Chapter 39

A peace descended on the house following their day in the woods – and Tommy was fortunate enough that the peace encompassed him for a few days too, until Wednesday anyway – when two Italians arrived at the shop to tell him that Danny had killed someone.

Upon extracting the story from them, Tommy realised Danny had, consciously, done no such thing. Danny had been having another turn – his cries of "fixed bayonets" as he had killed the shop keeper who advanced on him were proof of that. But the Italians didn't care.

"You have been respectful to us, Mr Shelby," one of them told him, "You have kept your business out of ours, we know this. Mr Changretta does not want a war over one man – but we demand justice. We cannot let it go unanswered for."

"Alright, alright," Tommy said, slowly, nodding – trying to think.

It wasn't alright at all – there was nothing right about it. He couldn't kill Danny for what he had done when he wasn't in his right mind. But he also couldn't afford a war with the Italians. Fuck. How many more episodes would Danny have? Was it kinder to kill him now?

"Saturday – Charlie Strong's yard," Tommy told the men.

"Saturday is too far away," the second man answered, shaking his head.

"Look, this new copper," Tommy told them, "He's not like the others, there'll be no blind eyes turned. The body needs to be gotten out of the city."

"The way we see it, that's your problem."

"The way I see it, if I let you do it your way, the body is your problem," Tommy said, keeping his voice casual, "I'm agreeing to your justice, but if I carry it out the body is on me and I need time to make sure I can take care of that. If you want it done before Saturday do it yourselves, with my blessing, but then the body's your problem." He lowered his voice and lent in, "And from what I hear – you cut a man's balls off and let him drain. Quite a specific signature to leave on a body – so it's going to be easy to trace it back to you when they get a hold of the body if you dump it. And if you dump it, this new copper will get a hold of it – you mark my words."

The two Italians spoke to one another in their own tongue – the first seeming to be convincing the second of the truth to Tommy's words.

"I don't have all day," Tommy told them lazily after a minute of back and forth between them, "You tell Changretta we want peace to continue between the Peaky Blinders and you lot. He can have justice. But if you want it with no risk, it'll be justice on my terms. Saturday, two o'clock, Charlie Strong's Yard."

He turned and walked away, not leaving the men time to answer him. If anything happened before Saturday he'd hear of it anyway. Otherwise – he had bought till Saturday to figure out how to fake an execution and get a man out of the city.

Fuck. Fucking Danny. The man was loyal and, when he wasn't having a turn, Tommy knew he was trustworthy. Plus, Danny's wife was called Rosie. If he had to go tell her her husband was dead, leave her to tell their boys that their father was gone – all he would see would be his Rosie being told the same thing about him. Would imagine her having to tell Lily. That was why it was imperative he got good money for these guns and got rid of them as quickly as possible – but it had to be done quietly. He couldn't get caught. She couldn't be on the receiving end of that news.

As if agreeing the execution of a friend wasn't enough for a man to have on his mind, his walking away from the Italians, pushing out the door of the shop and setting off apace brought him face to face with Freddie fucking Thorne.

Tommy shoved his cigarette in his mouth and moved his eyes deliberately away from Freddie, making it clear he didn't want to talk – but the other man wasn't having it. Freddie shoved himself into Tommy's path and moved with him – like a fucking irritating dance – every time Tommy tried to side step him. He itched to reach for the gun he had under his jacket.

"What do you want Freddie?" he demanded, keeping his face or voice from showing his frustration.

"Heard you gave your sister a beating," came the reply.

Tommy worked to stay calm, letting his eyes drift to the ground and a smirk cross his lips before he shook his head and met Freddie's eyes again – giving himself a moment to breathe - "I don't beat girls, Freddie. Thing is, I don't see them as you do – don't see them as a comrade that I'd treat like I'd treat a man."

He let the smirk fall from the corners of his mouth and did as he had done with the Italians earlier, leaning in and speaking quietly, though ensuring the threat in his voice was clear, "But I'll beat you – I'd have no fucking problem doing that."

"Oh, I bet you wouldn't Tommy," Freddie retorted.

"You stay the fuck away from my sister Freddie."

