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“You should’ve told me!”
“It’s none of your fuckin’ business.”
“It’s none of my fuckin’ business until you’re dead and I’m left alone!”
It was the tears in your eyes that forced you to move away from him, not wanting to show him just how much this was affecting you. What he did wasn’t a secret, and as much as you didn’t fully approve, you didn’t really mind. It was what he did, and you wouldn’t love him any less because of it. But you had heard about the stolen guns, and you had seen just how different Tommy was acting now, how stressed he was,
You glanced at the clock, seeing how late it was and hearing your stomach plea for some food, walking to the kitchen, hoping that cooking something would calm you down, even if only a bit.
You were shaking as you collected the ingredients, the house silent around you, as if you were the only one there.
Cooking for Thomas was one of the things you enjoyed the most, knowing just how little he took care of himself. He took pity on you sometimes, eating what you presented him only to avoid upsetting you, his head focused on anything but food, but he never regretted, finding actual comfort in your dishes.
Sighing you picked one of the tomatoes, bought that day at the market with the idea of preparing a fresh sauce with it, and found the knife, chopping it into little squares, making a little pile.
You sliced and sliced, thinking back at the words you heard on the street, the gossip. The stolen guns were everybody’s favourite subject, and everyone had theories, or rather, a theory. Everyone had an idea of who to blame, it seemed.
“Ah, shit!”
You bit your lip, dropping the knife on the floor, hoping that Tommy hadn’t heard, not ready to face him again. You picked the knife, throwing it into the sink as the blood slipped past your fingers, the droplets collecting on the floor.
The tomato juice added a sting to the one you already felt, and you just stared at the cut on your finger, your lips trembling, but not because of the pain. The cut decorated each one of your fingers, sparing your thumb, only deep on your index, but nothing that some gauze wouldn’t fix.
“What is it now?” his tone was harsh, still frustrated at your inquiring, but worried nonetheless.
You turned, holding your hand behind your back, gently shaking your head.
“It’s nothing. Just… just go in there, I’ll prepare some food.”
But his eyes were quick to spot the blood on the floor, trailing back up to the hand behind your back. He moved slowly, holding out his palm.
“Show me.”
“Thomas.”
He raised his eyebrows, offering his hand once more, thankful when you placed your hand in his, his expression softening when he saw your fingers and the state they were in, the blood still dripping freely, staining his hands.
“You’re getting dirty, leave it, I’ll go get-“
“It’s not the first time my hands have had blood on them, eh? And I’m your husband. I get to take care of you.”
You could feel his eyes on you as you nodded, grabbing the nearest cloth and handing it to him, his touch gentle as he pressed it over the cuts, cursing when the blood quickly seeped through.
“Hey, it’s fine. Y’know I’m clumsy, I’m used to this, I’ll go get a bandage and-”
You were interrupted by his hands gripping your hips and pulling you up, sitting you on the kitchen table. He moved quickly, grabbing a bowl and filling it with fresh water, opening each drawer in search of something.
“If you’re looking for our medical supplies, they’re in the bathroom upstairs. Second drawer, there should be a small tin box. It has flowers on it.” You carried on muttering details, enjoying his dumbstruck face just a little more than you should. His eyes wouldn’t leave yours, almost as if he didn’t want to leave you alone, quickly glancing at the cloth that covered your hand.
“I’m not going anywhere.” you spoke again, breaking him from his trance. He nodded, pointing his finger at you and muttering a quick don’t move, his footsteps getting lighter as he walked up the stairs, before getting louder again after a few minutes, walking back into the kitchen victoriously holding the small tin box.
He smiled, for the first time in a while. He had forgotten what it meant to be in your company, the familiar peace of it all, the house smelling of food when he walked through the door, the fire already lit when he came in, you lying before it, book in hand, jumping up when you saw him to kiss him and finally hold him again. But since the guns, he had been more distant, coming in later, not appreciating you, not thanking you, not holding you. He felt the guilt of each single one of his actions while he wrapped the delicate fabric around your fingers, one by one. He finished by tying a little knot at the end of each strand, hoping that they’d hold, at least until tomorrow, kissing each finger as he did so.
“A kiss for each finger? Is Thomas Shelby going soft?”
“My kisses are special. They heal.”
You laughed, placing your bandaged hand on his cheek, time standing still for a second, giving you the time to look at him for longer than you had this past week. He leaned it, closing the distance between the two of you and kissing you, finding your hair with one hand and the small of your back, pulling you against him, holding you as he carried you into the living room, easing you onto the sofa.
“I’ll think about dinner. You just… here.” he passed you one of your books, unaware that you had already finished reading that. You smiled and opened it, pretending to read as he made his way to the kitchen. There wasn’t much left, not much that he could use without actually cooking, which didn’t really seem a wise option, not only cause of the late time but because it was Thomas Shelby, and you weren’t sure if you trusted him enough yet, not with a pan.
Ten minutes later and there he was, apron tied around his waist and two plates in his hands, moving around the sofa with elegant steps, as if he was dancing.
“Here.”
He passed you a plate, his proud look a harsh contrast to the saddest thing you had ever seen, making you burst out in a loud laugh.
“What’s this?”
“Dinner.” he answered, shooting you a warning glance but smiling again, knowing just how… different this dinner was. It had nothing to do with what you usually prepared, nowhere near as… professional.
“You call a slice of bread, a slice of cheese, some chopped up tomatoes and… are those grapes?”
“Yeah, dessert.”
You laughed again, placing the cheese on the bread and taking a bite.
“It’s actually quite nice. I mean, the whole thing, not just this” you raised your slice of bread, jokingly raising your eyebrows, “ but spending time with you. Being here together again.”
He hummed in response, moving closer to you, lifting your legs so that you could rest them on his.
Time went by, the plates now abandoned on the coffee table, your voices low whispers in the night, the occasional laughter breaking the silence.
The talking eventually died out, Tommy’s words substituted by the crackling fire, lulling you to sleep, safe and sound in his arms.
He watched your sleeping form, curled in his arms in front of the dying fire. Your bandaged hand rested on top of his chest, occasionally tightening in a soft grip before you felt the pain, making you furrow your eyebrows and stir in your sleep.
“Shh, it’s okay. I’m here.” he whispered more to himself than to you, grounding himself once more, his thoughts trying to drag him down in his hell, but you held him up, and he’d hold onto you for as long as he could, not wanting to drown just yet, not if he had you.
He stared down at his hands, the blood now dried. The last time he had blood on his hands he had taken someone’s life, tonight he had made sure that your wounds had stopped bleeding, kissing each finger, insisting that nothing was as special as his kisses.
He smiled, for the third time today, beating his personal record of the week, watching you as you slept and finally allowing himself to sit back and close his eyes, joining you in your sleep, the smile still lingering on his lips.