𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈.
sweet adeline
❝ NEVER LET THEM GO ❞

BIRMINGHAM,
ENGLAND 1913

♜ ━━━━━ TOMMY SHELBY hated many things; their lack of money, their lack of prospects, the water that took his mother, his father that didn't give a sh—t, coppers who were too corrupt to care, the list went on. And looking at all the things he hated, there seemed to be barely anything left in the world that Tommy Shelby could truly love, but Greta Jurossi was one of them.

They'd been in Blackpool, four days spent at the beach for a holiday, a good escape from the smoke and smog that was Small Heath.

Tommy was burning something shocking, pale skin not used to such time in the sun. Greta, in turn, didn't know how to burn, she just turned darker. Sunspots freckled her cheeks and she turned the most brilliant golden brown.

He'd never taken holiday before, never left Small Heath except for the Romani fairs and the travelling days when his mother was still well enough to do so.

He was just twenty—three, Greta finally nineteen. Tommy'd wanted it to be a surprise, instead he'd been surprised in return.

They took the picture the day Greta found she was expecting; June 15th, 1913.

It felt like his first act of fatherhood when he bartered down the price like it was a sport, haggled with the man on the boardwalk down to a quid and an agreement not to take the photographer's eyes. Greta had to bite back a grin when the poor sod shakily captured their likeness, Tommy nearly scowling over her shoulder.

But the picture had been lovely.

Wild rovers beside the seaside; their days of roving over, both intending to return home and settle down.

They had a baby coming, after all.

A little bit of her and him.

A piece of Greta, infamous for her raised eyebrow and strong opinions, beautiful for her secretive smile and radical ideas.

And a piece of Tommy, known for his laugh and his big blue eyes, branded as trouble with his sights on the crown.

They were bound to have their hands full.

Tommy was sure Mister Jurossi would kill him, and Missus Jurossi would have a right fit. Kitty'd be pleased at least; she'd been tired of being the baby of the family, anyway.

He hadn't been wrong.

Mister Jurossi came at him with a raised fist while Missus Jurossi started throwing dishes with dinner still on their surfaces, plates smashing against walls, green peas spattered on the picture frames. Kitty nearly burst her shite laughing while Greta was yelling for everyone to calm down, Tommy busy tryin' to duck a hiding.

Once it was certain Mister Jurossi wouldn't throttle him and Missus Jurossi had willingly disarmed herself of the glassware, they all warily returned to their seats round the table. 

She struggled speaking English, Missus Jurossi did, but God knew she was testing her limits when she leaned in to scold they two like impatient children who'd sullied something beautiful.

They'd taken it all in stride, Tommy and Greta, their hands clasped tightly beneath the table.

He couldn't understand much of what Greta was saying, half in English, half in Italian, as she promised that Tommy was staying, that Tommy wasn't like that, that he wouldn't leave their daughter and grandchild with nothing.

But they'd all turned to him, then, because they needed proof. Because they needed to hear it from his lips. Because men went, didn't they? The women became something tarnished, the babies were ridiculed, and the men just went.

Tommy, for all his thinking and clever words, he hardly had to say anythin' at all. He only gave the gentlest smile he could manage, and he'd told them that he loved her, and he wouldn't be parted from her, and above all, their grandchild would want for nothing.

Tommy would only realise later — much later — how wrong he truly was.

They'd accepted it as quickly as they'd been angered by it, the Jurossi's. Kisses for Greta and a handshake for Tommy for his trouble, laughing while they plucked peas out of his hair.

He'd won them over easily enough, with his charm and his sweetness.

Telling the Shelby's had been so much easier, it felt strange enough for Tommy to think much less ever admit out loud.

Arthur and John had cheered when they broke the news, making jokes that had Greta laughing and Tommy stupidly blushing. Ada and young Finn had been beaming something shocking, giddy for another baby in the family. It was Polly who'd given him a look.

She'd put a hand to his cheek and gave him the saddest sort of a smile, like she knew something he didn't.

How he hated when she gave him that look.

Finally, Polly whispered, "You keep them close, Thomas, and you never let them go."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The first time he'd met Greta, it was when she was singing.

It was one of those wretched days that Pol'd dragged them all to church. Tommy wasn't religious; he hadn't been and he wouldn't be. But he mostly went along with it because he assumed it had to do with getting them out from under their mother's feet and away from their father's temperamental hungover state he'd have after a night on the piss.

