"even when she was lying, there was a certain truth she always told"
A pretty girl, a deal gone wrong, an ultimatum, and a death...
Another average week for the Peaky Blinders.
[T. Shelby]
[Under Editing]
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They awoke with the light of the rising sun, a bright crimson glowing across their skin and washing them in pale red light. Tommy basked in the light, his ice blue eyes the only cold break in the fire of the room. Thalia blinked up at his smiling face, a new wave of contentment washing over her.
"What are you smiling about, soldat?" She mused, reaching over to brush back some of his messy hair. Tommy chuckled at her, staring at her as if she had just told him a great secret.
"I don't hear the shovels," he whispered, and Thalia was so close that she could feel the gentle rumble in his chest as he spoke. She nestled closer to him, her heart swelling despite her confusion.
"Shovels?" She asked, thinking she'd perhaps misheard or misunderstood him. Tommy only shook his head, that carefree grin still breaking across his face, with a sense of bliss she'd never seen in him before. She liked him better this way, all happy and smiling. He looked whole. It made her feel whole.
"It doesn't matter, all that matters is that they're gone," he said evenly, not so much evasive as he was nonchalant. He was more relaxed in the morning hour, less tense and cautious. Thalia admired him but struggled to reconcile the two images in her mind: one of the stone cold soldier with a quick draw and a quicker mind, and one of the smiling man, happy and soft, alight in the red of the morning sun. She could not look away from him. Tommy rolled up into a sitting position after a few moments of silence, looking down at Thalia like a child might their schoolyard crush—youthfully and innocently and joyfully and hopefully, hopefully, hopefully. "They're gone, and you're here. That's all that matters."
He reached out to touch her cheek, and Thalia leaned into his hand with a sleepy grin on her face. The look Tommy gave her spoke the volumes he did not utter aloud.
"I am glad." She pushed herself up, following Tommy's example. He stretched, rolling out his neck and shaking out his arms. "Are the shovels from . . . the war?"
She was hesitant to even ask, but the solemn look that befell Tommy's gleeful expression made her regret her clearly accurate assumption.
"Yes."
Thalia shivered at the cuteness of his response. She thought about the drumming she heard in her mind whenever she was afraid or depressed, and she wondered if the shovels digging away inside his brain were at all similar to the war drum calling her to arms within hers.
"Do you know how I knew you were a soldier?" She asked gently, reaching out to rub soothing circles on the knee of his crossed legs. Tommy tensed, be it at the question or the touch, but soon relaxed as he let his eyes wonder across Thalia's face.
"How?" He barely breathed, as if terrified of her answer before she could even give it. Thalia prayed her face was as gentle as she was attempting to make it, hopefully conveying only that Tommy was safe—completely and utterly—with her. He was a child of war, and that forced him to constantly brace for more action, more violence. Thalia did not judge him for the trepidation. After all, she was a child of the war as well.
"You carry it with you," she whispered, and he ducked his head remorsefully, as if it was something to be ashamed of. "But so do I."
They locked eyes.
The silence between them stretched into something comfortable and familiar, the presence of both of them enough to keep the nastiness of the world outside at bay for just a little while longer.
But not for long.
Tommy began redressing, seemingly shattered from his trance as he retreated back within the confines of that icy wall he normally hid behind.
"Why do you leave?" The questioned wasn't phrased quite the way she intended, but Tommy was always patient with her clumsiness in speech. She did not feel pressed to make it horribly exact. He would understand, and he would work to comprehend it if he did not. She never faced the usual backlash with him; he never told her to learn the language or to leave the country, a hard choice she'd been yelled at to make more than a few times.
"I have work to do, Thal," he said sadly, crossing the room after tugging on his shoes to complete his outfit—last nights outfit to be exact. He kissed her forehead and turned to leave, but he lingered at the door of her bedroom for a moment, turning one last time to look upon Thalia in that moment. "And, for once, I have someone who makes the work worth doing."
A/N: I apologize for the lack of updates and short chapter. I ask that you guys bear with me, as I am dealing with a nasty bought of personal problems at the moment. As usual, I love you all and have a wonderful day my dears!
