Dawson

Dawson had imagined his first time back in his beloved London as a sentimental time. Perhaps he would walk into the club that had once been his and would be his again, planning each change he would make in favour of forgetting it all. Maybe Lucille could have been there- Tommy too. In no time he could have invited Ada to the reopening party, a grand occasion that everyone who mattered would go to.

His actual first time in the city had ruined all dreams he had of his future there. The attack that took place during the purchasing of Thomas's new horse had only elevated the conflict. After all, the Peaky Blinders were not known for their forgiveness, nor known for their ability to forget. The family thrived on grudges, it would seem, as many of such familial organisations would. Not that Dawson would know- his family had never been much of a family. Not in the way the Shelbys were. They would circle the world five times over just to protect their own, to bring justice to those who'd wronged them.

It was only to be expected, in face of the attack, that the family would retaliate. Lucille had been present and in the small amount of time she'd been there, even without the wedding ring on her finger, still people knew to avoid her when it came to their petty grievances. Tommy's fuse was short when it came to all things involving his family, even shorter still when it came to the French woman and their lovable daughter.

That was not to mention Michael, the newest, fresh-faced cousin who'd finally made an appearance in Birmingham. Dawson didn't yet know the extent of his involvement. Lucille had helped to bring him home sure, but why he'd ever been away, he had not been told. It seemed to be a touchy subject, for Polly especially, and though her boy had been in some way involved in the attack, she did not know of their retaliation immediately, nor did she know of the purpose. Not yet, anyway.

But London greeted the Peaky boys with violent delight.

Dawson could not describe the sense of elation that swelled within his body, for he had not felt it before. It was a strange feeling, spurring him forward from beside John, following Arthur's loud and boisterous suggestions. A sensation that might have terrified him, had it not been his own pub they were heading to, readying to barge through the front doors like soldiers at war, like the men they used to be.

Perhaps he'd missed it, in some, messed up way. Dawson had never really given himself time to think of such a thing. The breaks in conflict had always been distracted with something else: first, it was the time with Lucille, injured and hiding away from occupying enemy soldiers, and then, after the war, he'd thrown himself full force into his business in the town. Before all that, there had been multiple ventures that'd clouded his mind of all the problems his life had brought as if they were metal to his magnet. The romance with the lady had come at the worst time of his life, worse than his time in France if that was even possible, and she only saw that his life went even further south still, demanding the takeover of his beloved club and the threatening of his very life.

As they bounded up the front steps, voices whirling into the wind and disappearing within the booming notes of jazz, Dawson could feel his blood boil beneath his skin. This had all once been his. The golden ceilings, casting a distorted reflection of what took place below. The bar that wound perfectly around the room, lined with drinks imported from every country possible. The openness that occurred amongst the crowds, no shame allowed, whether it be of partner or dress sense. Sabini had ruined only a little of what he had left behind, but still, he could feel the tightness in the air.

It was only as he caught a look at Arthur's face, that his confidence began to falter. Such excitement twisted his face cruelly, that it was almost as if looking at the devilish carvings that were placed outside graveyards. It was fitting, Dawson thought with a startle, that Arthur Shelby should look like the creatures that prayed on the solemness of graveyards when he himself had placed so many men there.

"Dawson. You're with me," was the first thing that Arthur said, and then lastly, "Come on, boys, let's go!"

Dawson stood as the men swarmed around him, spreading through the crowd like horses ploughing through enemy lines. Like soldiers diving over the edge, sprinting through no man's land. Except these men dove forward with the knowledge of their success. There was no question, of their survival. Not when their weapons came as razor blades and broken champagne bottles. And Dawson watched on, feeling the shove of his shoulder as the first sound of glass was smashed, ringing through the shouts of Arthur Shelby. It was only as he saw Sabini's man- the one who held his club captive- that his own fuse was lit, spurring him forward behind Arthur.

"Fuck you," Arthur hissed, pushing the stumbling people from his way, hoisting Dawson forward by the nick of his jacket. "Mario!"

Dawson flung his arm out, pointing to the upper level by the bar where the Italian was fleeing too, slipping over his own feet. Arthur cackled out a laugh and clapped him on the back again, sending them both forward in pursuit.

"Mario!"

They separated as Arthur called out for the man, with him going up the stairs and Dawson sprinting to cut him off from in front. When he reached him, Mario skidded to a hault, eyes widening as he turned on his heel to retreat, only to land squarely in front of Arthur, the older man grinning down at him like a Cheshire cat.

"Sabini's day's done," he said, hand wrapping around the neck of an empty wine bottle. "I'll protect you now."

The bottle came crashing down against the bar, breaking with sharp, jagged spikes. Mario stepped backwards but found himself caged by the man behind him. Those teeth-like ends came down upon his face, puncturing skin, provoking howls from between the man's lips.

With blazing eyes, Arthur turned to look at Dawson. In his hands, he held the razor from his cap, the silver metal not yet slick with blood. His gaze had darked, somehow, to a shade of certain blood-lust that Dawson had thought to be impossible.

"Mark him," Arthur ordered, and already Dawson knew what he was asking.

Take his eyes.

He thought of the words Tommy had said before they left, so early that Lucille had not yet risen with the sun. It's in your hands now. His words had not been literal then as they were now, with the razor blade cool between his fingers, ready to deliver the signature cut. But still they held weight- a heavy mass dragging on his lungs, labouring his breathing. He wanted it. He wanted his life back so bad. Only Dawson could take it back.

Hiding the shaking of his hands, he stepped forward, taking the man by the collar, feeling him struggle. The razor suddenly felt hot, scorching his fingers, making his body plead for him to drop it. But Dawson bit against that phantom pain and brought his hands upwards, cutting through the red streaks that already coated his face, letting the blood stream like tears from his eyes.

Arthur let out another bark of laughter, taking Mario back into his own grip, shaking the strangled sounds from his lips. "Oh, shut up," he said between laughs, draggining forward toward the bandstand where a microphone still stood. "Stop fucking whinging."

He tapped the microphone, grinning wildly as the feedback whined. "Due to my razor blade and a few complaints from the neighbours about the terrible fucking music." He looked down to Mario, who's face was now painted a hot crimson. "Do you want to tell them or should I?"

The man whimpered in response.

"This place is under new management," Arthur called proudly, voice echoing through the room. "By order of the Peaky Blinders."

The place was almost cleared, dirtied by blood a broken furniture, and strewn across the floor were stragglers who'd been caught between the cross fire of Sabini's men and the Peaky Blinders. Dawson looked out across his club- because it was his now, having been wrenched from the slimy fingers of the Italian mobster- and did not feel the sense of accomplishment he'd expected. There was a hollowness instead, one that he felt he would never be able to fill. Suddenly feeling its weight in his hands, Dawson dropped the bloodied razor from his fingers, letting it stick to the floor.

Arthur came toward him again, clapping a hand against his shoulder as he always liked to do, bringing their foreheads together. The smell of alcohol and something else, something dry, filled Dawson's nose.

"That's it, Dawson," the Shelby said, making the man swallow against the sudden nerves that were crawling up his throat. "You're a Peaky Blinder now, lad."

Dawson wondered if those words were a blessing of safety, or a curse.

Sorry for the wait! Only three and a bit weeks left and then I'm done with a levels and will have more time to write.

I'm looking to include more chapters of other characters now that were so far in, just to stop things from being boring. As much as I love Tommy and Lucille, I feel there's only so much I can write of them at the moment, especially since this was never supposed to go past Tommy leaving France. I will go back and edit chapter at some point, but not yet. What are your thoughts? <3