It was too little, too late; it always was, after all, Tommy'd always been his father's victim of choice.

They'd never know when Arthur Senior could be bothered to find his way home, with no word of warning to help them prepare. He'd only ever come home to take money and love from their mother, and then leave bruises on his children along the way. Arthur and Tommy had their safety plans, o'course, and most often they worked. With Polly's help, they'd hide John and Ada away in the upstairs cupboard 'til their da was either gone or passed out.

Last night had been different but. They'd not seen him comin' before he was already in the kitchen and taking a swing at their mother. She'd been on the ground before any of them could do anything, and Polly had half—dragged, half—carried John and Ada to the doorway by the time Tommy was trying to help his mother on the floor. Throwing aside Arthur, their da'd yanked Tommy by the back of his neck and thrown him so clearly across the kitchen that his vision had gone black.

He'd been bruised after colliding into the counter, seated now with an arm wrapped permanently round aching ribs. His mum had been certain they were busted. They hadn't even needed a doctor to tell — not that they could've offered one anyway, she'd taken one look at him 'fore she knew.

In any case, at the crack of dawn, young Polly dragged every last one of the Shelby siblings out of their nice warm beds and forced them out into the cold to stand before God and all of the holy congregation of Small Heath.

And now, the dark—suited priest was preoccupied with shuffling a small young woman, a girl really, to the front of the congregation. Wearing the finest shoes an Italian florist could provide, the girl'd been dressed in pretty white lace with long dark curls swinging down her back. With only a pinky piano as a background, Tommy hadn't expected much, the same airy aurias sprung out of every other thin belting voice.

The boy had been busy planning his escape route, but the girl opened her mouth... and then she started singing.

Her voice was the prettiest he'd ever heard. She hadn't sounded like a child at all, not like a woman either, she didn't even sound human. It was somethin' unearthly, she was the holiest thing he'd ever seen in a church.

Tommy's eyes were burning; he hadn't blinked once, he realised, too afraid to look away. He swallowed hard, big eyes frozen wide when he swore aloud. Polly elbowed him so hard in the ribs, that if they hadn't been broken before, they certainly were then.

He hadn't even cared, not at all.

Neither had the girl, who had very clearly heard him all the way in the front of the church, smirking and raising a brow before going on in a voice unshaken.

And long after the song had reached its end, and the service had closed, Tommy still sat utterly spellbound.

Watery Lane Gypsies had no business talking to sweet Italian Catholic girls like Greta Jurossi. He'd a reputation already; a thief, a liar, a cutter, a thinker. But the thing about Greta was, she was magnetic. She was like gravity, and he couldn't help but be caught up in her orbit.

It hadn't been love at first sight for her; she hadn't fallen head over heels for him. Not even close. He'd given her every line in the book, tried every trick, attempted every winning smile.

There he stood so, brandishing a smile like butter wouldn't melt, polite as anything, "Thomas Shelby, pleasure to meet you, Miss Jurossi."

And when she still hadn't been sold, Tommy started sweating, close to blushing and thinking of leavin' town.

Then Greta jerked out her hand, took his in her own, and gave him the most peculiar smile, "You better know what you're doing, Thomas Shelby."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"In the evening when I sit alone a—dreaming of days gone by, love, to me so dear. There's a picture that in fancy oft' appearing, brings back the time, love, when you were near. It is then I wonder where you are, my darling, and if your heart to me is still the same. For the sighing wind and nightingale a—singing are breathing only your own sweet name."

When they got older, when they'd both stopped praying to a God who didn't seem to be listenin', they'd meet by the Cut under the bridge. There, they'd wait at all hours for one or the other, if her family kept her in, if he couldn't make it. And when she could sneak out and when he could come on time, they'd run off hand—in—hand to the Garrison.

And there, in front of the eyes of all Small Heath, Greta would sing to them.

Men would come all the way from the likes of Digbeth or Saltley just to hear his Greta carry a tune. She could've been on stage, if she'd wanted to. She could've done anything, and Tommy would've been content to watch.

There were nights when they'd all gotten so pissed, Greta'd ended up on the bar with her arms stretched wide, singing 'til all had joined in.

