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He’s obsessed. He has to be. For the past month he’s turned up, all mysterious and quiet, and sat nursing a whiskey near the front. The girls backstage have started taking bets on who he keeps turning up for: Is he lonely? Has he got a favourite? A few of them have started catching on to the same thing that you have.
Thomas Shelby is here to see you.
The first couple nights he’d drawn everybody’s attention as a new guest to watch the shows, as quiet as he’d continue to be, and you’d all been too caught up in the excitement and anxiety that a high profile gangster brings with him to pay attention to why he was there. At first, he’d probably come for a drink, encouraged by a rowdier brother.
But then he started showing up alone. Staying longer. Watching more closely.
You’d started to guess it was you when, one night, you’d emerged from backstage to see who you could mooch on to buy you a drink, and the man you had started to smile at had the enthusiasm swiped from him in one look over your shoulder. Perturbed by the sudden change of heart, you spun around to see what had scared him away, and found his cold gaze fixed on you. Unabashedly, you narrowed your eyes at him and pointedly turned away, irritated at your loss of a free drink. Whatever he wanted, he would have to play nicer than that.
He’d caught your attention, though. However much you hated to admit it, when it was your time to entertain on stage, you did look to see if he was still there. Like a ghoul in a crowd of the living, he was focused completely on you, expression unchanging. The thrum of the music combined with the new adrenaline rush bubbled under your skin, and you ripped yourself from being caught under his gaze before you started to enjoy the rush. And every night he’d been there, since, you’d fought with yourself to not chase after it.
You knew the importance of socialising with guests, especially the regulars, and even more so the ones with hundreds of thousands of pounds under their name, but you’d decided on making a point. Don’t try and gatekeep me if you haven’t been kind enough to introduce yourself. You had to entertain people, yes, but you were also doing this to enjoy some of the freedoms this lifestyle afforded you. Picking and choosing who you spoke to was one of them. So, you both played this game of chicken, waiting to see who broke first. You hadn’t anticipated it stopping tonight.
“He’s still here.” Diane chuckled, sliding to look at you through the mirror you were sat at. Her fur coat tickled at your back as she held your shoulders, knowingly smiling at you. The slow music of the closing act was starting to be overtaken by the noise of backstage, various performers getting ready to leave, or waiting for any visitors. Girls laughing about whoever they’d seen, a jazz musician fighting with his instrument, and the various wafting of feathers being removed all clustered together in a familiar symphony to you. It was the end of the night, and whoever was still milling around in the club was either far too drunk, or waiting to see someone.
This was the longest he’d ever stayed, and Diane’s news made you lick your bottom lip nervously, your perfectly painted on lipstick started to fade. You shrugged her hands off. “If he is finally deciding to be a gentleman, he can come find me.”
“None of these gangsters are ever actual gentlemen, you know that.” She says, amused. Dropping a quick kiss to your cheek, she stands and fastens her coat, the brown fur collar puffing around her, painting her the very picture of refined elegance, a stark contrast to the appearances of you and the girls around. “Just don’t end up in Birmingham, whatever you do, darling.” You laugh at that, your nerves dampened by the humour, and wish her goodbye.
Then, you’re back to looking at yourself in the mirror, staring at your face. How much effort were you willing to go through for his presumed visit? He had kept showing up just to watch you, not saying hello but not making any grotesque advances, either. A shadow lurking around you. Enticingly, and frustratingly, mysterious. A quick touch up to your lips would do; you are interested in whatever attention he’s going to show, but you were too stubborn to relinquish your pride. Your mind made up, you opt to look as unbothered as you could.
Luckily, the anticipation doesn’t last long. Your name gets called out by one of the front of house employees, and he jogs his way over to you. “Thomas Shelby,” he swallows, apprehensive, “wants to see you.”
His anxiety makes you nervously smile back at him, but you raise your eyebrows at him, and jokingly roll your eyes. “Took his time.”
He doesn’t share your light-hearted jab, only nods and escapes back to the front.
Then, like the calm before a storm, Thomas Shelby rolls into the room, instantly catching the attention of everyone around him. They don’t move to talk to him, and the general murmurs of backstage continue, but everybody is aware of their newest regular. It all evades him, however, and the only break in his sole focus is when he’s looking around to find you.
And then he spots you.
You find yourself unable to maintain complete nonchalance as he approaches, feeling like a spotlight is trained on you. Sat at your chair, you found yourself looking up at him; he’s not tall, yet carries an quiet presence that makes him feel taller. Behind the distinct gritty, gaunt look in his face, he’s beautiful. It peaks your curiosity, and your nerves relax as he starts to look a little more human up close. You’ve always found people, no matter who they are, less disarming when you’re face to face. It boosts your confidence.
But, you don’t want to speak first. You look up at him, expectantly.
He catches on, and clears his throat. “Good performance.” The bluntness of the compliment catches you off guard, makes you smile a little more openly. You’re honestly surprised that he gave in first. You’re a little smug.
