The blistering flames that crackled with a bold citrine blaze, threatened to extinguish the waves of cold impenetrable blue, as Thomas Shelby's eyes stared blankly into the fire. As though the softly swaying blaze might just douse the battling currents of cerulean that consumed his orbs, sizzling until the running streams were evaporated into a vapor of nothingness.

For the light of the popping embers, that bathed the surrounding walls of the Shelby's front parlor, nearly blurred his rightful vision. For he stared into the flames, feeling the way the heat of the saturated light burned away at his retinas, all the while, feeling utterly numb as though nothing in the world could ever awaken his bones again.

The night was a stark contrast to the warm and eerily silent interior of the Shelby home, for a storm raged on. The twilight hour had shrouded the land in an impenetrable layer of darkness, as even the sliver of the crescent moon and the presence of a thousand twinkling stars refused to be seen, as though they knew their efforts were futile in illuminating the blanket of ebony washed indigo. And so, they hid. Disappearing into the universe as though not a tinge of light resided above those on Watery Lane.

For even the lightening, that crackled like it might just split the foundation of worn brick and coal coated cobblestone in half, could not be seen by those who peeled back their linen curtains. It snapped through the thunderstorm infested sky, but it appeared in the far-off distance, that not even the sharp evidence of electricity descending down from the heavens could be witnessed by those in the whole of Small Heath.

Thunder shook the house like it might just rip it from the Earth, the strength in which it rattled the sky above, feeling like it had the power to lift each and every stone of cobble from the street and rip every piece of plywood from the Shelby home. For it shook with a mighty fury, that no soul was left unscathed to the way it jostled their bones, nearly threatening to send them tearing through flesh as each clap engulfed the land with a single daunting sound.

The wind howled like it too, were afraid of the clambering of trombones and tubas warming up. For it battered against the aged brick like it might just seep through the cracks and find mercy amongst the living, but it beat against the windows and whistled like a siren down the empty streets. The night felt eerily empty and yet, all the while, there wasn't a breath of silence to be heard.

The cold engulfed the land without warning, for just that very morning the sun had made a rare but welcome appearance. Bathing the cobbles in a warming marigold glow, as dawn broke over the factories and smoke stacks, absorbing into the shoulders of those who walked gleefully below its kind beam. It was an exhale of summer, blowing over the cobbles, as though God had forgotten about the rightful season and thought he might just lend an extra day to those in need of its warmth.

But as dusk rolled around, taking away the sight of marigold and the faintest of peony hues from the once warm and gentle sky, night replaced it with the very essence of winter, as though it had skipped autumn all together. But even as the cold swept into town like an outlaw no one desired to mess with, the precipitation that fell from the bleak and shadow obscured sky, was not in the form of sparkling flakes of pearly white. But that of torrential rain.

It soaked the streets like it might just flood away the very existence of man, it pelted down with such a force that it was bewildering to wonder if it's heavy droplets could leave behind bruises in the light of morning. But it whipped with the wind, swirling about until visions were blurred and not an inch of skin was left dry. It was a cold rain, for it could've surely fallen that morning amidst the sunlight and still, it would've penetrated clothing and skin like it could very well freeze the underlying bone.

It was unlike any rainstorm Thomas Shelby had ever endured in his life, for there was something hidden amongst the evening's dense and all-consuming darkness, within the rain and thunder that consumed the land like a war ensued within the heavens, that was intangible. It wasn't something that could be felt against his skin sodden with the bitter rain or even heard through the echoing chamber of haunting thunder and howling winds, but something he could identify tugging at his chest. It couldn't be described, it couldn't be felt, it couldn't well be stopped, it just simply filled Thomas's veins with a sense of overwhelming unease and trepidation.

Even now, as Thomas sat beside the hearth, letting the citrine flames do their best to bathe his cold and dampened frame, he still remained soaked to the bone. He hadn't yet taken off his long black coat, letting it drape down his body as the precipitation clung to every filament of wool and his cream-colored shirt beneath, clung to his chest like it were a layer of skin altogether.

He could hardly feel his feet, after running longer than he could even count and through puddles that seemed cold enough to penetrate the soles of his boots. And his hair, the soft fringe that dipped against his forehead with a gentle presence, now resembled dripping ink of raven as the strands lay sodden and limp against his shaken scalp. Droplets of rainwater still continuing to streak down his jawline, dipping down from where beads fell from the ends of his dark locks.

The room smelled of cigarette smoke and rainwater, the faint scent of crackling coals heating the parlor, but no aroma that engulfed the atmosphere around Thomas could eradicate the stench that remained permanently embedded upon the foundation of his senses. For the breath he'd inhaled merely an hour ago, was sharp and metallic and clung to his nose with such a force that he carried it with him, even as he'd since abandoned the room that had taken on the assaulting scent.

