Arrow House was engulfed in a penetratingly melancholy presence, one that felt as though the atmosphere inhaled deep into the shallowly expanded nature of your burning lungs, was tainted by that of ashen storm clouds. No longer looming above your slowly walking frame with the intimidation of impending descent, but rather falling and enveloping every inch of the air, until not a single crevice of the house was left unscathed by it's suffocating touch.

A thick fog had rolled out across the landscape, for peering out the windows that were streaked with the depressive drizzle that ran down the glass like running teardrops, it appeared as though a blanket of smoke had all but gone and immersed the pastures. Leaving only the sight of the very edge of the driveway up visible, as anything past was left blurred and lost to the fog that rolled on as though the strong breath blown by God above.

Amidst the coverage of a haze that could nearly steal away that of a human soul and no one would be the wiser, the rainfall had tampered. Continuing to trail down the window panes, leaving you to wonder if the droplets on a race to nowhere, could ever be erased from the glass or if they might just imprint their presence and leave something as pure as a window, tainted and scarred with the memory of their somber existence.

For the sky cried unconsolably that morning, as though the heavens opened up and tears leaked down from the melancholy clouds, as they suddenly held a soul they simply didn't want. It was a vengeful rain, for as it fell in deceptively calm streams, the second those droplets soaked with the salt of angels tears touched upon exposed flesh, it felt like acid raining down. Penetrating and burning with a force that nearly brought you to your knees, as you stood withstanding the pain, beneath a sky that churned a dark and depressive grey, as though the very soul of the Earth was stolen.

Despite the way the rain felt as though it could burn right through about any surface it dared to touch, it appeared as though it never managed to touch the land beneath your feet that morning. For the ground, in the beginning stages of being warmed by the fresh spring air, was still as frozen as if inches of frigid snow remained piled upon it's grass. You could still hear the resounding chipping of the shovels, picking away at the ground with all of the might the men digging the hole had, for it was like the Earth itself contested the incoming presence soon to be laid to rest. Rejecting it as the young soul had no right to be buried there, buried at all.

You'd begged your husband that you bury her, that she be buried in the ground deep enough for God to find her innocent soul and raise her up to the heavens. For she was far too young, far too gentle, far too innocent to leave this world in a trail of smoke and fire. No matter the amount of gypsy blood that she'd shared from her parentage. She deserved the Earth and a stone with her name, marking where she lay in peace and serenity, something that the souls continuing to walk the bloody streets could never willingly find. Somewhere you could place flowers beside her name etched in stone, like the ones she'd plucked petals from in the garden behind the house. A resting sight that young Charlie could visit, making certain that he would never forget the sister, that even as he shared only by half his blood, would forever be a part of his life.

For he'd stood right beside you, with the hand of his father resting upon his shoulder that was draped in the nicest funeral suit. One in which you wished was unable to come in a size that small. And through the sheen of your own endless flood of tears, you glanced over at him once during the ceremony, to witness him clutching her favorite teddy close to his chest, as though he could still very well feel her presence looming above him.

Your heels echoed down the corridors, as you strolled in leisurely steps, for it felt as though you walked through the very haze that engulfed the countryside. Your mind had escaped you, or perhaps it was that the core of your beating heart had slipped from your chest and fallen into the ground right alongside her, before the first shovel full of dirt was tossed back down into her grave.

The world appeared drained, ever since the spilling of her crimson blood was the last saturated hue you'd witnessed with your own two eyes, before her soul left the Earth. It still remained as the only color you could see vividly when you closed your eyelids, seeing it spill across the pavement and seep through the fabric of Thomas Shelby's sleeves. Tarnishing the white with a red that could never be scrubbed from existence, flowing through the lines of his palms as though a trickling river. Your own fingers had been stained that day, as you'd reached out to hold her, but it had been your husband that had been all but coated in her bloodshed. For it was in his arms, with her petite head resting comfortably in his lap, that she released her last breath.

Perhaps, it had been Thomas's doing, keeping you beside her but insisting on letting her lay the way that she was in his embrace. For he'd felt her last shutter, the last staggering exhale as her lungs finally gave up. He'd been the face hovering above her eyes that you weren't sure could even see in those final few seconds, but Thomas could still see. He could see the light flashing and suddenly disappearing from her orbs, that shared his very own blindingly blue shade, watching as a darkness engulfed the lifeless irises.