Arthur, John too, even Tommy.

He'd known he wanted to marry her on a night like that, sitting back on a bar stool with a dopey sort of a smile on his face, not drunk at all as he gazed up at her. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes so brilliantly bright. Her little nose was tipped up and her grin so wide it looked like it would split her teeth.

"Sweet Adeline, my Adeline, at night, dear heart, for you I pine."

She'd swung her arms round and they'd all joined in as she laughed and drew in another breath to belt out the chorus.

"In all my dreams, your fair face beams. You're the flower of my heart, Sweet Adeline."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The moment Polly'd felt up Greta had been a moment that would live in infamy, uncomfortable as it was baffling. With a narrowed concentrated look, Polly ignored all their protestations and questions before she pulled back, cupped Greta's face in her hands, and then gave the most beautiful smile.

"It's a girl."

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There were nights when Tommy couldn't sleep.

Greta would be dreaming, and Tommy was stuck with his thinking, staring at the open window where the thin lace curtains were billowing. She liked to sleep with the windows open, Greta, and the moonlight was pouring in, dancing on the wall and casting shadows over her bare rounded stomach.

As he thought, as he made his plans, Tommy traced circles on her stomach where their child slept. He could just see the moon rise over the small bump, and it looked like it was shining down over his whole world.

They'd a house of their own now, just a few numbers down from John and Martha. It was small, and it was dark. There wasn't much money, and he couldn't buy them a house in the country like they'd always dreamed, where life could grow and the sun could touch them. Greta said that they'd work for it, that it wouldn't always be this way, that this was enough. Their house with flowers growing in the windowsill, a kitchen table with three chairs instead of two, and a small bedroom down the hall where a bassinet that was once Finn's waited.

"Oi. Girl." Tommy's voice was low, thin and whispery as he whispered to the swell, "It's your da."

His fingers delicately traced over the little fist he could see pushing through her belly, like she was trying to reach out to him, like she was trying to meet him too.

"You better listen well, girl, 'cause I've something to tell ye."

He'd told her all his plans, late at night when Greta slept and he schemed. He'd laid in the moonlight and he'd whispered to her how he'd better them, how it wouldn't always be this way, how she was so much better than he deserved.

"We're goin' into battle, little girl, you and me, it won't be easy, I know. But no one will touch you." It was nothing but a faint whisper, and still it carried on like an echo that bounced off the walls and soaked up whatever silence had been left, "They don't know who they're messin' with..."

Greta shifted, reminding him they weren't alone, that his plans were designed to be done by two pairs of hands instead of one.

"Mmm, Tommy, stop botherin' the baby." Greta tried to bat him away with small golden hands, yawning and stretching out onto the too small mattress, "She's tryin' to sleep... I'm tryin' to sleep."

Tommy grinned sheepishly, resting his chin on her bump to peer up at her. She blinked sleepily down at him, Greta, her fingers threading through his dark shock of hair. Golden hands slipped down and traced fingertips along the ridges of his sharp collarbones, and she dreamily realised his eyes looked nearly silver in the moonlight.

"I'm gonna keep her so safe, Greta."

His grin dimmed down into a determined set of his jaw.

"I'm gonna change the world for her, Greta, you just watch."

Her eyes were more bright now, staring down at him, "You promise?"

"I promise."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

His grandmother was born in a tent, his mother on a narrow boat, and his daughter between four walls and under a roof.

In the bleak midwinter, a little girl was born.

Small Heath didn't often get snow, the heat of the smokestacks mostly melted it before it could touch ground. But the winter of 1913 was different, and Birmimgham had faced a cold front not seen in recent memory. Born in a snowstorm, she was, in the midst of a whiteout, so neither doctor nor midwife could find their front door.

It'd been Tommy there to introduce her to the world, only Tommy and of course Polly who'd braved the blizzard to reach their little house down the lane.

The room had been so cold, he couldn't feel his fingertips, but he could feel that familiar fear gripping his insides like a vice.

He'd not a good enough example, Tommy, of what a father ought to look like. John had laughed when Tommy'd asked in a nonchalant sort of way how he went about it. His younger brother had only laughed at him, laughed and accused him of going soft.

Scowling, Tommy took a drag from his cigarette and regretted asking his idiot for a brother at all.