Blood had a distinct scent that couldn't simply be cleansed from a room, for once it seeped into the atmosphere and stained the linens, the cracks in the floorboards and even printed itself along warm flesh, it was hard to erase from existence. Thomas was not a stranger to the smell, feeling some days in France as if his nose no longer sensed the very scent. But tonight, the scent of her blood hit him in a way he'd never expected.

"I'd wondered where you'd gone off to," A familiar presence appeared like that out of thin air, suddenly emerging from the doorway behind him without a single warning. "If you'd gone out into the storm."

Although the sound of her voice took him aback for a split second, the sound of her heels suddenly silent against the floorboards like she'd captured the density of night itself, her voice was gentle. It floated along the current of a soft breath, one strong and sure of itself, but cautious, nonetheless. For it was like the letters that made up her words, were her bare fingertips, gingerly curling up his back until she squeezed his shoulder carefully with her palm, testing to see just how much he'd tense under her touch.

Polly Gray proceeded to step into the room, immediately engulfed in the contradicting silence that enveloped the space. For the walls continued to shake with the vengeance of the ensuing storm, but there was a void that captured the interior of the parlor, that was so dense and unnervingly silent, that it threatened to steal the air straight from her lungs.

She passed on Tommy left, never once feeling his cold cerulean gaze lifting to watch her soft strides, settling against the couch facing the fireplace. She sat in utter silence as her eyes washed over Tommy's still and sullen stance. Perhaps, because she knew words were of no use or maybe, because she wanted one last glimpse of her nephew before he was completely withered away, like a dying autumn leaf come the beam of fresh morning light.

The storm had been what slowed him down tonight, the reason that Thomas, for the first time in all the years he could recall, was late. He blamed the pelting rain, that slickened the roads and slowed his racing steps. He blamed the darkness that engulfed the land in such shadows, it made it near impossible to witness his own tracks left behind him. But perhaps, Tommy had simply been looking for something to blame for being late, when in reality, it only delayed the inevitable.

He was a precise man, he was an organized and structured man, he despised being late or even having to wait upon those who were. But tonight, Tommy fell victim to the ticking hands of his pocket watch, as though with each passing second, time mocked him. For it knew that no matter how hard his boots hit the cobble, no matter how harshly his breath beat inside of his tightening chest, no matter how determined he was, that Tommy Shelby wasn't going to make it to his destination on time that night.

It was the one-night Tommy couldn't afford to be late, but there he was, rushing into the bedroom an hour too late.

"I think she's been asking for you."

Polly's voice speaks up again, waiting some time before puncturing the void of unsettling silence. Her eyes, stern and steely, but with an undeniable warmth and compassion that ran right beside the formidable strength, falling over the sight of Tommy's unmoving form but witnessing the way his lips twitch into an incredulous curve. A soft snort filtering from underneath his breath, a cold and apathetic tone saturating the sound as it hit the air like a block of ice.

"She isn't even two hours old Pol, she hasn't a damned idea I exist, so I refuse to believe that she's been asking for me."

Polly wasn't fazed by his words, the detachment and chill that iced his response, but it didn't mean she wasn't able to feel the faint ping in her heart by the way they so effortlessly floated through his lips. "She's called out for someone."

Tommy blinked, not because he needed to, but because for some bizarre reason, his body decided to remind him that he was indeed still alive. Still enduring, still suffering and still hurting like his very soul had been ripped from his being, without a single trace left in place. He stared blankly into the fire, like the blistering flames might just cauterize the gushing wounds upon his heart, but found they only amplified the ache.

"She's calling for her mother."

The words formed a pit in the base of his throat that Tommy just couldn't swallow. For it felt as though the words, the mere letters that carried with them such blatant weight it didn't seem quite real, wove a noose around the interior of himself. Coiling around his throat until it threatened to squeeze the oxygen from his lungs, from his body, from his very livelihood. And Tommy reckoned, for a moment, if perhaps, it might just be better if it did.

She hadn't been due for another couple of weeks, but just like her mother who was always far too early for her own good, the little babe settled comfortably in her womb, was eager to join the world early as well. Tommy nearly laughed at the thought when he'd first hung up the phone, reminding himself to mention in a lighthearted tease, that the baby had surely gotten her over punctuality from her mother. But as the night carried on and time escaped him, he began to wish more than anything that that child could have waited just a few hours longer. But she'd been ready, the world had been ready for her, her mother who screamed in agony and cried tears of anticipation and pain was ready. Thomas Shelby was not.