He'd been the one to feel a sudden weight fall into his grasp, her tiny body feeling limp and dense like he held lead between his fingers, not the little girl he'd watched being born into this world. Your sobs echoed as Thomas held her body and just as the bullet had torn a hole through her heart, it felt as though the shell had all but gone and ricocheted, tearing through your own heart but this time, shattering it without a single distinguishable hole left behind.

The hallways of Arrow House felt haunting, as you made your way towards Thomas's office, as though a darkness had settled within the walls and taken up permanent residence. For it was a suffocating sensation, feeling like you wadded through a sea that was prepared to drag you beneath its relentless surface at any given moment and you couldn't help but wonder, if perhaps you were ready for it to go ahead and take you under.

Condolence flowers were evident in nearly every corner of every room, the purity of white roses resembling that of the winter snow that had melted months ago, with the palest of peony carnations mixed with the delicacy of baby's breath, permeating the atmosphere with their floral aromas. But despite their rich perfume, that became more overwhelming with each passing day and with each new bouquet sent by family or a business associate of Thomas's you'd never met, they failed in attempts of puncturing through the melancholy void. For even as their scent immersed those who resided within Arrow House, perhaps washing away the distinct bitter scent of a death looming above grief stricken souls, they in no way broke through the solemnness that had been inflicted by her passing.

It was a bewildering notion you perceived, as you walked past a display of blooming lilies right outside Thomas's closed office door, the giving of flowers after a death. As though their beauty and perfume might in some way heal the heart from it's devastating loss, it was peculiar to you. For if anything, their purity and their beauty was merely a reminder to the beauty the world had ripped from your grasp. The beauty that had been in the form of a tender four year old, with her bounding tendrils of dark ebony and eyes of glistening cerulean.

They reminded you of the spring mornings spent planting the flowers she loved, watching each and every day as they bloomed and her joyous reaction in it. How were flowers, plucked from the Earth that had merely been replaced with her very soul, supposed to heal a loss so deeply rooted, it was as though you'd let yourself be taken down into the ground along with her?

The weather was decent, considering the warmth of the spring season that had finally engulfed the atmosphere and yet, you swore it to still be winter. The way the air viscously bit at your skin, nearly tearing through flesh as though the morning frost was a raging snowstorm in the making. The interior of Arrow House, even with the fires lit to warm the depressing nature settled within the space, remained cold. A kind of cold that you could feel settling into the depths of your bones, as though it had the ability to crawl beneath your flesh and very well curl it's piecing presence around your very foundation.

Your dress of onyx flowed down your frame and down your arms with thin sleeves, the material designed with the most delicate trims of lace, that you wore today because your daughter always adored the elegance of the fabric, did very little to aid in the warming of your body. Your heels, that you'd yet to slip from your tired feet, all but incapsulated the cold into the nature of your frozen toes. The nape of your neck, left exposed as your curls were pulled up, having removed the black lace veil that was draped across your tear stained flesh during the funeral, fell open to the chill in the air that followed. But you knew there was only one thing keeping you with a semblance of warmth, at least enough to keep your body functioning to keep you alive.

The wool wrapped around your shoulders, engulfed you in his scent. Thomas had shed his coat despite the chill in the air and proceeded to curl the fabric around your shoulders. Bathing you in sudden warmth during the ceremony, when all you had felt was bitter cold running through your veins. You hadn't taken it off when you returned home, perhaps a slip of the mind or maybe, you just weren't ready to relinquish its comforting effect.

For it felt as though Thomas's very arms were coiled around you, locking you into an embrace of love and safety only he alone could provide. The wool, the color of the coal back in Small Heath, smelled deeply of smoke and the rich tones of his cologne. The bergamot and the leather notes, intertwining with something spicy and masculine, something that both burned your senses with it's strength, but lulled it just the same.

You hadn't seen Thomas since you returned back to Arrow House with Charlie, and Aunt Pol, Ada and Arthur not too far behind. He drove back in utter silence, not even Charlie ventured to speak a word, as a sadness engulfed the car with a force you'd never felt before. But the entire drive, Thomas held your hand tightly in the clasp of his own, as he steered with his right. He said not a word and looked over at you not a single glance, but his hand was warm and welcome and held you with a strength that you knew you hadn't an ounce of left in your entire body. Thomas had disappeared after helping you and Charlie into the house, closing the door behind you and with a chaste kiss to the back of your head, he vanished down a corridor and you knew where he was headed. But you let him go.