"Does it scare you that much that your sister might have her own opinions?"

He thought about how readily Ada had thrown Freddie's beloved manifesto into the flames on his command. She only wanted the page he had written on. She didn't have opinions, not political ones – and if Freddie had been anyone else he might have felt sorry for him, because he might think whatever was going on between them was genuine. But all Ada wanted to do was feel like her life was a picture show, full of drama and excitement. And if she got lumped with Freddie Thorne, she'd figure out real soon that the reality of being with a man on the run wasn't going to be midnight trains to big cities or riding in first class carriages. It would be basements and never seeing daylight and a fear every time someone knocked at the door. But there would be fuck all she'd be able to do about it by then.

"Nothing wrong with opinions, Freddie – what scares me is her getting caught up in all your filth," he told his former friend.

"My filth," Freddie spat, "What about your filth Tommy? You think the Peaky Blinders don't have mud on their boots?"

"Better good honest mud than snow Freddie."

"Good honest mud – Christ, you believe yourself Tommy, don't you? Do you remember when we were up to our waists in that good honest mud in France? You so desperate to get back there?"

"Cause your revolution isn't going to get the whole fucking world back there Freddie?"

"In my revolution, we won't be waiting for the cavalry – because there won't be a fucking cavalry," Freddie told him.

"And Christ you believe yourself, don't you Freddie?" Tommy echoed Freddie's own words back at him.

"I've got something to believe in Thomas – what have you got? Anything you hold sacred?"

Tommy knew exactly what he held sacred. Would he be having this argument if he didn't? Would he want to defend it, to keep it safe from the likes of Freddie if he didn't hold them all sacred?

"You stay away from our Ada," he told Freddie, his voice low.

He turned to go, but Freddie called over his shoulder, "And what if your Ada and I decide we don't give a fuck about what Tommy Almighty decrees?"

He turned and slammed his fist into Freddie's jaw, knocking him to the ground. He had always been in control, always been precise – it was Arthur who reigned blows down without holding back. But as he pinned his knees in Freddie's elbows he let his fists fly. How many times had they been in this position as kids? They had learned how to fight side by side. They'd never thought it would be each other they'd be fighting. He grabbed his hat from his head and positioned it, ready to strike.

And then he saw the face of the kid he'd pinned down like this a million times, a kid who'd also pinned him down in turn. A kid who had backed him up against kids twice their size. A kid who'd become a man who went to France with him – a man who'd had his back when a bullet was aimed at him. He paused, the hat raised.

And then he put it back on his head and pushed himself up and off Freddie, breathing heavily. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, not looking at the other man as he got to his feet.

"That's us even Freddie," he growled, still looking the other way, "For France. You saved my life, I've spared yours." He turned, looking up from under his hat, "I don't owe you anything now Freddie, so you stay away from her."

"There was a time we fought for one another without keeping score of who was owed anything, Thomas."

"Yeah," he nodded, "There was."

"What happened?"

"What happened?" Tommy spat, "I grew up Freddie. You still think this world is kids who have an honour code and who back each other up without keeping scores? Kids who can afford that because they go home to their dinners at night? You think you've got safehouses you can run to Freddie? There's no such thing as a fucking safehouse. You make your house safe. You look at the fucking world, the way it is, you see it for what it is and you do what you need to do. And you make sure and understand this Freddie – there is nothing I won't do to keep my family safe. Nothing."

"You know Thomas – you can say whatever you like – but the whole fucking world would be safer if the power was redistributed. But the truth is – redistribution of power – that wouldn't fucking suit you, would it? You're sitting there, gathering it all. You're turning into the fucking cavalry Tommy."

Freddie spat angrily at the ground Tommy stood on, breathing heavily.

They stared at each other then. There was more he could have said. A lot more. But he'd heard someone once say she didn't often find it advisable to go shooting her mouth off. And she was pretty smart, so he'd take her advice.

"We do this again Freddie – we do it with guns," he said and turned on his heel, walking away before Freddie could reply.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

He buried his face into the girl who had given him the advice about not shooting mouths off's neck the next night at Charlie's yard, where they had their guns and where she was making pretty much every shot.