He wasn't ready to be a father, he wasn't ready to be responsible for such an innocent life like the one of a newborn infant, he wasn't ready to be what he'd never had for himself growing up and he wasn't ready for the way it would change everything. But what Thomas Shelby never thought he'd ever have to be ready for, was the reality that he'd have to be ready to be a father, that very night and all on his own. He hadn't been ready for this new life, but he also hadn't been ready for the way it would simply replace one. Like one soul had been breathed into another and with her final breath, came a brand-new little cry.

"Will you go up and see her?"

Thomas didn't respond, he didn't even care to try. Polly hadn't expected him to however, for she knew he had yet to lay eyes on the sweet baby girl who'd been born in the cold and rainy night, but she wondered just how long Tommy could manage to keep himself from seeing her. Polly feared with the stubbornness that coursed through his veins, it might be far too long.

Tommy sat on the near edge of his seat, with his elbows firm against the placement on his knees, while his fingers clasped together over his lips like the bridge of a steeple, brushing absentmindedly up and over the cold and dampened flesh.

If someone else had stepped into the room, it appeared as though Thomas Shelby might just be praying, with his hands pressed together in front of him, but he knew better than to pray. Tommy knew better than to believe God would endeavor to hear his voice, his pleas and desperate cries. He wasn't naive to think that the hand of God could sweep across his shoulders, and everything would somehow, suddenly be alright. Thomas didn't pray, even as the cross that hung on the far side of the wall beside the door seemed to mock him, he didn't pray. For what could prayers do when there wasn't a single soul to hear them.

"She left me."

Tommy could still hear the way his breath fell in heavy bursts, as he made his way through the front door and climbed the creaking staircase in only a matter of steps. Nearly choking on the torrents of cold and formidable rain that assaulted him on his way there, grasping for air as he rushed through the threshold and made his way to her bedside.

The way his heartbeat echoed in his ear with a thundering noise, it nearly drowned out the sound of the storm rattling the sky above, but as soon as his knees bent and touched down upon the floorboards, it felt like the entire world had suddenly gone silent. Like it'd been drained of all sensation and all sources of noise that could ever present itself within the universe, leaving a density of silence that couldn't be described as quiet for the word was much too small. Nothing could puncture the silence and yet, Tommy found himself frightened to breathe in a mere semblance of a breath.

"She left me alone."

The room that once smelled of her lavender lotion and overly sweet perfume, the one he'd complained about from time to time just to see her irritated expression, now smelled of blood and death. The metallic scent sharp and immediate, for it saturated the linens covering the mattress, the sheets that were perhaps the very ones that had been wrapped around her bare body the night they'd created their unexpected miracle.

Not a soul could deem them to be white, not even that of ivory or sandy tan. They were red, crimson rich red, not a single thread of cotton left unsaturated by the unforgiving hue. The moonless night's shadows seeped within the room, battling for dominance over the softly flickering flames of candlelight, but still Tommy could see the color as though it were the only shade left in the world.

Her soft tendrils clung to her flesh, caked along the curvature of her face in the sweat and tears that dampened their once lively curls. Her flesh, once warm and radiant with a glow Tommy never believed seemed real enough to exist here in the streets of Small Heath, was now cold and void of its once soft hue. She was pale, like it was evident her soul had left her body and all that remained in the tiny bed, was a shell of the person she once was.

She was cold to the touch, if not for the night that took advantage of her unmoving frame, then by the current of death that washed over her like a blanket. For Tommy's thumb had brushed along the curve of her cheekbone, through the splatter of freckles she thought made her look too young and found that he craved the way warmth once seemed to leave a trace behind when he withdrew his hand. He saw her and he felt her, he knew and understood the reality and yet, it felt like his mind simply refused to comprehend the notion that she was gone. That she wasn't coming back.

"She left that child--"

"Your child." Polly interjects swiftly, raising a brow slightly, carefully pattering her footsteps as to avoid detonating his rather sensitive state.

"A child who needs a mother," Tommy expands coolly, not quite addressing Polly's remark but not completely ignoring it either. "a child who needs more than I can ever give it."

Polly leaned forward in her seat, touching her fingers gently to the curl of her lips, before resting them down upon her knees. "How do you know that, if you've yet to even lay eyes on the sweet babe, Thomas?"

He didn't have to think, Tommy just simply knew. And in that moment, it felt like her ghost threatened to haunt him. For he could see her, behind the closing of his eyelids that squeezed in exhaustion and grief. He could see her before her skin had gone cold and the life that had been inside of her, drained and vanished as though life was such a fickle and futile notion. He could hear her, the sound of her voice that was far too soft and gentle for this world but could undeniably hold her own should the elements demand. He could sense her touch, the way it coiled itself around his neck until she brought him into her embrace, time and time again, mystified by the comfort that radiated from her like she possessed some hidden power from the universe.

