and more paranoid at the prospect of confrontation, moreso the inevitability of it. Her brain had subsequently managed to convince herself that every voice, footstep and door slam was the man himself, a self-righteous grin in all its glory.
So the girl decided to distract herself with work: the shuffling of papers (which became all the more insufferable by the minute) had managed to infect her ears so much so that she couldn't even hear herself thinking about Tommy Shelby and his stupid fucking shoes. Her fingers were bumbling with the typewriter so bad that she couldn't even focus on the footsteps that sounded like Tommy's stupid fucking shoes. Her eyes were so fixated on the document unfolding in block print before her that she didn't even see the door getting kicked down by Tommy's stupid fucking–
"Evenin', Nance."
Oh, no. Nevermind then.
At that, Nancy Marie Cochran thought it to be perfectly logical to hide under her desk. Then bump her head on the way down. While Tommy watched it all unfold.
From the dusky nothingness under the desk, she heard the older man scoff and shift on his weight, something he did when he got reluctantly pissed off, "Alright, very good, you fuckin' got me, eh? Now, come out from under there, I need to talk to you."
The man was met with no response. It was petty and childish of Nancy, sure, but from the inflection to the tone to the way she imagined him standing there like a disappointed father coaxing his kid out from - I don't know - a bloody tree, or something, she felt like he was still patronising her. Still trying to be her mother. Or even her father, God fucking forbid.
"Come on, Nancy, let's act like an adult here. I'm willing to make some negotiations if you're willing to be mature."
This time. Tommy was indeed given a response, albeit a silent one. One where Nancy roughly tucks the desk chair in tightly, effectively trapping herself under the desk.
There was a long pause, like the two were waiting on another to say something like the stubborn brats they both are, before Nancy heard him huff and wheeze out an utterly childish groan. He really hasn't changed after all these years, she thought from under the table, a child with the temperament of a man.