She shot again before resting her hand atop the ones he had wrapped around her waist and he shifted his face for a minute, enough to let his eyes glance up and see that she had knocked the last of the tin cans off the table.

"You're getting this quicker than John did," he murmured, kissing the side of her face, then replacing his own into the warm nook and squeezing tightly at her waist.

"What's going on in that head of yours Tommy?" she asked.

He sighed into her neck. He could tell from the way she peered over the table at dinner at him the night before that she had known from the minute she arrived home that something wasn't right, but she hadn't pushed him or asked him what is was. But her patience had either run out, or she'd been intending to ask him once they got here tonight – either way he didn't know. Maybe the latter, she'd been quick to get Lily off to bed that night, hurrying the child along more than she usually did. But even her hurrying of Lily was gentle.

He thought on what Johnny had told her about the rose and what it represented. It was appropriate that it was on the strength card. She was strong, both in and of herself – and in herself as a support to other people's strength, to his strength. He had called her a pushover, but only to annoy her. He didn't believe she really was. She had a steel core – which was nestled in a softness that was itself concealed behind a hard outer shell.

And he knew well enough that if she had decided to question him on what was going on, she was stubborn and determined enough that she wasn't going to let him alone without an answer.

"Ada, Freddie, Danny, Italians," he told her, listing his worries off.

"What about Ada?" she asked at once, her voice sharp.

He recounted what had happened with Freddie, told her what Freddie had said about what if him and Ada decided they didn't care what Tommy thought.

"Ada does care what you think," she told him, placing the gun down on the upturned crate that their lantern rested on and turning in his arms to place her hands around his neck, "Honestly Tommy I don't think you give Ada enough credit for how much she cares about you. She's not stupid, she knows where her bread is buttered."

"She doesn't fucking act like it most of the time," he said, letting his frustration come into his voice.

"She is who she is Tommy and she can't change her personality to what would suit you, but she loves you."

He looked down, "I believe she loves me, in her own way, but I'm not convinced she cares what I think. Or that the excitement of running away with a communist wouldn't outweigh whatever love she has of me."

"Tommy, she's not stupid," Rosie repeated, moving her head to force his eyes to look to hers.

"You know as well as I do how silly Ada can be when she gets caught up in things," Tommy replied.

"Silly, yes. But she's not an idiot Tommy, you have to know that. You brought her up. She might take fanciful notions but she's not stupid. You got through to her plenty on Freddie. Though for what it's worth I think what you said to her about the dangers of being caught up with communists made more of a lasting impact than your hand did."

He snorted at that, "I can quite assure you, had I not applied my hand I wouldn't have been able to get her to listen to what I had to say about the dangers of being caught up with communists. And while we're on it, if you had used your hand instead of taking away cakes and sweets for a week, there wouldn't be any drawings on the wall under Lillian's bed."

Rosie shook her head, "I'm going to murder her nevermind smack her."

"I'd prefer if you didn't," Tommy said in mock seriousness, "I'm rather fond of her. Plus she told me not to tell you that."

"And you betrayed the confidence of a six-year-old, how am I meant to trust you?" she grinned.

"You'll just need to take your chances, Miss Jackson," he said, bringing his lips to hers.

"Is that right Mr Shelby?" she asked with a grin, before returning the kiss.

He felt better upon hearing her reassure him about Ada. She had a bond with his sister that he never would, a bond he couldn't quite fathom. He supposed it was a woman to woman thing.

He slid his hands under her unbuttoned coat and over the womanly curves in front of him, feeling the smallness of her waist give way to the fullness of her hips and roaming upwards to repeat the descent again further around, stroking the dip of her back and the sweet swell it gave way to. He could spend the rest of his days doing nothing but exploring the movements of her flesh – and her for her part she gave one of those little moans into his mouth when he squeezed at the swell below the dip of her back.

"Don't mind me," Charlie's drawled and Rosie pulled her head back at approximately the same speed as the bullets had exited the gun she had just been firing.