"Because she made it okay."

The silence that engulfs the room is deadly, even as the storm batters the Watery Lane structure, the quiet that controls the parlor is a force to be reckoned with. Tommy's words fall from his lips in a sharp murmur, barely that of a whisper tone, cracking like its peeled the words straight from burned and tarnished flesh, leaving behind raw and blistering wounds in the process.

"She made me feel like it was alright to bring a baby into this world, into this life, with my fucking lineage running through their veins." Tommy's head shook as his eyes reopened and the hands once clasped in front of him, now rubbed against his tired eye sockets. Harshly, like if he created enough friction, he might just be able to erase the sight of her from his head.

"She reassured me, that I would be fine, that we'd all be fine, but I knew she'd always be here if I couldn't hold up my end, if I fucked up and lost my bloody head."

She was never supposed to fall pregnant, not now anyways. Thomas always believed one day, when the time was right and all the planets in the universe aligned, that he'd surely have a child with her. A baby made of both their flesh and blood, who had its mother's beauty and father's resilience, who'd never have to know these dark and depressing streets. He knew one day he'd have children with the only woman he could ever envision himself doing so with, but it wasn't supposed to be then or now or even when she hadn't yet had a golden band wrapped tightly around her finger.

But when Polly told her far before she herself even realized, she wasn't struck by the lightning bolt of fear that Tommy had been. God was she happy, Thomas recalls. The smile she adorned with tears glistening her gaze, imprinted upon his memory without a chance of ever being erased. He'd been unsure, he'd been anxious and fearful and overwhelmed, he'd even cursed at the prospect a time or two. But the longer he watched her face awaken each morning, sparkling with a smile that never ceased to appear, as though with each break of dawn she was suddenly reminded that a child was growing inside of her, like she'd forgotten about it when sleep found her, Tommy's trepidation slowly began to ease.

Perhaps, over the months, he'd become swayed by the unparalleled juxtaposition of her inexplicable faith and Thomas's own lack of belief in humanity or it might have been as simple as the fact that she made everything seem like it would turn out alright.

"That baby needs her mother," Tommy's voice drops coldly, feeling a certain burn flooding through his veins like it might just ignite what's left of his soul on fire. "We all needed her mother and she left."

Polly barely lets the weight of his words meet the air, before speaking up as though she might combat the collision. "Don't. Don't do that to yourself, Thomas. Do not go resenting her, it'll kill you far before the devils ever get the chance."

"And do not go resenting that child now either."

Tommy's eyes snapped upwards, meeting Polly's stern but warm gaze for the first time that night, but just as soon as her words settled in the air, he shut them tightly as a low sigh escaped past his lips, "I'm--"

"You are." Polly cuts him off again, not willing to waste time listening to Thomas's poor attempt at denying the rather obvious fact. She knew Thomas, some days, even better than he knew himself. She could read him like his pages were open for all to see and she knew the inner workings of his heart, the way the frayed strings beat with a thin sheen of ice coating their mechanisms. He could hide from the world, he could hide from the truth, but he couldn't hide from Aunt Polly and the way she saw him.

"I see it in your eyes." She muses with a soft hum, watching the way his eyes flicker open but remain stagnant on the blistering flames. "You wonder how you can love this child, a child she bore because she hadn't the heart to get rid of it, even when the world whispered its cruelty, but she stood firmly in place. A child you hadn't asked for, didn't even know you wanted, but anticipated its arrival just the same as her."

"You wonder how you can ever love this child, believing it's the very thing that's stolen her from you. But it isn't Thomas." Her tone softened, as she leaned forward against the cushion. The cascade of her dark tightly coiled tendrils, falling over her shoulder as she shifted, keeping her attention firmly in place upon the second eldest Shelby brother who carried with him more burdens than a single man ever should.

"She held on as long as she could, just waiting to see you walk through that door, so that she might just get to witness the sight of her flesh and blood swaddled in your arms. Knowing that it was alright to leave this world, because her baby wouldn't be alone."

Polly's words pierced the open display of his decaying heart, they hadn't meant to rub salt into the exposed wound, but it was a single instant, that simply demanded pain. For death would always hurt in a way that words just couldn't describe, a pain that could only be experienced to truly understand the extent in which it effected the human soul.

Everything hurt, the images of her face lingering behind the shadows of his eyelids, to the way her lipstick stained the rim of an abandoned teacup sitting idly on a nearby end table. The thought of her watching that bedroom door, willing him to rush straight through when she still had the lingering strength to see, the irrefutable knowledge that she'd prolonged her own suffering just so she might get to see him holding his child.

