A Collection of Imagines

Thomas

Fuck you

His door seems cleaner than usual. The glass and painted lettering gleam in the afternoon light. Almost symbolizing something. Like a beacon, telling me what I should do. "Turn around," it says. "Just, turn around." The heavy metal in my right hand seems to want to race towards the floor. My left hand goes to the knob on the door. I wait. At this point, I'm praying that he's not there. That his office is vacant. But by the faint sound of Irish whiskey being poured into a crystal glass tells me something different. Shit. Alfie is a complete fucking asshole for making me do this. Me of all people. He must know that he would never take any arms against me. Thus, Alfie knows everything about everyone. But unfortunately, not me. I twist the knob and roughly open the door, making it slam against the wall. He looks unfazed, as per usual. What a prick. Nothing can get through his tough exterior. Like a crab or a lobster. I wait till he speaks, or maybe shoot me first.

"You."

"Thomas" I say it in French, knowing well enough that it will bother him the most. His memories of France are his biggest weakness apparently. Thanks, Alfie.

"Who sent you?"

He bows his head and ends his question with a rather large sigh. "Qui pense-tu?" His eyes are in a rage now. Aggravated by ... well a mixture of things. By me speaking French to him and Alfie sending me. I can't decide of who he hates more at this moment. He stands and I cock my gun. The sound makes him raise his arms in surrender.

"Like you would."

He's laughing at me. Ha, like I would. I would much rather put a bullet inside your skull. ... and why haven't I done that already? "C'est mon travail"

"Yea, I know it's your job. But you won't do it."

He says it confidently with his fucking Birmingham accent. What the hell does he know about me? Nothing, absolutely fucking nothing. "Tu pense que je bluffe."

"No... I know you are."

Arrogant fucking cunt. I lift the gun up, aiming at him with my gloved hand. Now I'm fucking mad. This stupid son of a bitch needs to get his head examined. 

"Do it."

I don't move. I finally see it. The pure horror of seeing him at the end of the barrel. Nothing scared me more. Apart from him telling me do shoot him. 

"Shoot. Do it."

He steps forward and I shift in place. He doesn't stop walking until he's a few feet in front of me. I don't want him to be right. I don't want him to see that he is right. 

"Do it."

I adjust my hand, hoping that he gets the hint. Yet, he does the total opposite of what I wanted him to do. He steps forward and places his own forehead against the barrel and wraps his hand around it. I hope he can't see the horror in my eyes.

"VAS-Y, TIRE MOI. DO IT."

Dammit, he's right. I lift the gun away from his forehead, up to the ceiling and pull the trigger. I'm so angry at him and myself. I step forward towards him, noses almost touching. "FUCK YOU THOMAS SHELBY!" Then, he does something that I thought the great Thomas Shelby would never do. He places his hand behind my neck and pulls me towards him. His lips crash against mine. My hands go to his hair. A rush of adrenaline goes through me and every hair stands on end. Shit, he feels it too. He pulls away from me, foreheads touching and I close my eyes. I can hear him breathing heavily.

"No, fuck you."

AN: if you hadn't seen Peaky Blinders, what are you doing with your life?