“Thank you. I have to say, men who come to talk to me usually start with hello. ” You stand, and catch the whiff of tobacco coming off of him. He smells… homier than you’d imagined. “We’re still yet to be introduced.”
He’s lax, but his eyes follow you as you stand, taking you in. Coolly, he replies, “Thomas Shelby. I assumed we were past hellos at this point.” We already know each other. His acknowledgment of the month long game between you turns the tension higher, but he remains fairly stoic.
“Nobody is ever beyond a greeting, Mr. Shelby, and I think I’m entitled to one, especially when I’m being stared at.” Your bravado is taking over at this point, too drawn in at this point to be demure or trepidatious at speaking to a well known criminal. You hold out a still gloved hand, and offer your own name. He knows it already.
Still, a glint of his own interest sparks in his eye as he takes your hand and, instead of kissing it like any other man who comes looking for you, he gives it a firm shake. His hand is warm, and the contact does, to your inner embarrassment, send a stir through you.
“I apologise, but I assumed you weren’t interested in hellos.”
“Well, if you’re going to scare off a guest that was getting me a drink, the polite thing would’ve been to speak to me, or buy me a drink.”
“I can get you a drink.” He speaks low, and that adrenaline he gave you when observing you perform returns like a rush to the head. You hum happily, and drift ahead of him. “I am a fan of gin.”
He doesn’t rush to catch up with you as you go to the bar, but with eyes not-so subtly watching you from different parts of the room, you know he’s following you. You remember Diane’s warning to not get ahead of yourself. You’re already seated when he’s ordering your drinks, another whiskey for him, you notice he doesn’t drink much else, and you turn to face him with your legs crossed. His eyes look down for a moment, a beat longer than necessary, before he’s back to being a gentleman. Or pretending to be one.
“So are you going to stay to stare at me every week, or is this your way of saying goodbye?” You tease, but the underlying question of why do you come here? is hard to miss.
“I’ve been in London for business.” Like they all are. Men like him speak vaguely about their whys, and you learnt not to probe lest you scare them off. Or risk losing a limb. “I am going soon, so, it is a goodbye, in a way.”
“And just as we were getting to know each other, Mr. Shelby.” You lightheartedly reply, taking a sip from the freshly produced drink in your hand. You pretend that him approaching you as a goodbye has completely innocent connotations. “But ‘in a way’? So not forever?”
“I always end up having to come to London.” He shrugs, taking his own, slow sip. You watch his neck as he swallows, before flicking back to his eyes. He notices. “And I owe you more drinks for all the… guests I’ve scared off.” Seems the girls weren’t the only ones who noticed you’d caught his attention.
“I’m glad you’re catching on to manners, Mr. Shelby, it only took you a month.” You say, pointedly. At this, he gives a half-laugh, looking off to the side. “A month of staring.” He looks back when you add that comment on, and he pauses.
You start to wonder if you’d pushed him too far by being so blunt, when he leans in a little closer, and simply refutes with: “You were staring, too.”
Warmth creeps up your chest and neck, and you’re glad for the pre-existing blush on your face. Not one to back down, or appear flustered, you defiantly raise your eyebrows. “That was only after I’d caught you looking first.”
“You kept looking.” He says it like its so simple, as if he’s not feeling smug with himself for the obvious attention you’d also been giving him. The defiance in you grows stronger, alongside the desire thrumming through your veins. You should be more reserved, not so willing to flirt so openly to someone looking to sleep with you, but the rush you get from him just watching you is too exciting to ignore. The dangerous parts of him he’s not talking about, that don’t lie as deep and hidden as it might appear, they don’t serve as warning signs. They’re siren calls to you.
“Only because I was wondering why you kept turning up.” The words come out of you almost like a song, bouncy and obviously playful. Maybe you’re making a fool of yourself, especially when he keeps his tone collected and rumbling, but you’re not one to back down.
“I can appreciate the arts.” Now that makes you laugh, openly and almost clumsily. It’s the biggest lie you’ve heard all night. He seems amused, looking at you from over his whiskey glass.
“Little birdies tell me you’re not a fan of jazz, or swing, Mr. Shelby, so please forgive me when I don’t believe you.” Letting slip to guests that they’re the topic of conversation is not encouraged for obvious reasons, but with everyone ogling him, it’d be insulting to assume he didn’t know he was popular. He definitely knew, laying on his charm thick.
And that charm was working.
“I can appreciate what’s in front of me.” He doesn’t relent in staring at you. You have to finish off your drink to stop yourself from being too obvious in front of any remaining club employees, and to slightly tamper the itch in your body to yank him by the collar and take him out of there.
“Well, if you’re wanting to say goodbye to what’s in front of you,” you purposefully pause as you stand up, watching his jaw clench ever so slightly, before you say “how about you escort me home?”
You collect your things very quickly that night.