Polly's words sliced Thomas like a knife, but he bled not because she meant to harm him or press deeper into his already open wounds, but because death and loss and overwhelming grief was simply meant to be felt.

Tommy's head had fallen into the palms of his hands, feeling the pads of his fingertips digging into the flesh of his furrowed brows, nearly clawing at his flesh as the urge to scream until his lungs were simply set ablaze threatened to creep back in. His eyes, a crystalized hue of blue that deemed colder than the unrelenting storm outside, but burning as though the swirling flames had become wrapped within the cerulean current, flashed open sharply as he dropped his hands back down and turned to face Polly's awaiting gaze.

An incredulous breath escaped through Tommy's lips, a bewildered cough of laughter filtering past in an exhale of pure ludicrous at the very notion of his next words. For they didn't feel quite real, and Thomas couldn't dare explain them, but they remained to be the only constant thought suddenly tunneling through his head. "How does one feel rage towards an infant?"

Thomas couldn't understand the words he'd said, the thought his mangled mind dared to think, shaking his head furiously as though it might just cleanse the notion from existence. But Polly watched Tommy with compassionate eyes, knowing exactly what it was he had yet to comprehend.

"It isn't rage," She hummed softly, watching Tommy slump back into the chair, spreading his legs slightly in front of him while doing so, as he stared back off into the blistering fireplace. "Merely fear running through you like a fire. Because it would be easier to hate that child, to blame it for the life that's left us, but it's harder knowing that you love that child more than you ever thought possible. And you haven't even met her yet."

Tommy allowed for the overwhelming silence to creep back once more, but just before it overtook his entirety, his head turned to the side and pressed against the cushion of the seat, he whispered in a tone that even Thomas himself, had to admit sounded utterly broken.

"Are you so sure?"

The edges of Polly's lips twitched ever so faintly, illuminated by the soft hues of the citrine burning fire and she spoke again, letting her words cascade over him like she might just hold the river to douse his blistering flames.

"The love between a child and a parent, its inexplicable. It's woven into your foundation immediately, as if God's forgotten something all these years. You can question it, you can try to unravel it, you can even deny it if you bloody well please, but it's there Thomas. Beating away in your heart whether you like it or not."

Polly Gray was never wrong about matters of the heart, while Tommy on the other hand, was still very much getting to know his own.

Could it be as simple as Polly laid it all out to be? Could it be, that somewhere beneath the cluttered damage and decay left in place of France and now the irrevocable shards blasted from the death that consumed him, lingered an ember of light already flickering wildly for the daughter he had yet to meet? Tommy didn't know. He wanted to believe that he'd feel the love that Polly spoke so strongly of, but he felt completely numb, as if he hadn't a single thing left to feel in this whole bloody world.

Thomas hadn't realized the way Polly stood from her seat and made her way towards him, pausing only as she hovered above his left shoulder, feeling the scrutiny of her strong gaze beaming down upon him as though he'd become trapped beneath her imposing light. But her hand reached out, the hand that had been the very last to hold her own when life fluttered from her body before Thomas could make it back, rested down upon his stiff shoulder with a gingerly touch.

"She's alone now," Polly whispered and her tone was only one that Tommy could equate to the way a mother would surely speak to her son. "Just the same as you."

"But you don't have to be, and neither does she."

Tommy couldn't say with complete certainty, just how long he continued to sit there after Polly left. Utterly still, without a single ounce of energy beaming through his veins, as he watched the fireplace crackle and sway, feeling the rain soaking his clothing slowly begin to dry after they'd left him freezing to the bone.

He didn't know how long he sat there, with a sure kink building in the base of his neck from the slouched position he resided in, as Polly's words echoed on an endless loop in the core of his head. As though it were a caught record, spinning around and around, with only the same few words playing through a shouting melody in the cavern of his mind. But he knew the moment he stood from his seat, feeling the muscles in his legs groan out and the pressure in his shoulders begin to ease, for it was an inexplicable moment in time.

For as if it were merely a clearing in the clouds, a pierce of light striking its way through the darkness, Tommy made his way up the creaking Watery Lane steps, just as the storm outside ceased to continue. As though the thunder that had rattled the heavens and the torrential rain that had hammered and assaulted the streets below, had simply given up their attack. Laying the sound of crashing metals lost within the skies down upon the cobbles, packing up the lightning bolts crackling in the distance, turning off the rushing pour of penetratingly cold rain and simply moving on. Defeated.

Tommy couldn't explain it, he couldn't begin to comprehend how such a violent and vengeful storm could just simply end, without a single warning, a single reason given in place, all of the animosity once consumed within the atmosphere merely dissipating as though it was never there in the first place.

