Based at some point. No idea when. Just enjoy. Mature themes will be explored throughout this story. Please heed my warning.
Tommy Shelby. Head of The Shelby Family. King fucking lunatic gangster, blow your head off over a shilling owed to his cousin, type. Arthur, his slightly more weedy, but equally as ruthless brother, rarely far from his side. John is the other name you've heard. John 'Fuckin' Shelby. Perhaps it's a double barreled surname. Whatever, they're not a family you want to get on the wrong side of. Roddy Dugan from down the road thought it might be a good idea to try and pocket some of the winnings from the most recent race the Shelby's had fixed. None have seen him since. Stories spread like wildfire, and when it comes to the Shelby's, you've learned not to take what you hear with a pinch of salt. If Samuel Blacksmith says that Arthur rammed the coins down Roddy's throat, then cut them free before Roddy choked to death on them, that's probably exactly what happened. And when Jim Timber whispered to you about Tommy shooting an old 'friend' at point blank range in the face for speaking ill of the Shelby family, you daren't quirk a smile. The limited knowledge you have of the Shelby family is enough to make you know that when they burst into the bar you are tending in the wee hours of the night, when the last pissed up stragglers are the fat and forties crew, doing their best to stay away from their wives and children, and Arthur Shelby lets off a round on a shotgun, and yells for you to get on the fuckin' floor, "By order of The Peaky Fuckin' Blinders!" That grabbing your own gun and pointing it back at The Terrible Three, is the exact opposite to what you should do. Yet here you are; heart hammering in your chest, you are certain loud enough that every man in the room can hear it, and you have John, Arthur, and Tommy fuckin' Shelby all staring straight back at you, unmoving. Shit. Fuck. The following seconds pass like hours, as the four of you, three against one, stand frozen in time, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Luckily for you, you're frozen in abject terror, because one false move is absolutely going to get a round from Arthur's shotgun embedded in you.
"Put the gun down," Tommy's tone doesn't change or falter, and his blue eyes shine fiercely at you. John draws out and cocks another firearm, but makes no further moves as Tommy raises a hand. "No one wants to get hurt here, now, do they?"
If they can't see your arms beginning to tremble by now, you'll be a monkey's uncle. You set your jaw, and part your lips to draw in a breath, and the three sets of Shelby eyes dart to your lips, and you just know their fingers are tightening on those triggers. It's more than a little unsettling.
"Come on, little girl." Arthur's voice is more gruff than Tommy's, likely the effect of too many nips of hard whiskey. John doesn't speak, doesn't move, but his eyes trail slowly over what he can see of your body, waiting for any sign of movement.
More seconds pass, and you lock eyes with King Tommy, sapphire blue meeting with ice blue. You notice something in him change; only slight, scarcely noticeable to the eye. He knows he's won.
"Put the fuckin' gun down before I fuckin' make ya," There is little room for humor in Arthur's tone, and he raises his shotgun again, looking down the barrel to line up.
"It's okay, Arthur," It's a moment before Tommy's eyes move from you, and you're aware that somehow, he knows exactly what you're doing, even though he's now looking at his brother. "She's not going to do anything." He turns back to you, a slight raising of his eyebrows being the closest to another order he's going to give you. He waits. Another moment passes, and you blink, your shoulders sagging. It's either that, or lights out, for good. Tommy's eyes don't move from yours, whilst you lower your gun to the bar, and raise your hands in a show of defeat.
The pitbulls stand either side of Tommy, awaiting their next instruction, and it comes in the form of a nod, from Tommy to John, and John obliges by moving to take your gun and slip it in to the waistband of his trousers, not before making sure the safety is on. Arthur seems reluctant to move the aim of his gun from you, but a blink from Tommy is all he needs. He glares hard across the room at you, unwavering as Tommy launches in to a speech about the pub landlord and a select few of its punters, helping themselves to a shipment of spirits that had been temporarily mislaid, due for The Garrison. Some poor delivery driver had gotten himself a bullet in the head for being so stupid as to take the wrong turn and get lost in the first place. John's eyes look you up and down, and you fancy he's wondering how nice your blood might have looked painted across the wall. Arthur still hasn't moved from you.
"Who the fuck do you lot think you are?" Cyril Murphy, the resident moron pipes up. He might just have been stupid enough not to know the answer to his own question, but a round from Arthur's gun creating a new hole through his head leaves him with no further need to know at any rate. "Any more questions?" You're glad Arthur's attention is finally off you. Your breaths are shaky, and absurdly, all you can think of is that potent whiskey on the top shelf. The butt of Arthur's gun collides with the cheek of an attempted escapee, leaving the latter sprawled on the floor, likely unconscious. In a moment, Arthur strides up to the bar, gun pointed at you, eyes on the rows of bottles on the shelves behind you. "Pour me the best you've got." His eyes sweep around the bar again, this time not looking at the refreshments.
"The other one is under the bar," Your voice isn't much more than a whisper.
"What?"
You flinch at his gruff tone, and raise your left hand, eyes darting to Tommy, who is observing from across the room. "The other gun." The three brothers all react subtly to the word, and Arthur raises a hand to strike you.
Tommy has crossed the room without your noticing, and has Arthur's wrist. He shares a knowing look with his brother, then those brilliant blues meet with your own. "Put it on the bar." You oblige wordlessly. "Are there any more?" You shake your head. Tommy keeps your gaze awhile longer, then lets go of his brother's hand. He taps three times on the bar, and you bring down the best you have. Three tumblers, three half glasses. Arthur's is gone in one, John takes his in three, Tommy leaves less than a quarter, and sets it down on the bar. His eyes haven't left yours. John brings a small tin from his coat, and begins squeezing the liquid from inside, spreading it as far as he can. The smell of petroleum fills the air, and the punters begin to panic, each making a break for freedom, each thrown back by one of the brothers. You neck back a burning gulp from the bottle of whiskey you've not yet set down, then finger the rim of the glass Tommy has left. You look up at him through the rapidly spreading flames, and feel a smile crack as you down the rest of his drink.