You tended to Charlie, getting him some food as no one had really been hungry enough to eat the breakfast prepared that morning before the funeral. And although you didn't eat, wondering if you would ever eat anything ever again, you sat with the boy. In a silence that he welcomed, as you listened to the soft sound of his chews and the slight whistle like exhales coming from his stuffed up breaths.

The others joined you at the table when they arrived, Aunt Polly sitting beside you, squeezing your hand ever so often beneath the table as Ada struck up a conversation with Charlie. It revolved around nothing in particular, nothing of real significance, but to a boy who'd just lost his little sister and thrown into a mess of loss and sadness that he didn't quite understand the full extent or effect of, perhaps conversations with his Aunt of nothing at all was exactly what he needed.

Arthur had tried to seek Thomas out when he arrived at the house, but retreated to the dining room with the rest of you when the office door was ungraciously slammed in his face. Arthur didn't appear too fazed, as he'd known his brother much longer than you had been with him, so he knew even better than you how he handled grief. Arthur sat across from you, nursing a whiskey straight from the bottle, fortunately obeying your request of leaving any snow at the door.

It was only as the table began to disperse, as Charlie requested to go play upstairs in his room and Arthur offered to go up with the child, that you finally made the decision to go and seek Thomas out. The morning that felt as though it might never end, bled into the late afternoon as you passed by the first clock you'd glanced at since waking up before dawn even broke. Thomas needed space, he needed solitary moments to grieve but you, you needed your husband and so you decided it was time to go and look for him. Although you didn't have to search far, knowing exactly where to find him, hunkered down in his office away from the presence of others and the reminders of a loss that echoed in the very corridors he passed through.

You didn't pause at his door, as your clicking heels approached the threshold, your hand didn't even lift to knock. Instead, you twisted the brass handle on the set of large wooden doors and entered the office without a single acknowledgement of your incoming presence. It wasn't unlike you to do such a thing, as most nights when you found Thomas still buried in papers or stuck on long business phone calls as the clock neared midnight, you entered without a word or invitation.

There were a few instances when Thomas scolded you for your imposing presence or told you to knock from now on, only to be forgotten when you showing up became a pleasant surprise in a bout of stress or when you sought him out with a sure-fire way of luring him to give up the work for the night and come get some sleep. It was so routine to Thomas perhaps, knowing if it were to be anyone else they would surely knock before entering, that as you stepped into the large space, closing the door behind you, that he didn't even look up.

Still adorned in the suit he'd worn to the funeral, as no one had yet changed out of the layers of black that tainted your frames, he stood behind his desk. His chair pushed a ways behind him, as his broad frame cast a vast shadow across the surface of his desk, where he was shuffling through an endless appearing stack of papers.

Thomas had stripped off his jacket, catching sight of it spread across the arm of the couch on your way in, leaving him clad in a pristine white shirt and a sleek ebony waistcoat. The thick straps of his leather suspenders tight over his shoulder blades and despite the way the rain fell incessantly for the hours you stood out at her grave that morning, there appeared to be not a single strand of raven hair out of place. He'd shaven that morning, for you knew he'd never come to bed as the rest of the mattress remained cold, but as your eyes fluttered awake before the morning did, you caught sight of the light streaming out from beneath the crack in the bathroom door. His face smooth and left without a single shadow of stubble, while the sides of his shaven scalp were slowly endeavoring to grow, hinting towards a haircut in another few weeks.

Thomas was a vision, even in somber colors that although were not out of his usual look or attire, felt different today as black consumed his physique. He'd stood in front of the mirror that morning, just as the darkest traces of indigo faded from the sky, only for a depressing shade of grey to take its place. Watching as you approached him from behind, as he fastened his cufflinks, and turned before you could even reach your hands towards him.

The blinding hue of his blue eyes, washed over you as though a freezing artic breath, as your fingers lifted to smooth down his tie. He looked handsome even as it made you want to sob all over again, right there on the spot, that he was wearing that suit, on this day, for one heartbreaking reason. Thomas had taken in the sight of your own attire, silently taking notice of the lace that his daughter loved as he'd once found her going through your closet when you were out in town.