It was a stark contrast however, as Tommy climbed the remaining steps, just how silent the house was now. For even as the parlor felt like a void of quiet all its own, the rest of the house rattled with the heavy winds and felt the extent of the rain's harsh collision against its aged and vulnerable walls. But now, as Tommy's footsteps fell with a heavy conviction against the very top step, it felt as though the world had simply used up all of its semblance of sound. Leaving the twilight hour that embraced the foundation of Small Heath, silent in an unnerving fashion, like all noise had been drained from the atmosphere all together.

It pattered up the notches of Tommy's spine, feeling the hair on the back of his neck seem to stand at alert, in the way the silence overwhelmed his apprehensive being. His steps slow and calculated as he drew closer to a nearby bedroom, becoming even more sluggish in pace when he realized the door was wide open, waiting for his steps to pass straight through the shadowed threshold.

The bedroom was small and cramped, nearly empty as little furniture lined the walls of peeled ivory paint and evergreen curtains. But Thomas could already see through the evening's indigo haze, the wooden structure set up against the far wall.

A bassinet, one she'd chosen but was ultimately put up in the next-door room by Ada, when the baby could no longer lay within her mother's dying embrace. Tommy's footsteps halted, before the very tips of his rain sodden and coal smudged shoes could cross over the threshold, for as he peered into the melancholy space, it felt like it threatened to steal all of the air from his lungs. For his eyes washed over the sight of the bedroom, small and void of any decoration or identification that a soul inhabited the space and in spite of the night's dense shadows, Tommy just saw her.

For she lingered in this empty space, as though she whispered out to him in the darkness, calling out from the corners like her voice might just ruffle the linen drapes. Tommy swore he could smell her perfume, one last time. The one he felt a ping of regret in hating more times than not, when now, all he wished was to nuzzle his nose into the crook of her warm neck and inhale her scent. But he swore it lingered, like it pattered along the lonely floorboards like footsteps left behind.

He could see her, for a brief moment before his eyes, the silhouette of her frame moving swiftly throughout the room as she told him her plans. For she'd been waiting to make this room into the baby's nursery, she'd had it all planned out with a perfect picture residing in her mind and there were some nights when the baby was restless and in turn, made her so, that Thomas would discover her in here dreaming and envisioning what the walls would one day be painted with.

They'd have time, Tommy assured her, on the days her pregnancy gave her hell, but she felt rather adamant to begin work on the baby's room. They'd have more than enough time to get this room ready for the newest little Shelby's arrival and it was only now, as Thomas's cerulean scrutiny washed over the starkly bare and sad walls, that he wished he'd let her do it all when she'd wished.

For it was such a somber environment, a dark and empty space that nearly echoed the ramification of death within its confines. It was no place for a child, a mere infant born hours before to a mother who'd never get to watch her grow and perhaps, for that reason alone, Tommy's feet began to move again.

Thomas Shelby could have never imagined just how much strength it would require stepping into that lonely room, making his way on nearly shaky feet towards the quiet bassinet, but he found that it took all of the power and all of the energy left inside his weary soul to do so. Because he knew, the moment he stepped inside and laid eyes on that child, that he could never turn back. There was still a possibility that he could leave, that he could allow that child to be raised by someone who could offer the entire world and everything she'd so desperately need. But he knew once he saw her, once he held her in his arms, that he wouldn't have it inside of himself to abandon her. Not the way his own father had and not in the way her mother always believed that he never would.

Her bassinet lay beneath the window, evergreen linen concealing the clouded glass and only the faintest gleam of night trickled along the floorboards. It was not bold enough to be the light of the moon, but it was not pale enough that it went entirely unnoticed, but rather a spared beam of inexplicable light just strong enough that it allowed Tommy to see every detail he ought to see in the dark of the night.

He reached her, feeling his hands reach out and curl over the wooden railing, eyes falling down upon the bundle of blankets keeping the infant warm despite the night's cold protests. They were woven of soft wool, knit by her delicate fingers as it had kept her mind busy, she claimed, when she was laid up in that bed all day, ankles swollen to the state she could barely move and nausea that kept her close to the lavatory.

They were a mosaic of colors, from any and all yarn she could find, melding them together until the blankets were woven rainbows of every desirable shade. Even in the shadows, Tommy could make out the peony and the bright sunshine yellow and even the shade of green she claimed was too off-putting and yet, she used it anyway. Until each and every thread had been woven.

Tommy wasn't sure what prompted his next action, for he could feel the way his heart surely beat like it might just tear through his chest and shatter his bones as it fled, but he reached down into that bassinet like he hadn't a trace of anxiety anywhere in his veins. Perhaps, it had been her. The soft sound of her voice calling out to him in the silence, telling him that it was alright, that the bundled baby was ready to meet him, and he wouldn't break her, no matter how much it felt like his hands that were scarred with remnants of war and death and misery, might just tarnish the child's flesh and snap her in two.

