rescue me [thomas shelby]

ii.

The man barely glances at her as he steadies the girl, dropping his hand from her waist after a moment. He's easily the most handsome man she's ever seen, with a sharp jawline and cheekbones, bright blue eyes complimenting his facial features. He has a flat cap on, but Frances can see the shaved sides of his head. Something in the brim of the cap glints in the dull sunlight and his suit is of finer quality and much cleaner than anyone else's around them.

"Watch yourself," he mutters once he appears to get tired of her simply staring at him. Frances doesn't say anything at first, raising her cigarette to her lips again as she takes in the sound of his low, gravelly Birmingham voice. She steps back so there's more space between them, her hand slowly reaching down into her pocket and wrapping around her gun.

This man is clearly dangerous; he holds himself much different from Frank or Niall, with an air of someone that takes what he wants no matter what. He's obviously intelligent, and from the glance that the woman across the street have just given the two of them, she should not be in conversation with him if she can help it.

"I'm sorry," the girl replies, remembering herself and who she is. A woman with no social standing and no male family to protect her; she doesn't want to get on the wrong side of anyone within a day of moving to a new town. "I wasn't watching where I was going."

"Hmm," the man murmurs, deciding to actually look at her properly, gaze flicking over her face before dropping to her body. He inspects her without even trying to hide it, blue eyes roving over her worn coat and the hand tucked into one of its pockets.

Frances can't help it if she feels self-conscious with his intense gaze upon her slim body, her hands shaking slightly. She lifts the cigarette back to her lips, inhaling deeply and waiting for the man to say something more. "Are you a whore?"

He watches her, wanting to see her reaction to the question. Her accent earlier hinted that she wasn't from the town and if she isn't (which he's fairly sure she isn't, he'd remember someone like her) he wants to see her answer to a stranger asking such a question. In the back of his mind, he also thinks that he wants her to say yes so he can fuck her, but also to say no so the mysterious nature of hers isn't some facade to lure men.

Frances splutters for a second, shocked that he'd been so blatant and rude to her. "No," she spits, anger overruling how flustered she's feeling with his gaze upon her and her nerves at his dangerous aura. "Fuck you." The young girl throws her nearly-out cigarette at his shoulder, striding past him and continuing down the street at a quicker pace, instantly regretting what she'd just said.

Frances had been asked questions like that before and they'd always made her mad, but never mad enough to curse at someone. She doesn't wave at Frank as she re-enters the inn, heading upstairs and opening her door quickly. Frances throws her coat over the wobbly chair tucked in at her tiny table, getting out her cigarettes, matches, and book.

She drags a chair over to the window, lighting a cigarette as fast as possible and flicking to where her bookmark resides in her book. She reads until she forgets about the annoying man, the sun slowly setting out the window.

,

Working at the bakery is exactly what Frances had expected; a lot of yawning as she kneads a large ball of dough with Agnes beside her doing the same thing. Niall is busy organising the front for the day, taking already finished loaves and putting them out whilst also fixing the till and pieces of paperwork.

Agnes had insisted on being 'just Agnes' after thirty minutes of being called Mrs. Lewis. The two had been talking as they worked mixing the dough and kneading, discussing completely safe topics. Frances makes sure to avoid talking about the incident with her parents and the year after that but otherwise talks about her childhood and her cousins and the field with the horses she used to go visit.