It was a strange thing, just like the flowers that crowded the corridors, dressing to your very finest for a day in which you felt anything but. For it was a dress you'd only worn once, to a benefit for the Grace Shelby Foundation with Thomas, and the black appeared darker on him today, as though it was almost too dark, even for the Shelby man. With the shimmer of pearls dangling from your ears and the thinnest brush of cotta tinted lipstick, you made yourself up to look like you were not as completely shattered on the outside as you were on the inside.

That was the reason behind dressing up for funerals, wasn't it? To bury or better conceal the extent of your pain, the suffering, the grief that would surely overwhelm you the second you slipped from a fancy dress or wiped the last trace of makeup from your flesh. It was all a display, a distraction perhaps, a lie.

You regarded your husband, who spoke not a word in acknowledgement of your sudden company, with a shifting expression. For you'd come in here, seeking him out in the dense shadows that consumed the interior of his study with an overwhelming presence, in need of solace and the shred of comfort only Thomas could provide you. Perhaps even, in the last semblance of hope left lingering amongst the remnants of your soul, in an attempt to begin coping together. But as you watched Thomas pouring over piles of business proposals and urgent papers that required his signature, marking notes upon the papers with his pen steady in his hand, you felt a sudden burst of anger beam through the shards of your utterly severed heart.

Your heels made not a sound as they stepped another pace or two across the wide stretched rug, absorbing the sensation as you approached his desk, stopping only as you stood a few good feet from the edge. Even as the aroma of your perfume, dense with the notes of jasmine and something softer of vanilla and femininity, engulfed Thomas's senses, he made no effort to look up at your looming frame. Your shadow didn't dare leave a presence across his desk of deep mahogany wood, but you knew without a doubt that he knew you stood before him. Waiting. But you watched your husband with increasing bemusement, the way his eyes that burned a darkening swirl of blue as though the very oceans churned viscously, continued to scan line after line like you were a mere ghost in the room. Insignificant and perhaps invisible to his eye.

"How is it," You paused, listening to the way your voice resounded through the room like the rattling of a bullet hitting glass, perhaps shattering the very foundation that encased it. "that you can possibly sit there, after what we just went through?"

You hadn't come into Thomas's study, seeking him out, in the search for confrontation. In fact, you sought just the opposite and yet, you couldn't help yourself. You couldn't help it, as your eyes fell upon the hunched over stance of your husband who worked as though today was just like any other day. As though you hadn't just buried the body of your daughter in a grave Thomas had a help in digging himself, mere hours ago. As though you hadn't watched the dirt cover the casket that was far too small, concealing her into the Earth while her soul ascended into the heavens where it was always meant to be.

Thomas stood here, looking over numbers and fucking business, when the white shirt stained with the blood of his daughter, sat untouched and unmoved upon the bathroom floor. As though neither one of you had the strength or will to move it. You didn't want to fight with Thomas, you didn't want anything but to be with your husband today of all days, to be held safe and tenderly in his arms, feeling as though he had the power to make it all okay somehow. Yet here he was, burying himself in work and you couldn't help the bewilderment and the aggravation that began to overtake you from the sight.

Thomas Shelby didn't look up from his desk, he didn't even set down the piece of paper held loosely between his fingers, he simply released a sigh that dissipated into the atmosphere like the smoke streaming from his lit cigarette. "Business doesn't stop because of death, if it did, nothing would ever get done in Birmingham."

You knew this was his way, the coldness, the detachment, but for once in your life, you wanted to see Thomas Shelby express a real and honest emotion, from the depth of his scarred heart like a human being. The scoff fell past your lips in a cloud of disbelief at his callous and emotionless words, but just as you felt yourself begin to turn on your heel, retreating away before you said something you regretted or perhaps, knowing you couldn't truly talk to him when he was in this headspace, you stopped. You halted your movements before the tips of your heels ever made it off that rug, turning back around and marching right back to the spot where the indentations of your heels still resided amongst the intricate fabric.

"I wasn't there when you lost Grace," It felt as though you stood amidst a cavern, lost within it's chamber as your voice echoed with a resounding and almost puncturing force. The warm wood of the tall walls encasing you, refusing to absorb the sound of your seemingly boisterous tone, but rather ricocheting back into the atmosphere with an imposing presence. Slamming into your own chest, as though the words begged to be let back in. But they were said, entering the air and Thomas's sense of sound and although he continued not to glance up from his work or regard you in any sense of the word, you watched him still almost immediately. For her name would always make him freeze for a moment, watching as his fingers let the paper flutter down upon the scattered pile and grip the edge of his desk with a strong grasp. "to see if you'd shed a tear for her or not."