The infant made not a sound as Tommy lifted the tiny bundle up into his embrace, cradling the baby as he had many times with his own brothers and sister, his young nieces and nephews, but this time felt completely different. For this tiny human being, who was only a few hours old, was different. This was his daughter, his own flesh and blood.

He'd held the life of comrades in his hands before, but they were soldiers. They had weapons and defenses and a head on their shoulders that could think for itself. They looked out for their own lives until someone was forced to step forward and save them from death.

But this little girl, that Tommy's eyes fell upon with a sweeping gaze, couldn't protect herself. It was up to Thomas now and him alone, to keep her safe, to keep her warm and fed and dry. To keep her from all of the harm he knew full well the world was capable of. He had to keep a little baby, a daughter nonetheless, protected as she came into this world, perhaps with a part of it already against her, just because she adorned the Shelby name.

Daughter. A single word made of eight tiny letters, its meaning one of the softest in the English language and yet, it had the remarkable strength as it resounded inside of Thomas's chest like a bullet hurdling against a metal gong. For he felt the way it punctured his flesh and seeped past the bone and the very foundation of his being, as though this one word had the ability to entwine itself onto the very makings of his soul. It was unnerving, the weight that was suddenly apparent upon his beating heart and yet, there was something in the foreign and almost other worldly sensation, that Thomas couldn't deny felt almost... right.

And when she opened her eyes, Thomas swore the world stopped turning.

For she peered up at him, feeling the sudden weight of her father's tentative but unwaveringly strong arms around her delicate frame and their eyes met for the very first time. The breath Tommy was breathing was suddenly knocked from existence, stolen from his grasp and from the cavities of his aching lungs, until he began to wonder if he even needed air to breathe.

For as he stared down at the face of his newborn daughter, it was as if he was really looking at the face of the woman he loved. The woman who he knew now, in the cold grips of reality, he was never to see again. And yet, here she was, her features blindingly bright and clear as if the hidden moon did indeed shine over the horizon.

Thomas's index finger reached out carefully and ever so gently, brushed the edge of his knuckle along the soft sweep of her soft rosy cheeks. She was warm and soft like silk, her small button nose nearly smaller than the pad of Thomas's thumb and yet on her, it looked a little too big in the scheme of her delicate features. But she was beautiful, like Thomas Shelby had never seen or known beauty to be before. Her lashes swept in a long sprawl of dark raven, matching that of his own and they fanned the sight of irises that Tommy swore he'd already looked into before, the very eyes he'd fallen in love with so very long ago.

"You've got your mother's eyes, ey?" Tommy whispered, letting his breath fan along her tender flesh in a cloud of warmth and he wondered if his daughter could sense the tension beginning to ease from his body. For he watched the twitch of her little lips, the ones pursed a perfect powder pink and like she knew exactly what it looked like, she endeavored to smile the very same smile Tommy had witnessed her mother smile every damn day of her life. "And her crooked little smile there."

She had always wondered what their baby would look like, the moment she drew her first breath and peered her eyes open to a brand-new world that awaited her. She'd always been adamant that she was bound to have Tommy's eyes, to hold the same bold currents of cerulean in the core of her own tiny irises. She'd wondered if she'd have his breathtaking bone structure or his dark locks of raven hair. Now she knew. For although it pained Thomas's heart beyond words to know that she'd never witness him holding their daughter, that she had at the very least, gotten the chance herself. She'd gotten to meet the girl Tommy cradled close to his chest, she'd gotten to see her with her own eyes and discover that the beauty this child had, she'd received straight from her mother.

Tommy's knuckle grazes down the soft spread of her plump cheek, feeling the faint curl of her lips pressing the tenderest dimple into the surrounding skin, dropping down to where her tiny fist begins to emerge out of the loose bundle of blankets. Fingers curled tightly like she's all but ready to fight the world, Tommy lowers his own index finger to tenderly brush over the wrinkled and pink knuckles of her own, immediately feeling inclined to alleviate the tension that binds her fingers.

For she was only a few hours into this world and already, Tommy felt compelled to assure her that she'd never have to fight on her own as long as he was here beside her. She'd never have to form her own fists, for his would already be tightly wound and ready to defend her. Always, even if it meant having to move Heaven and Earth.

Maybe she'd felt his silent promise, perhaps, she'd sensed the way he gazed upon her with a sensation of love that Thomas Shelby hadn't known he was capable of experiencing, but whatever the reason, her unclenched hand reached up from where it lay amongst the nestle of wool. Stopping only as her soft flesh made contact with the rough and calloused nature of Tommy's own, her entire palm wrapping itself around the base of his index finger.