But then John had smiled and shaken his head, "It comes easy, Tom, you'll see. Easy as breathin' once they're in your arms."

Tommy hadn't believed him.

Instead he'd paced, been restless because he remembered all too well how the life had been sucked from his mother with every child she'd brought into the world. Brightness and vitality dimming from her eyes until she saw only one end to her suffering. His mother's children hadn't been born out of love, they couldn't have been. There'd been too much cruelty, intoxicating malice that spurned on their bloodline, to ever qualify it as anything close.

He wouldn't lose his Greta like that. No, their child would be born out of love.

Greta held Tommy's hand and she bore down and she wept when their daughter slid from between her hips, wept with joy rather than pain. Polly told her to scream but she was laughing, Greta, tears slipping down her rosy cheeks, sweat gathered into pools in her collarbones.

Like a lamb, their daughter had come out feet first, one foot in each world as if she belonged to them only halfway.

Polly said this could be good fortune, could mean she was a healer, a miracle child, their little lamb.

Tommy was the first to hold her, just a bundle of wool blankets and tears. She'd blood on her, his daughter, and her bottom lip quivered out shrill little sounds that broke his heart. And despite the snowstorm raging round them, she woke nearly all of Watery Lane with those lungs.

When her dark lashes fluttered open, he saw her eyes hadn't been blue at the time, not blue and not a soft caramel brown like Greta's either. They'd been so dark they were nearly black. As black as the ink sky that stretched out above the falling snow, as black as the coal—like soil she'd been born atop of.

His grandmother was born with the earth in her soul, his mother with water, and his daughter with a storm.

Her first lullaby was the shaking of the thin wood door, the gust of wind against the shivering window panes. Numbing, heavy, full of sorrow. There was a rage awakened in the world that night; beautiful, drifting, restless. A born fighter, Pol'd said from the corner, wiping her hands of blood and her face of tears, A force of nature. Snowstorm in her soul, cold in her veins, she would never settle.

Tommy understood, then, that John hadn't been wrong. Not at all. It was easy to love her, easy as breathing. Easier, even.

He carried her to her mother, and Greta's voice joined the lullaby of the snowstorm when she took their child in her arms. Tommy'd curled himself around them, sheltered them from the cold of the room, from the trembling walls. He tucked his chin in between Greta's shoulder and cheek, lookin' down at their little bit of her and him while Greta traced down the slope of her small Shelby nose.

"You're the flower of my heart, Sweet Adeline..."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

She was sleeping upstairs, Del was. How she managed to sleep now was a mystery.

"You were going to do it without speaking with me?!"

He had that look about him, Tommy did, that look he wore when he hid away what he thought, what he felt, what he knew was right. All else went away, and the only thing that remained was Tommy's apathy. A look that said any other choice, any other decision that went against his own, was illogical, wasn't ever even a choice at all.

It was the look that said Tommy's way was the only way.

"You were going to sign your death warrant—,"

"Don't do this, Greta." His voice was stern, an immovable object against an unstoppable force.

Greta was on a rampage now, "You were trying to sign your own bloody death warrant without even having the decency to come home and tell me—,"

Tommy shook his head, brows raising high, "We're not doing this."

Greta's dark eyes caught flame. At any other time, he might find it alluring, it might draw him to her like a moth to the flame, desperate for just a tinge of her warmth, but now it spurned him until he burst into flames as well.

"You don't have a choice now, Caro. You've given me none, now it's my turn, and we've to talk 'bout this!"

Tommy splayed his hands out onto the table top, eyes and voice level, "I know what I'm doing. I'm doing this for you, and I'm doing this for Del."

"Don't you say this is for us. Don't you look me in the eyes and say marching off to some God—forsaken battlefield is for us, Thomas!"

His jaw was tightening. His patience was fraying.

"I'm doin' it for fun, am I?"

Greta drew back, chin lifting and shoulders tensing, analyzing him in the way that aggravated him so. She could always see through him; it was maddening as much as it was endearing.

"Not for fun...." She murmured under her breath, "You're doing it for a chance to leave Small Heath. You're doing it... for a chance to better yourself, to prove yourself—,"

He cursed into the air, throwing back his chair to yell at her, "You're f—ckin' right I am!"

