Lucille

Tommy said he wouldn't shoot. He needed those men alive. So when the gunshot went echoing through the air toward the back door where she was tucked against the wall, Lucille's heart sunk. It was a sound she could never forget, having heard it ringing through the warm, French air for nights on end. She couldn't begin to imagine how it felt for Tommy, and especially for Dawson, who's hands still shook at the mere memory of the war.

Sucking in a breath, Lucille pushed against the wall, slipping through the door into the main room of the Garrison. The gun was held shakily in front, her finger as far away from the trigger as possible. A crash rang through the room, a jarring clang, like a hammer against metal.

Tommy was thrown to the floor, the arms of his attacker wrapped tightly around his neck, the gun in his hand just barely holding on. They struggled together, rolling around the floor, neither one gaining the advantage. Behind, the body of a second man lay, blood already pooling around his battered torso.

Dawson was crawling across the floor, his whole body now shaking, wracking him from side to side on his knees. His face was pale, blanched of all emotion except from panic. Lucille's eyes drew to what he was edging away from: the gun in the corner of the room. The gun that had shot the man.

Lucille hurried toward him, pulling him away from Tommy and his attacker. The man had his gun raised toward them, aiming to shoot as Tommy rolled on top of him. Dawson's breathing raised, his eyes blazing wild as they landed on his friends beetroot race.

Tommy

The air was thin in the tunnels- one catch of a breath left you gasping for clean air that wasn't contaminated with dust and the stench of blood and dirt. Tommy reached out in front of him with one hand, his other hand reaching toward his neck. Something was gripping it, two ice-cold hands clenched around each side. Was it a German, broken through the side of the tunnel, or was it the horrid draft, choking him from the inside out? He was suffocating, the cold metal of his shovel no longer in his palms but clanging to the ground at his useless feet.

Tommy choked out, finally pushing the unseen force back toward the tunnel wall. He almost expected to see the walls come caving in, crashing metres of thick mud down upon them, suffocating him for a second time. But no dust came splattering down.

A harsh grunt sounded from behind him. Tommy felt the feeling of a man's torso on his back, the outline of a pocket watch or something similar sticking into the skin below his shoulder blades. And behind that, another metallic clatter shouted out. Not the sound of shovels, but the sound of a gun, jumping to hard, real floors.

Tommy's eyes flashed open. The golden detailing of the Garrison's walls was blurred in his eyesight. The struggles breath of his attacker suddenly became obvious. To his side, Lucille was crawling toward the dropped gun, a second held up in her hands, with no chance in her position to shoot.

With a war-like roar, Tommy lunged forward, hands moving from the grip on his neck to the man's elbows, and threw him forward, landing on top of the man on the floor. With the hands removed from his neck, he spluttered out, lurching forward out of his reach. His hands stretched to the side, scraped finger tips scratching over the empty metal container under the table.

Tommy left no time to pause. He threw his body forward, projecting his full strength into the hit. With an ugly crunch, the makeshift weapon battered against the man's face... Again. And again. And again.

Blood splattered across his face, the foul smell of the already spilled blood finally pricking again his eyes and nose. His shoes slipped into something wet, and Tommy went sliding to the side, his shoulder landing firmly against the ground. The man didn't raise. 

He blinked harshly in an attempt to move the blur from his eyes. The second man was dead, his chest still and face unrecognisable. Slowly, Tommy sat up, gazing around the dim room. Lucille was now leaning over a huddled up Dawson in the corner of the room, the two guns safely at her side and out of reach. Tommy staggered to his feet, stumbling forward with an accusing point.

"Why did you shoot?" He shouted, one foot somehow finding It's way in front of the other until he was towering over them. "Why did you shoot?"

"Tommy-"

He ignored her, his jaw set as he asked again. "Why did you shoot?"

"Tommy-"

"It's alright," Dawson said loudly, pulling Lucille back by the shoulder.

Tommy's gaze turned away from his friend who shook in the corner, his cheeks already slick with unrecognised tears. But then he blinked down at Lucille, face suddenly distraught with realisation. He leaned forward, taking her cheek in his hand.

"Lucille," he breathed, eyebrows crunched together with worry.

"I'm fine. I'm untouched," she soothed, placing her hand on top of his, the other moving to pull down his collar. "Your neck. It'll bruise badly if I don't see to it."

She pulled him down toward Dawson so they sat side by side. Just as they had once before in France, the same blonde haired angel patching them up.

"Always my healer," he whispered.