She looked to Charlie, then to the ground, her face colouring a vibrant scarlet - so vibrant he could see it build even in the lamplight - whilst he kept his cool and met his uncle's eyes, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, I figured this was happening," Charlie replied with a raised eyebrow of his own, puffing away on a cigarette, "I just didn't realise it was official and out in the open."

"It's not," Tommy told him, "That's why I'm kissing her at half ten on a Thursday night in your yard."

"So that's another thing I'll be keeping my mouth shut about then," Charlie said with a shake of his head.

"If you wouldn't mind, please," Rosie said, her face still matching her hair.

"Since you asked so nice lass," Charlie replied, smiling at her, "But I don't know why you're botherin', everyone thinks it's happening anyway."

"Well no one's said as much," she said.

"Aye - cause they know better," Tommy said grimly.

"Or because they care enough to try and avoid upsetting you Tommy," Charlie chided him.

Tommy rolled his eyes, "It's a recent development, no matter what everyone else thinks. As recent as a few days ago."

"Well that is more recent that I'd have thought," Charlie said, dragging on his cigarette.

"We'd both like some time where we can enjoy it for ourselves without everyone's smug satisfaction," Tommy told his uncle, warning him not to be too smug himself, "And Rosie wants to finish school without it being known."

"Christ, I forget you're still in school," Charlie said.

"I could leave, but Tommy is forcing me to do the leaver's exam in May," she said, rolling her eyes, "Then I'm done."

"She's too clever not to do it," Tommy said, rolling his own eyes and shaking his head.

"Well, I'll leave you to it then," Charlie said, turning to go, "Secret's safe with me, as usual."

"Uncle Charlie, wait," Tommy called after the man's back had started to retreat into the dark.

Charlie turned back, looking questioningly at him.

Tommy moved the lantern to the ground and sat on the up turned crate, stowing Rosie's gun in his holster beneath his overcoat. He massaged the bridge of his nose forcefully with his thumb and forefingers before looking up to both Rosie and Charlie from underneath his hat.

"Sit down," he told them, gesturing to the crates that littered the yard.

Once they were seated he looked to his uncle and announced, "Charlie, I need to execute someone here on Saturday – and I'm going to need your help getting the body out of the city after it's done."

He glanced to Rosie, who remained silent, though her eyebrows had shot up – then to his uncle who simply closed his eyes, shook his head and said, "Here we go then - you going to fill us in with any more detail Tom?"

He filled them both in on as much detail as he had – in short that Danny had taken the turn, that he needed to dispense justice as the Italians saw fit and that they would be coming to witness.

Charlie had agreed to move the body out on a boat, and Rosie came up with the idea of bringing the boat along and pushing the body on to it, somehow making it look like he had been shot and taking the body away before the Italians could realise otherwise.

Tommy shook his head, "If I shoot him onto a boat I'd need to shoot him in the head, point blank – they'll figure something's up if I shoot him anywhere else, they'd examine the body and it would start a war if they found I had tried to trick them."

"Plus it's hard for a man to keep quiet if he's been shot and hasn't died," Charlie added.

Tommy didn't want to have to tell Danny's Rosie that her husband was dead, but he would deal with that before he'd deal with his Rosie being caught up in the crossfire of a war with the Italians.

"Can't you find a way to shoot him in the head but with, I don't know, a fake bullet or something – knock him out so he falls on the boat and is quiet but isn't dead?" she persisted.

"Rosie, when you shoot a man point blank in the head you get covered in his-" Charlie started to say but Tommy cut him off.

"Enough of that Charlie, she doesn't need nightmares."

"You're teaching her to shoot," Charlie pointed out.

"Not so she can go around shooting men at point blank range in the head Charlie, that gives a man nightmares never mind what it does to a woman."

He watched her bristle at his words, her back straightening and her mouth frowning at him, but he didn't care.

"See if you can control what I do once the gun's in my hand Thomas Shelby."

"You shoot a man point blank and I'll take the gun out of your hand and make sure no other ever enters your grip," he told her.

"Charlie!" Rosie demanded, looking to his uncle for support.