Tommy was panting as he stood there, shoulders taut and eyes wild like he was rearing for a fight. She was watching him, Greta, staring with her dark eyes wide and so sad. He hated that look. He was shaking, hissing like a rattlesnake ready to strike.

"This is the only thing that will ever mean anything, Greta, the first thing in my whole life that'll buy me any respect!" Tommy was getting cruel now, could feel it slithering up from his guts to his throat in a flash flood of venom, "Come on, Greta, I thought you wanted that big house, eh? The big house in the country with a garden where Del could grow up proper?"

"Don't twist my words!" Greta snapped, arms wrapped tightly round herself.

"I put me life on the line, that's the only currency these people know. They won't treat us like we're scum on their boot, vermin in the mud fighting for scraps! I put me life on the line, they'll finally look at me with some respect!"

"People, you keep talking 'bout all these people, what people?!"

"Politicians, judges, lords and ladies..." Tommy's voice turned violent, seething as he snarled, "Anyone who looks down their noses at us, just because of who we are, and where we're from—,"

"Porca miseria, Thomas!" Greta spat in Italian, hands now on the backs of her hips while she paced, "When will it be enough for you? When, Amore Mio? When will you look up and see that those b—stards will never admit us into their palaces? It's not about war, it's about revolution, it's about—,"

Tommy rolled his eyes, tongue pushing into the roof of his mouth before he spewed out his fire, "You know what, Greta? You're soundin' just like them, yea?"

Her eyes narrowed, her hands still on her hips.

"Yea, just like Kitty, like Freddie, like those bloody communists—,"

Greta scoffed, shaking her head so her long dark hair swung against her back, "I don't bloody care about the politics, Thomas! I care about you. I care about you coming home to your daughter at the end of the day."

This made Tommy pause, even for just a second, long enough for him to draw his lips in and shake his head to sweep away his fury.

He'd promised Del all sorts of things through the bulge that was Greta's belly. Greta'd be sleeping and his hand looked so big against the small bump, lips brushing skin as he whispered to the baby within. Whispered promises that he might never make good on now she was actually here; promises that he'd never be like his father, that he'd never make her feel as scared as he was, that he'd always be here to keep her safe.

Greta's eyes softened, voice turned even softer, "And if you don't come back?"

He stood stiff, jaw clenched and unrelenting, "I'll come back."

"Says who? Says Tommy Shelby and his army of one?"

"I'm coming back." Tommy grit out.

"No. You won't. Lose your life, lose a limb, lose your soul. A broken shell of a man whose mind is in tatters, Thomas, I don't want that."

"Now who's selfish?"

Her eyes were so sharp, they might've cut him. Cut him open and spewed his guts on the floor before her feet.

"I'm thinking of our Della that's sleeping upstairs. Are you, Tom?"

"It'll be different when I come back, I'll have served my country, I'll have medals—,"

Greta started coughing, choking on her words, "Medals—? You want medals, how 'bout a life, Tommy—?"

"What life, Greta?!" He roared back, interrupting her at top volume, "What the h—ll kinda life is this anyway, eh? You wanna live the rest of your life, the wife of a crook?" He was near screaming now; his voice so sharp, he was certain his throat was cut raw, "Can't afford new clothes, can't afford to put Del in school, can't afford to buy f—cking bread!"

Tommy hurled the whiskey bottle onto the floor, watched it smash, thought it would bring some kind of relief. It didn't. Greta flinched back and Del started crying upstairs, and this was enough for the fire in Tommy's chest to extinguish just a little.

He ran a hand down his face, his nails dragging from his hair into his skin. Greta hadn't stopped coughing. And then when he looked back at her, Tommy felt each of his vertebrae click into place as he straightened. A chill went through him and a cold sweat pooled at the very base of his spine.

"Greta..." Tommy's voice was so soft, nearly soundless, "Love, you're bleedin'..."

Still coughing, Greta's hand shot up and touched the side of her lips where a trickle of blood was slipping down her chin. 

They were speechless.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It was Consumption, or Tuberculosis as the doctor had explained it. No cure. No way through.

Greta hadn't realised it, then, when it'd happened.

Those earliest days in their hurried marriage, when their Adeline was still so small and fragile, Tommy had spent his days building the family business whilst Greta worked as a humanitarian when she wasn't helping at her father's flower shop. And on those days when she'd ventured into the darkest alleys of Small Heath with Della on her hip, Greta walked with little fear.