"But I was there for John, right alongside mourning him like the rest of you. Where were your tears when your brother was killed Tom, huh?" Your words held not a breath of malice or ill-intent, you aimed not to hurt him or puncture an old wound Thomas had never fully healed properly. But you spoke with strong authority, a certain sense of bravery in endeavoring to speak your mind to Thomas, who although you'd been forthright with many times in the past, was still intimidating to confront in nature. "You shut yourself down, made it impenetrable that even I couldn't break through."

Your feet took a single step forward, making no significant difference in the distance that still remained from where you stood still in front of his desk and where he stood still behind it. But there was something in stepping forward, venturing another pace, that made it feel like perhaps your words might reach him in a different capacity.

"You still do it, pushing it all down and out of your sight, thinking it'll simply disappear but it won't. It'll eat you alive if you let it Tom."

The next set of words teetering on the edge of your tongue, made your throat feel thick and swollen as though your airway had all but shriveled up. "And now our daughter, who's been buried in a grave far too small, far too soon," Your voice cracked as the words and images funneling through your brain, threatened to break you all over again while standing there.

"And still you ain't shed a fucking tear--" You couldn't say another word, not another breath could be inhaled into your desperate lungs, for Thomas's hand suddenly came slamming down upon the surface of his desk. Sending papers flying up and shooting off the very edge of the sleek wood, as the sound of his palms hitting the desk with a resounding conviction continued to immerse you, while he stormed around his desk and approached you. Stopping a few paces short of reaching you, but even as distance separated your bodies, the heat that radiated from his broad frame that suddenly towered over you with an all-consuming shadow, was palpable as though he exuded the warmth of crackling fire.

"What do you want from me, ey?" Thomas roared, his voice shaking the room like it took the very threat of thunder from the Gods themselves. His body nearly shook with the extent of his outrage, his arms darting out on either side of him as his fingers curled rigidly into tight fists. Muscle tensing and chest rising harshly, but it was the core of his eyes that captured the extent of his blistering flame. For the cerulean, powerful and staggering, burned with an essence you'd never seen. It was like the crashing of a wave upon a hot stream of molten lava, the strike of fire extinguished by the strength of the sea, all the while, still managing to expel a harsh cloud of something raging and tumultuous into the atmosphere.

If this was any other day, any other moment in time, you would've cowered before his feet. Wishing for the ground to open up and save you from Thomas's scrutiny that overtook you like a tidal wave. But this wasn't just any day and although the intimidation he exuded was strong beyond belief, you defied the urge to back down.

"What do you fucking want from me?" He yelled again but just as the very last of his remark sounded in the air, your own response met the trail of his words. Catching hold of them until your own sharp tone, your own strong words intertwined themselves with the remnants of Tommy's voice, the clash rattling above your frames like the deafening clap of lightening.

"I want to know that I'm not the only one who loved our little girl, that I'm not the only one who cries for her now that she's gone!"

It was an abrupt fall of silence that engulfed the atmosphere, as though the words that had slashed and tore through just seconds before, suddenly vanished. Leaving the space thick and impenetrable. Your heartbeat echoed in the cavity of your mind, relentless thumps that drained any echo of the words spewed as you stared at your husband in the unnerving and sudden void. His arms had fallen back to his sides, fists slowly unclenching as he straightened his stance. Watching the rigid rise of his shoulders and expansion of his chest, with each deeply inhaled and exhaled breath he took, flaring his nostrils slightly as Tommy regarded you with an unreadable expression etched upon his face.

It was only with the fall of his brows, furrowing in a sense of bewilderment, that you began to witness the cooling of his irises. As though the raging fire that had burned, was suddenly extinguished by the waves of returning cerulean blue, that were deeper than before. Perhaps scorched by the flames or stemming far further beneath the surface of the crashing waves, but familiar in their icy presence. "You think I don't mourn her?"

"Just because I didn't fucking weep at her grave, just because I held you up instead of falling to me own fucking knees, ey, is that it?"

