Roaring /// Peaky Blinders

TWELVE.

( part two, CHAPTER TWELVE )

Misfortune wore the face of a weary police commissioner that night.

Thalia knew nothing of it, of course, as she waltzed into the Garrison with a gentle snark that seemed to stem from the knowledge that no one would dare harass or harm her, not with Thomas fucking Shelby practically falling over himself for her. Her confidence in that dreadful place was only further spurred by the welcome sight of her very own Shelby boy there to drink the night away with her, his hat and hands pocketed in the way they often were when he was comfortable in his surroundings. It figured, she supposed, that he would be at ease in a raucous pub filled with former soldiers and hard workers, men who would gladly follow Tommy to the end of the road, should he ask them to.

She crossed the room and took up her normal seat at the bar, relishing in the freedom she'd found in her brother's absence and basking in the warmth of ice blue eyes staring intently down at her. Tommy gently took her hand in his own, pressing a delicate kiss to it with a smile. Thalia knew the teasing look he wore. He'd pushed away his past struggles in favor of a loud night with friends and the woman he cared for, and that look was the only remnant of a hard few days. That look meant he was hiding behind an exterior, a façade, meant only to keep out prying eyes should they search for weakness, a crack in his foundation.

Tommy was not a man to crack under pressure and—god!—did Thalia love that about him.

"You're late, darling. Thought I might have scared you off," he said with another grin, gesturing to Grace to pour him a shot. Thalia scoffed, knocking her shoulder into his playfully.

"I am never late," Thalia said, turning to face him completely as he threw back his drink. "I arrive when I want to arrive always."

Tommy laughed, placing his now empty shot glass on the bar and sliding it back to the ever diligent Grace, who scooped it up without so much as a second glance.

"Of course you are." He shifted in his seat, and suddenly Thalia was back in the first day they met, observing a careful business man attempt to control the room. He held himself differently, more seriously. Thalia worried for a moment that she had done something wrong (or perhaps her brother had returned and broken off the deal), but Tommy sighed with a soft sadness that made her ache. No, this was not about her and him, whatever it was that they were, for only one woman could incite such despair in that man: Ada. She knew he had to talk to her about his sister.

For several dreadful seconds, Thalia feared for the well-being of Ada, and then of her child. She waited for Tommy's explanation with bated breath, hoping beyond hope that she would not need to unfold the black outfit she had packed purely as a precaution.

"Ada's husband, Freddy, was arrested on the night of their child's birth," Tommy started, and Thalia's eyes went wide with shock. "Everyone blames me, but I had told no one."

"Tommy—"

"I need to know who else you told about Freddy being allowed at Ada's apartment." His voie was stone cold and hard as the ice in his pained eyes, but Thalia could hear the strain in his voice. Her jaw fell open at the audacity of his statement, but she wrestled to keep her emotions in check. She leaned back in her seat as adrenaline began pumping through her more than she really seemed necessary. There was that little voice again: run away.

"Tommy—"

He was pissed off; she could tell. He slammed his hand down on the bar, making her jump, one hand sliding to the knife strapped firmly to her back. He clocked the movement before she even registered that she'd braved herself to fend him off. There was no fear in Thalia's eyes, only a faint ghost of a memory, one that replayed over and over again on the backs of her eyelids.

For a handful of terrifying moments, Tommy was not Tommy. Not to her. He was a soldier, a doctor, a general, a faceless man with cruel hands that left cuts and bruises unforgivingly and a hard accent with clipped words and guttural tones. He was the enemy.

Run away.

She heard drumming.

"Thalia," his voice was softer this time. "Breathe."

Up until he spoke, she hadn't realized that her breaths had quickened and her mind had shattered into a hundred memories, blending with the here and now until she could no longer differentiate the past from the present. Her breaths were shallow and short, and Tommy gripped her shoulder in an attempt to ground her. The feeling caused her to regain her bearings, and the flood of memories washed away like the tide.

Tommy's hands would never hurt her; they only sought to touch her with gentle caresses and soft brushes. Tommy's hard accent was British, not German; he was not the enemy. There was no enemy like that anymore. That war was over.

"I told no one, Tommy," she said, finally regaining control of herself. She shook her head in a futile attempt to clear it, looking anywhere but into those ocean blue eyes as she stumbled back into full consciousness. "Who do I have to tell?"

That answer was all it took to convince Tommy of her innocence, but a new scowl—this time based in his confusion—darkened his expression.

Run away.

He was a good man. She knew it. He was a good man, and he would never hurt her. She needn't fear him. She needn't run away from him.

She was tired of running.

Instead, it seemed that little Finn had been doing the running for her because he burst into the Garrison like a mad sparrow, arms lifted as if ready to take flight, shouting as best he could while out of breath.

"Thomas!" He yelled, scrambling up to his brother. "It's the police! They're coming 'ere for you!"

The words barely registered in Thalia's mind before she jumped down from the barstool. She grabbed Tommy's hand, squeezing it like a lifeline, and they locked eyes.

"Come with me." Her voice didn't waver. He didn't hesitate. She could hear the echoes of footfalls outside the Garrison, a army of nameless, faceless, enemies, come to steal Tommy away from her.

It sounded like drumming.