And Tommy swore in that moment, that his daughter had more strength in her tiny, fragile body, than he had in his entire being. For she coiled her hand around his finger like she was holding on for dear life and in doing so, he felt the way the breath in his lungs simply ceased to funnel through his chest. It hitched, like his lungs had forgotten their task and let the oxygen slip straight through.

His daughter peered up at him, her lips falling to a straight line like his own so often did, but she continued to hold onto his finger like it brought her a certain sense of serenity. Tommy watched her, the way she simply observed him just as he did and realized they were getting to know each other in the very same way. But as she studied him, she didn't recoil, she didn't pull away, she didn't even let out a sound of displeasure or the sharp makings of a cry. The roughness of his hands, where more bloodshed and death than she'd ever know of lined his palms, didn't scare her. The sternness of his expression, the faint chill that never seemed to thaw from his exterior, didn't deter her. She simply peered up at her father and loved him.

Thomas peered right back down upon her beautiful face and loved her just the very same. With everything he had to give and everything he didn't. He loved her for himself, he loved her for her, and he loved her for her mother that would never get the chance. He loved this little girl with every fiber of his being and he realized in that profound notion, that he finally understood what it was his heart had been waiting for.

Polly was right, the love between a child and a parent was inexplicable and instantaneous. He didn't feel the need to question it, he didn't feel the urge to fight it, he didn't deny the fact that his broken heart beat miraculously for this new little life he'd only just begun to meet. All this time, through this horrid life that had plagued him, Thomas Shelby had been waiting to love something without any semblance of an explanation, a theory, a strategy or even that of a single thought. His love for this little girl just simply was.

There was no reason for his mind to overwork and overturn trying to concoct up an answer to explain why, there was no reason for him to feel cynical of the futile nature of such an emotion, there was no reason for him plan out a way to ensure he'd still feel this way many years down the line. This was a love that was greater than anything else in this universe and it was wholeheartedly easy.

Thomas could love this little girl without having to think about it at all and he discovered in that single notion, that perhaps, his daughter had been the shred of peace he'd been searching for all his life.

"I can't promise you I'll be perfect," Tommy whispered as he cradled his daughter close to his chest, watching the way her lashes became heavy and began to patter slowly against her cheeks. "That was your mother. She was as perfect as I've ever seen."

"She would have loved you, she does love you." Tommy corrected as his eyes fluttered shut for a moment, the pain creeping back into the warmed crevices of his shattered heart like his daughter had managed to numb the open wound. "And I'm not much, I'm not much good, not like she was. But I've got you and you've got me, and we'll make our way. I know we will, I'll make sure of it."

The scent of lavender enriched the air around Thomas and as he gazed down upon the sleeping face of his daughter who looked more like her mother than she'd ever know, he felt her. In every breath that he took, with every blink that his eyes made, in every bone in his body, he felt her presence right there beside him.

She'd left him, but she hadn't left him alone. She'd left him someone to love, someone to care for and someone to hold. She left her child, but she hadn't left her alone either. She'd left her someone that would love her, someone that would care for her and hold her through her life. She'd made sure they'd have each other, because she knew somehow, together, they might just be strong enough to survive when she was gone.

A/N: Actual tears right now... oh my whole heart!😭❤

I do not even know where to begin with this piece, honestly, my heart feels so raw after writing this!!

I never imagined this piece would become the longest one I've written yet for this book, but it simply poured out of me, and I couldn't keep a single thing out, I didn't want to skip a single moment, a single line, a single description. I've had the idea for this plot since the very beginning, it was one of the first ideas I had when I decided to create a Thomas Shelby One Shots book but every time I thought about trying to write it, it just didn't form or flow the way I knew it could. So, I put it away. I walked away from the idea and let it sit until I knew I could write something truly emotional and beautiful and months later, inspiration struck, and I had to sit down and finally write this piece!

I wove many different aspects I'd had written down in notes into this piece, but it was truly the conversation with Polly that made me begin writing this piece. I've never done a scene between Thomas and Polly yet in this book and I felt that this was the perfect moment. That dialogue flowed from my heart and every aspect of this piece, I could visualize playing out across a screen and can only hope that it appeared the same for all of you!!

From the first sentence to the very last, I am so unbelievably proud of this one shot that it's hard to even describe! I poured every ounce of myself into this piece, my heart, my tears, my pain and my soul, knowing that what I could bring to life here with this idea, could be truly breathtaking and beautiful and I am so incredibly proud of myself and the writing I've created here! I hope that you all loved this piece as much as I loved writing it!❤