His voice was no longer raised, letting his tone slide back to that unnervingly calm that somedays, was more unsettling and frightening than that of the booming echo of his outrage. The anger was gone, fizzled and stomped out like embers of a match. In its place, resided something far worse, something you'd hardly ever heard in the tone of Thomas's voice and it nearly shattered what was left of your beating heart.

"You think I don't wake up knowing that it isn't fair, that it isn't right, that I am to take another breath in this godforsaken life, but she'll never get the chance?"

Thomas shook his head emphatically, his right hand sliding up the shaven back of his scalp, curling his fingers into the strands of his raven hair and tugged harshly in exasperation. "Fuck, you think I've even slept since that day?"

You knew he hadn't. You still weren't sure how it was possible that you had managed to fall asleep since her death only days ago and yet, you found yourself slipping away into a slumber in the dark embrace of midnight. All the while, knowing Thomas wasn't. Your husband hardly slept much ever since you'd known him, not enough for any man really, but since her death, you questioned if his eyes had even closed for longer than that of a necessary blink. The bags beneath his eyes were defined and dark, the bed you shared left cold and vacant of his touch, the man you loved more weary than ever before.

"Tom--"

"No," Thomas shook his head again, letting his hand fall from his hair and he held it up to stop you from continuing. "don't you fucking stand there telling me I didn't love my daughter, that I didn't give a fucking damn about her life when all I know, is that it should've been me, alright."

"Thomas--"

"I don't cry and I don't bloody fall to me knees, cursing at the God I don't believe in, but that doesn't mean that my heart doesn't fucking ache for what we've lost."

The silence that fell upon the torn path his heart shattering words left behind, was lethal. For even as Thomas's voice had slowly fizzled from the air, seeping away until the breath he'd expelled was simply an addition to the dense atmosphere circling your frame, his words remained. They lingered with a deadly presence, for his words stuck to the air as though they'd merely gotten lost in the smog back in Birmingham. The echo of their anguish, the ricochet of words so raw they nearly dripped with the blood of Thomas's heart, where they'd been brutally extracted from the depths of, assaulting your ears over and over again as though his voice had never ceased to begin with.

There was a shift in that moment, imperceptible to most but to you, it was a tangible shift inside of yourself that prompted your feet to lift from their frozen stance. For all of the animosity that had risen in the core of your chest, the shards of your heart that had been gathered in the hand of anger when you'd first entered the room, vanished. You'd simply expelled it all. Both of you.

For you stared at Thomas in that moment, observing the way his orbs of a cerulean blue so bold and so deep, threatened to drown him where he stood. Maybe you were never angry, never truly perturbed by the sight of Tommy burying himself in work that could surely wait, perhaps the outrage, that came rare but powerful from Thomas himself, was not infuriated in nature. Perhaps, at the root of it all, there was no anger to be found. Only pain and unimaginable grief.

It took no more than five paces against the intricate rug that absorbed the sound of your footsteps, to reach Tommy. You soon stood within the shade of his strong shadow, engulfed in the coolness of his hovering frame, that contradicted the warmth emanating from his wool coat still wrapped around your body. But you peered up at him, without an ounce of trepidation or doubt running through your veins and reached forward. Lifting your arm towards Thomas, until the very pads of your fingertips made the first brush of contact against the flesh of his cheek.

His skin was warm, naturally from the blood that ran beneath the surface with a heady heat, but also from the emotion that streamed right alongside. Your fingertips slid gracefully up the curvature of his cheek, until your palm was flat and cradling the side of his face. Your thumb gliding up the chiseled structure of his cheekbone, the bone sharp and nearly protruding with an imposing presence against his flesh. The pad of your thumb running over the faintest dusting of freckles, brushing back and forth in the softest of motions you questioned if he could even feel, your eyes shifted not a single fraction as your lips parted to speak softly.

"You're always so strong for everyone else Tom."

It was the truth you'd always known, for you'd witnessed it every single day you'd been apart of Thomas Shelby's life. He had his own demons that tore his mind apart, grief and regrets, tarnishing his very foundation that was crumbling him apart slowly from the inside and yet, he spoke not a word of it. He never once let anyone, apart from yourself from time to time, witness the extent of his struggles. For he had to be there for everyone else. When John was killed, he couldn't take the time to grieve, because he was the man who had to have the plans, the answers, the clarity of mind to see the family through. He'd adapted to burying down his grief, locking away his pain and his emotions, drowning it in Irish Whiskey and Gin he made himself until it felt as though it no longer existed.