Charlie shook his head, "Ah he's right Rosie, point blank shooting's different to others – you don't recover from it. You pray you never have to shoot anyone anyway, just because you can doesn't mean you should."

"So why am I learning?"

"Because," Tommy told her grimly, "If you ever need to protect yourself you can pull a gun, tell them you're going to shoot something nearby – pick a target and shoot it. Then aim the gun at them and they'll take you seriously without you needing to actually shoot them."

She scoffed, "Maybe I'll make you my target."

"You can try but I don't think you'd like the results."

"I think you overestimate how much I enjoy you being alive."

"Oh I'd make sure I lived," he assured her.

"I'm going home," she snapped and stood up, storming off, only shouting "See you later Charlie," over her shoulder.

Tommy flicked his eyes between her stomping figure and his uncle then threw up his hands and got up to head after her.

"Give her a minute," Charlie advised.

"Cause you know so much about how to handle women," Tommy quipped sarcastically to the perennial bachelor.

"She's not got a half bad mind," Charlie remarked, as if Tommy hadn't spoken, "Tom – you could fill a shell with what should splatter your face - be enough to knock him out at that range. You know Italians, they won't get close to the mess and if you go with her idea of shooting him onto a moving boat, we'd be away before he'd regain consciousness."

Tommy considered it for a moment. Danny would still need to leave the city, leave Danny Whizbang behind and become Daniel Owen again, start over, somewhere new. Maybe in time he could send Danny's wife and kids on to him, once enough time had gone by that it wouldn't be suspicious.

But it wouldn't do if Danny kept taking his turns, if he did it again somewhere else. Maybe the idea of what could happen if he didn't stop it would be enough to frighten some sense into the man though. Tommy knew himself, knew from his Rosie, that you could stop it. You could stop it when the stakes were high enough. Something else had to frighten your mind more than the war.

"I'll think on it Charlie – I'll be by tomorrow. Not a word of this – or that – to anyone, y'hear?"

"When have I ever breathed a word Tommy?" Charlie asked.

"Just see that you don't," Tommy said, then strode quickly off into the night after the redhead.

She came into view a few streets away from the yard and he shouted after her. She turned and glanced at him but didn't stop, so he quickened his pace.

"What on God's green fucking earth was that about?" he snapped, reaching out to grab her arm and yank her to him as soon as he could, pulling her to face him and not releasing her.

"What was what about?"

"Storming off because I don't want you to shoot someone."

"I just don't see what the point in any of it is, Tommy," she rounded on him furiously, "You buy me a suit and a watch, you teach me to shoot – you've given me a Peaky Blinder costume, but I've not to actually wear it, I've just to stand outside the room while you lot do the real business."

"You feel left out?" he asked, tempted to whirl her around and smack her senseless for her stupidity if that was what was going on in her head.

"I don't know," she muttered, her voice softening, her eyes looking at the ground between them and driving her toe into it, biting her lip as she did so, "I suppose so. I feel half in and half out – like I'm sort of yours and sort of not and I presumed you were teaching me to shoot so I could work for you and now you say I've just to use it to threaten people if need be – I don't know, Tommy, I just, I worry…"

She trailed off, not meeting his eye.

"You worry about what?" he demanded, rolling his eyes to the heavens in exasperation.

She glanced up at him, then looked off to the side shaking her head. Whatever it was, he wasn't getting it out of her tonight. He sighed and pulled her to him, more gently this time, his arms going around her, his lips brushing the top of her head.

"Look my love," he murmured down to her, "I use my own gun to threaten more than I use it to shoot. I trust you, you know that. But having a person's death on your conscience – Rosie it's not an easy thing. And I'd rather you avoided it if possible, alright? And you are mine – fully mine – and the only time that'll change is if you choose not to be mine anymore, alright?"

"Really?" she asked, looking up to him, finally meeting his eyes – disbelief still lingering in hers.

"Really," he assured her, then went to kiss her – but she pulled her head back.

He widened his eyes in question.

"Don't you think I didn't notice Charlie saying he's keeping other secrets for you, Tommy," she told him, her voice accusatory, the softness hardening.

