LIKE STEEL || Tommy Shelby

BONUS- XVII. TOMMY

A/N - Like Steel has hit 50k reads! I can't believe it! So, as promised, I decided I would write some scenes from Tommy's point of view because I 1. Love this story so I can't help myself and 2. Think it would be really romantic.

This is the longest chapter yet and is just experts from this fic and parts I wished I knew what Tommy was thinking.

Okay, I hope you enjoy! Thank you for all the wonderful comments and support, too xx

....

- THE INTRODUCTION-

January, 1916

He could still hear them, the bombs. He could hear his brothers screaming and the Germans finally breaking through the wet soil as they all shouted. It had been a mess of blood and fear.

He dared shift in the cot, wincing as the wound on his abdomen opened further. His vision was clouded and each moment felt like an hour- the medical tent was spinning and churning around him. He tried to breath but with each intake of air there was a sharp pain in his chest. His heart.

There was so much noise that he didn't know what he was hearing- doctors shouting, men screaming, shells exploding in the distant hills.

He was going to die, he thought. Die on this cot, bleeding out with neither of his brothers in sight. He didn't even know if they were alive.

There was a voice, two voices, talking at the end of his bed and then there were cold hands peeling off his uniform and then his shirt. He wanted to open his eyes, but he couldn't. Not enough energy and not enough will.

The nurse worked quietly, stitching the gaping wound across his stomach with brutal efficiency. He waited for her to leave, but he felt that cold hand on his good shoulder, prodding him awake.

"Drink this, soldier," she muttered, handing him a half empty bottle of whiskey. "I need to get the bullet out."

He wrapped his fingers around the bottle, trying desperately hard not to let it slip out of his shaking fingers. She helped him raise the drink to his lips and he savored the burning warmth of it sliding down his throat. It was the first drink he had had in months.

He let his head fall back onto the makeshift pillow and the nurse gave no warning as she dug her tweezers into his shoulder. He cried out, his voice cracking as red-hot pain ripped across his entire body. He squeezed his eyes shut and bit down on his lip so hard he could taste the copper blood.

The nurse kept going as he squeezed, pulling all his pain towards him like somehow, it might make it end. That somehow it might be a dream if he closed his eyes tight enough.

He heard the clink of the bullet before he felt the pain ease. He willed his eyes open, even the light from the oil lamps temporarily blinding after weeks in the tunnels.

She stood over him. Her hands and apron were covered in his blood as she watched him. Studied him. He stared back- her steel grey eyes were dark above the deep, purple bags under her eyes. Her hair was pinned back from her face in a dark mess of curls, some stray wisps slicked to her face with sweat. Even her cheeks were sallow and pale, but there was a look on her face that he could not place. She was stern and he knew that every word out of her mouth would be sharp, but she was a survivor. He could see it in her. And she had saved him.

He could smell something sweet on her, under the salt of sweat and strain- like lavender oils and perfume. If he had not been so weak, he might have told her that it reminded him of home, the smell of oils in the caravans. Home.