Lucille smiled fondly as she reached to wipe away the blood that stained his cheek. "Always our protector."

From beside them, Dawson pulled himself to his feet, hands held together, but still shaking. He limped toward the guns, using his toe to push them away out of sight.

"Be kind to him, Tommy. He's not alright," Lucille said.

Tommy frowned. He knew his friend was in a bad way, just as all of his brothers were. It was the war that set the plague free in their heads, and it was as contagious as any disease. He recognised the shaking, the same symptom John had, and the uncontrolled anger- that was easily Arthur.

Tommy nodded in understanding as he watched his friend fall down to the bar, head in hands. "None of us are."

He looked back to Lucille, her skin and clothes still pristine despite the blood and grime that coated his own skin that she cleaned. There was no shaking to her hands as there once would have been. Instead they worked surely, as if she'd done it hundreds of times before. Her hand held tightly to his arm, too tightly, but there was nothing more than slight tension to her face. She was used to the business now, but how used? Tommy worried, even if it was bad luck. He worried how much of a bad influence he was on the sweet girl he'd met in France.

It was just as Polly had warned him. He'd rough the girl up with his love. Its happened before. But this wasn't just love, even Tommy could admit it. Lucille was the mother of his child, a bond like no other, and that had to mean something. Lucille was changing, yes, but perhaps it wasn't for the worse. Polly would disagree.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," Tommy whispered again, a tear slipping down his cheek.

Lucille's face dropped, her own eyes crumbling at the sight of his weary face. She reached forward, suddenly timid again, as she always was, and wiped away the cries. 

"I should have never involved you."

"Then I wouldn't be holding you, I would be crying over your grave," she said firmly, the grip on his arm tightening protectively.

"This isn't all that different from how we first met," Lucille said. "Guns and blood and bad men."

"Except this time I'm not a hero fighting for my country," he said, glancing away from her loving gaze.

"No. But you're fighting for your family instead."

Tommy frowned. Such influence he'd had in her. His head turned back, eyes trailing across her soft face.

"Always my Angel."

She smiled again, pulling him into a hug. Lucille's chin rested against his shoulder, the smell of the dried blood on his coat filling  her scent.

"Always my soldier," she whispered, pulling away to glance around the room. Tommy didn't miss the startled glance to the men laying in the middle of the room.

"Don't worry. Worrying is bad luck. You told me that once, remember?" He said, tipping her head back up to look at him. He'd say anything to keep her mind from it.

The first door to the garrison was pushed open and Tommy let out an angry breath, his whole body suddenly going rigid. The second set of doors was finally forced open, and the policemen filed in, filling the room around the dead men, toes slipping around the pools of crimson. 

"You were supposed to come on the sixth chime," Tommy said, removing himself from her and pushing forward. He shouted, "You were supposed to come on the fucking sixth chime. They refused to surrender. They fought well. They were brave men."

Miss stepped forward, looking down his nose at Tommy. "Well, he looks like he was killed by a wild fucking animal," he stepped around, looking toward both Lucille and Dawson. "Still, this never happened. They were never here. Who cares?"

"Get the bodies out of here," Tommy ordered, shoulders squaring.

"Ah, right, are they making the lady uncomfortable?" Moss said, tilting his head. "I'll leave you two lovebirds to it then, eh?"

Dawson

He noticed how they glanced back to him as they walked along the dark street. He noticed how they glanced to his hands, which wouldn't stop shaking, no matter how hard he gripped his fingers together, no matter how desperate he was to make it stop. Dawson remembered a time when he would have made a joke despite the misfortune of events. He would have lightened the mood entirely, feeling triumphant as Lucille burst out in her joyous laugh and Tommy managed to crack a cheeky smile.

Things were different now, he knew. But it wasn't until he'd lifted the gun and shot that he really knew how much things had changed. They were all troubled, all changed in different ways, and all had gone back to their normal lives with different degrees of tolerance to what they'd once known. Dawson only wished he'd had the same amount of courage as Lucille must have had, and ran away the second he'd returned to the mess he was in.

They lead him quietly down the terraces lane of houses, stretching out across the road until the stopped in the middle of the dingy street. Lucille was the one to pull out the key and unlock the door. A woman greeted them, her face wide with shock as she took in the sight of Lucille who was first in the door.

"My god, what the fuck happened?" She exclaimed.

Tommy sighed, leading them further into the house. "In the morning, Pol," he said. "In the morning."

The contents and introduction to my knew Peaky book is out! It's called Nothing we desired.

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