Why women did this, he didn't know. She seemed determined to be in a mood about something – but whatever it was, he would bet, had a lot more to do with whatever she wasn't telling him than it did about what she'd shout at him for.

He sighed and rolled his eyes, "Yes, what of it?"

"What's he keeping?"

"Nothing you need to know about."

"See Tommy!" she shouted, pushing herself out of his arms and folding hers across her chest, "You say you trust me, but you don't."

And there was the shouting, as he'd expected.

"Rosie, no one except me, Charlie and Pol knows about what Charlie's keeping secret for me – and if I'd had my way of it no one would know except me," he said, keeping his own voice calm.

"You realise you say shit like that and then you wonder why your head's a mess sometimes. You don't have to take on the whole fucking world alone, Tommy."

"I'll take it on alone before I put it on your fucking shoulders," he retorted, a note of anger creeping into his own voice now.

"Well that's very fucking romantic of you to say," she snapped back, her own voice angry too, "But I put Lily on your shoulders Tommy. She's the most important thing in the whole damn world to me, and I trusted you with her – but you don't even trust me with some stupid secret."

Because a stupid secret and Lily were the same thing.

"I've a good mind to drag you back to that yard and give you a damn good spanking Rosalie Jackson," he told her, wondering if that would drag the truth from her.

"That's your answer for everything Thomas Shelby," she snarled in response.

You are the most important thing in the whole damn world to me. That was what he wanted to say to her. To make her understand. But that was a lot to say.

"Rosie – you, Ada, Lily and Finn – you lot are the most important thing in the whole damn world to me, do you not understand that?" he demanded of her instead, his own frustration at not being able to say what he wanted to taking over, letting him join her in acting like what they were suddenly arguing about was what either of them actually cared about, "I'm not telling you because knowing would put you in danger. It's not safe for you to know – I'm not telling you so that if anything happens you don't need to be dragged in to a cover up plan or be told to remember a bunch of lies. I don't want that worry on you. I want you safe, do you understand? I want you all safe, but you most of all – for Lily. Can you imagine how heart broken she would be if something happened to you because if you got mixed up in something when there was no need for it? Grow up! You want to be a Peaky Blinder? Fall in fucking line."

"Fall in fucking line? I'll give you fall in fucking line," she snarled and lunged herself at him, reigning blows on his chest, "Thomas Shelby says jump and I've to ask how high, is that it?"

He grabbed at her wrists and yanked her against him, growling down, "This isn't even Peaky Blinder business, Rosie. Arthur and John don't know anything about this either. By even knowing there's something to know you know more than they do, for fuck's sake. I thought we'd covered trusting my judgement just plenty last week, but if you want a reminder I'll oblige your arse, don't you worry. My first priority is keeping you lot safe-"

"Tommy I'm not a child, you don't need to keep me safe!" she cut across him.

"You're doing a good impression of one," he told her.

"I hate you!"

"Well I'm not too fond of you in this moment either. Nevertheless, I will keep you safe. And it keeps you safe not to put the burden of this on you and whether you like it or not that's my final word, so you can like it or fucking lump it."

"Well I don't fucking like it," she said, trying to no avail to wrestle her wrist out of his grip and then kicking him, hard, when she realised her wrists were frozen.

"You little bitch," he snapped, yanking her close and moving her wrists so he could grip them together in his left hand, "I'll teach you to kick me."

He commenced with warming her rear end with his right hand, holding her in place as much as he could by her wrists, though she wriggled and squirmed and twisted away from him, a chorus of, "Get off me," "You're a fucking bully Thomas," and "I bloody hate you right now," repeating in the night air, punctuated by the muffled thuds of the smacks he was laying down on top of her wool coat. Smacks he, frustratingly, knew she'd barely be feeling through the bloody thing.

It was nearly spring, he'd take her and Lily, and Ada and Finn too, for lighter coats in a week or so. And once she was wearing that she'd be better behaved, he was sure of it – after she realised a waterproof rain coat didn't offer her backside as much protection as a winter coat did.

Accepting he wasn't going to make her docile here, he desisted and pulled her closer, pinching her chin with his right hand and tilting her face up so he could glare at her.