After all, no one'd dare muck with Greta Jurossi.

It wasn't because they feared retribution at the hands of her lover, the brutal Thomas Shelby, and his equally as vengeful brothers, no. No one'd dare hurt Greta Jurossi and her newborn babe for they knew of the kindest she held in her heart.

If they'd traced it back, if they'd tried to map it out, it was on one of those days of kindness that Greta herself had signed her own death warrant.

Del had been tucked and draped across Greta's back, resting blissfully in a sling just as Polly'd taught her. Long dark curls had fallen loose from Greta's cottage loaf pompadour, and sweat had dripped down her spine while an old man lay sick and dying. Holding a damp cloth to his face, she'd fed him stew made solely of potatoes and beef broth, folded banknotes slipping from her palm into his children's. It wasn't much, but it was the best she could do, and it would see them through to the winter.

He'd taken her small hands in his, he'd coughed in her face, and then he'd whispered, "Thank you... Thank you for your gift of life."

No one had realised he'd given her death in return.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

They'd barely known she was sick before she took a turn for the worst.

Greta never got to hold Della again. Tommy tried to convince her it'd be okay, but Greta wouldn't have it. She couldn't risk her baby; she'd risk everything but her baby. Tommy laid awake every night, curled round Greta, watching her chest shudder up and down, listening to Del scream for her mother in the next room.

When she got too sick, and too infectious, Greta forced Tommy to get her into a sanatorium.

The Peaky Blinders had been doing well enough for themselves, and he scraped up enough funds to get her into the best sanatorium he could, but even under the best conditions, 50% of those who entered were dead within five years.

It took Greta three months.

Everyday Tommy was there, at her bedside, holding her hand, pressing kisses to her feverish skin.

"Is she happy?" She murmured, on the brink of delirium, long lashes fluttering for consciousness, "Does she know somethin's wrong?"

Adeline had stopped crying for Greta; Tommy wasn't sure how he knew, but he did. She'd forgotten. Forgotten the feeling of her mother's arms, forgotten the warmth of her touch, the sound of her voice. Del'd gotten used to having only Tommy, got used to his voice soothing her back to sleep, to his arms carrying her to the old house for Pol to care for her.

Suddenly she was relying solely and completely on him. And it was terrifying.

"She misses you," Tommy told her, forcing a smile, knowing it was a lie.

Greta knew it too.

"Della will need you more than ever, Tommy—,"

He hushed her, thumb trailing over her pale skin, "Don't talk like that, it'll be orright."

"Go home." Greta croaked through her dry bleeding throat, "Please, go home to Del, Tommy. I don't want to get you sick—,"

"You won't." Tommy whispered into her knuckles that he'd pressed to his lips, "I ain't gettin' sick, Greta."

"By sheer force of will?" She choked, tried to laugh, "Says Tommy Shelby and his army of one?"

He cracked half a smile, but her laughter turned bloody fast, and soon the thick liquid was dribbling down her chin and into pools on her collarbones. Tommy panicked, tried to soak it up with a nearby cloth, only to discover that it was already splotched crimson.

Her eyes were so tired when she looked at him, resting their joined hands over her heaving chest, "Please don't stay..."

"I'm not goin' anywhere." His hand slipped up, and he gently stroked her hair, "Not to home, not to war. Not 'til you go with me."

Greta died a week later, and Tommy joined up a week after that.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Once Tommy joined up, there was nothing stopping Arthur and John from following suit, as they'd always done. Tommy was the brains of the operation, and they'd follow his lead; it'd been that way since they were kids, whether they wanted to admit it or not.

Like a man on a mission, Tommy thought practically.

He left behind and forgot the home he'd with Greta, and he moved Del back into the old house at number six. Should anything happen, should the war not be won by Christmas as the King promised, Polly swore to raise Adeline as she'd done him and all the rest of his siblings when she was still very much a child herself. It had been an unspoken thing, as well, that Polly would raise his daughter if he should not come home at all.

Tommy couldn't ignore the nagging feeling in his chest that it might be for the best.

His father had been gone for years now, and the business once again had to change hands — this time from his own to Polly's. There was a certain amount of unease in it. He'd known Polly was shrewd enough to keep them afloat, but leaving as they were, it was leaving their women open and unprotected. That was what Arthur said one night, their last night, as they'd gone away to the Garrison for one last piss up.