Thomas was always so strong for everyone else, but there were times, when you wished he knew how alright it truly was, if he wanted to be weak for even just a moment.

Your left hand cradled his other cheek, as you held his head firmly in your grasp, but you soon retracted your hands in order to pull him into the sweeping embrace of your arms. Encircling him in your touch, hugging him closer to your chest, as your lips brushed against the edge of his ear. Whispering softly, letting your words blow gently along his flesh and trickle into his mind.

"It wasn't your fault, Thomas."

It was with those words, that you felt Thomas finally react to your touch. For although you doubted all the tension keeping Thomas's body tight and rigid, could ever be fully released, there was a gradual sinking of his shoulders. A release, as though he'd exhaled a breath he'd held within his lungs for far too long. You could feel it in the embrace of your arms, the way his deep exhale spread across the nape of your neck as his face dropped slowly and as his arms coiled around your own waist. His touch far tighter than your own, as though he might never relinquish hold of your body but you didn't care if you felt slightly breathless within his embrace. He needed to hold you and you knew how badly you needed to be held in return.

Thomas's nose buried itself within the flesh of your neck, as though with each inhale he took in the scent of you, something that perhaps lulled the rushing river of emotions that coursed through his body. The brush of his lips, flat and unmoving, but it was the sensation of something thin and damp that made you hug Tommy a little tighter. For his eyes were closed, feeling the soft sprawl of his lashes fluttering ever so softly against the nape of your neck, as though the strokes of a paintbrush down your flesh. But they were dampened with the tangible evidence of his anguish.

"I loved her."

His breath was hot, searing as though he might just brand his words against the swell of your flesh. For you felt them burn through your neck, settling within your chest with a weight that nearly collapsed what was left of your pulling and beating heart. Tommy's words nearly became lost, as they fell upon the very beginning breath of a whisper, buried within the crook of your neck that threatened to smother the words right where they landed in a warm exhale. But you heard them, loud and clear as if he'd spoken them straight into your ear and at the very top of his lungs.

For they were saturated in a sense of pain you'd never heard before, certainly not from Thomas Shelby, a model of complete and utterly unbreakable composure. It was listening to the breaking of a heart. Hearing as each string that kept it together, snapped and became severed by the overwhelming pain that clenched the beating muscle. You heard the ache that tore the seams apart, until they were frayed and barely hanging together enough to keep the man alive. They were three words, spoken in a voice nearly imperceptible to most and yet, they managed the staggering force of breaking a man, of unequivocal strength and calm, apart as though it was nothing.

"I know," You breathe softly in the only volume you can muster, as your own tearful lashes begin to close. Your words falling against his own flesh, as you hold each other tighter. "she knew it too."

This was all you wanted. Not to witness Thomas drown in grief and self guilt, not to feel the soul crushing pain that radiated from his flesh. But to see that he was hurting just as badly as you were. That you weren't alone. That you could grieve what you both had lost... together.

A/N: Wow, this one was heavy on my heart!😭

I fell in love with this idea as soon as the dialogue began to come to me. The idea originally hit me when I was watching season 4, episode 2, when Thomas is walking through the morgue with his family and handling the loss during that episode, because all I could think was that he never fully shed a tear, never fully got to grapple with the loss, because he's always so strong for everyone else. I wanted to write a piece revolving around that part of his character, because it's a strong aspect of who he is. Always burying and hiding away his own grief and struggles, and taking on others problems instead.

I always knew, with this piece, that I wanted to write something that was able to showcase those very rare vulnerable and emotional moments for Thomas. I knew that there would have to be a serious loss, a serious reason to have Thomas cry, because we hardly ever get to see that side. I knew it would have to be something that would really rattle the man and when it comes to his children and his family, it'll do just that. I wanted to showcase that side of Tommy that we don't always get to see, but also write it in a way that is still very believable for his character and as I read it completed, I feel I've done it justice.

I am really really proud of this one shot, it flowed from my fingertips and all of the descriptions and little details in this piece, just poured from me and came together in a heartbreakingly beautiful creation and I couldn't be any happier! It was very heavy on my heart to write, angsty and painful, but I am so proud with what I've managed to write here and I can only hope that you all enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it!❤😭