"You even think about kicking me again and I'll tan your bare arse," he told her.

She glared at him but didn't say anything. He noted the heaviness of her breathing and the swell of her pupils under the streetlight, his stomach lurching slightly in response.

He released her face and wrists at the same time, breathing heavily himself and reached to his overcoat pocket for a cigarette and a lighter.

"Get home and get to your bed," he ordered before lighting it.

"That's where I was going before you came and interrupted me, Thomas."

"Rosie, this isn't the time to Thomas me," he told her with a raised eyebrow, pointing the lit cigarette at her in lieu of a finger.

"Oh do excuse me Mr Shelby," she replied sarcastically, "What would you prefer - Lord Shelby, King Thomas, Master of the Universe, Supreme Emperor of Small Heath?"

"Well the last time I gave you a spanking you called me sir," he told her, taking a drag.

"And I bet you loved that, didn't you?"

"I could get used to it," he said, smirking.

"Well I'll remember never to say it again."

"Get home, get to bed – don't make me say it again."

"I hate you!"

"So you said," he remarked, keeping his voice light.

She let out a frustrated moan from behind gritted teeth then started to storm off, her shoulders at her ears and her hands shoved angrily in her pockets.

He shook his head, chucked the cigarette on the ground, cursing the waste of it, and went after her. His strides were longer than hers, so he was soon able to grab the back of her coat and use it to yank her back to him, his hands moving to her waist and pulling her against him.

"What?" she demanded, her head going back so her eyes could determinedly meet his.

He didn't answer her, just kissed her. She resisted him for a moment or so, but when he slid his hands to her backside she groaned against his mouth and kissed him back, her arms sliding around his neck.

They stayed there for a while until he moved his hands to her face and broke them apart, kissing her lightly as he did so, the tension in his groin as she pushed her body against his too much for him to maintain much longer.

He grinned at her as she looked up at him, her eyes bleary, "Thought so," he nodded, "You might hate me, but I reckon you quite like that I take care of you, even when it frustrates you."

Her mouth dropped open and moved wordlessly for a minute, before it set in a straight line at his goading. She glared at him for a second before marching back off the way she'd been going before he'd kissed her.

He watched her go with a self satisfied smirk on his face and a tightness in his groin, only raising his eyebrow slightly when she turned on her heel and came flying back towards him.

"Just so you know, Thomas Shelby," she snapped, jabbing him in the chest with her finger, an action that hurt more than he'd care for her to know, "I might have a fancy for you and your stupidly blue eyes, but I am not speaking to you right now."

"Alright my love," he told her, grabbing the hand that the offensive prodding finger was attached to and bring it to his lips to kiss it, "Away and be not speaking to me from your bed at home then, there's a good girl."

"You don't get to call me that when I'm not speaking to you, it's patronising."

"What, my love or good girl?"

"Both," she snapped, "You don't get to call me anything. You'll respect that you've upset me and I'm not speaking to you and I'll speak to you again once you apologise."

"Well we'll not be speaking for some time then, will we?"

"You. Are. An. Absolute. Arsehole, Thomas Shelby," she snapped at him before she slapped his smirk right off his face and turned and strode away from him.

It was his mouth's turn to drop open this time and he was so in shock at her slap that he didn't even gather his thoughts to think how to respond to it until she had turned the corner and was out of sight.

He touched his hand to his face, feeling at it as though he thought the slightly fuzzy tingling he was feeling it in might have changed the texture of the skin. She'd caught him a right good one, he'd give her that.

He headed in the direction of The Garrison, deciding if it was that woman that was on he'd turn right back around and head somewhere else. He'd had enough of women for the night. He wasn't even tempted to knock on Lizzie's door to get the swelling below his waist dealt with. Annoyingly, not even her slapping his face was enough to cancel out what the pressing of her body against his had caused.

Any other woman! If he'd just picked any other woman. No other bloody woman would care to be involved in his business. They'd be quite content to be at home and not poking their nose in and picking up on things Charlie said that had nothing to do with them.

It had to be her, didn't it? He'd had to go ahead and pick Rosie fucking Jackson.

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