"No one'd touch them." John had growled, still young and bright like he almost wished they'd try, "Or we'd have their guts for  f—ckin' garters."

"Cut them a smile each, eh?" Arthur laughed along, red—faced and drunk already.

Tommy said nothing, he didn't say much usually, anyway. He simply threw back another sip of whiskey and tried to ignore the blooming feeling within the center of his chest, like a balloon ready to pop and destroy him from the inside out.

It was a thought that stayed with him.

Tommy knew he should sleep when they'd stumbled back to number six, but he doubted much of anyone in Birmingham would be resting well tonight. Even from where he stood in his old childhood bedroom, he could hear the symphony that was the Shelby clan strugglin' to find peace; Pol with her pacing and praying in the kitchen, Arthur with his banging round his room, John with his Martha and their weeping little ones next door, Ada sniffling and sighing while Finn was tossing and turning in his little bed.

Even Del had put up a fight, only willing to find peace if he was holding her.

Altogether giving up on any hope of sleep, Tommy stood by his window looking over Montague Street with Adeline resting on his hip. Her body gave warmth to his cold skin, her chubby cheek pressed into his bare collarbone and her other hand clasping the small locket of Saint Jude that hung round his neck.

It had been Greta's, and Kitty had given it to him when they'd buried her. She had said Jude was the patron saint of lost causes.

"Somehow it seems fitting, doesn't it?" She'd given his cheek a kiss and then she'd walked away.

Della whimpered into his chest, stirring in her sleep from some kind of nightmare. Tommy hushed her quietly, quite like how he did the horses when they put up a fuss at the chaos that was Small Heath. He stroked gentle fingers down the slope of her pink cheek, Tommy did, letting his thumb gently brush across her thick dark lashes.

She didn't look much like Greta, his Del, hardly at all really, apart from her golden skin. Della was all Shelby, and she looked like her da in her own dark delicate sort of way. It almost made a man sad, it did, to know that whatever was left of Greta was well and truly smothered out by him.

Della's lashes fluttered open and she stared dazedly up at him, head lolling back to give him a gummy smile. He said nothin' to her, but the small smile he gave was enough to satisfy her. She'd take what he would give her, poor ole Del, she'd not known she deserved any better.

Then came the footsteps. The sound alone was enough to make him bristle, hand moving the curtain aside a little more. Tommy's eyes darkened at the sight of two coppers, both wearing their shiny capes, walkin' down the cobbled street carrying long coshes.

Coppers didn't often brave Watery Lane, but the Shelby boys were on their way out and their territory was being left unprotected.

One of the coppers stopped and peered up at the house, as if he already knew who lived at their address. They could see him as a silhouette in the window, the man laid bare with nothing but his baby for the keeping. The two coppers seemed to share a joke between them, and one of them dragged his finger across his throat in warning to the man and the child in his arms.

Tommy felt his arm instinctively tighten round Della, the challenge sparking a reaction in his chest. He pressed his lips into the softness of her hair and he growled.

"See you in No—Man's Land, boys."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Young Finn nearly pitched a fit at the platform, furious at being too young to join his brothers in uniform. Ada had cried, clinging to their sleeves and shaking in their arms with every last embrace she received. Even Pol's eyes were swimming and she looked close to spilling over, but she kept a stiff upper lip, giving each boy a kiss and a lecture to keep their heads on straight.

Tommy held Del 'til he couldn't anymore, her dimpled hands clinging to his khaki collar and tugging on his golden buttons.

Della didn't understand this, she didn't understand any of it. She wouldn't, and she was better for it. Tommy pushed his mouth and nose into the side of her head, burying his face into the wisps of her black hair. He wanted to whisper more promises, like he did when Del was still safe inside Greta's belly, when Greta was still here at all.

But his throat was tight, and he'd nothing left to give.

Arthur was near tears, and John was looking misty—eyed, but Tommy didn't cry. By rights, he should've been. They all should've been tearing at their clothes and covering their heads in ash. He surely felt like his insides were being ripped apart, but he knew the moment he opened himself to feeling anything, he'd never be able to shut it out again.

So he didn't.

Tommy pushed Adeline into Polly's arms and he ripped himself away from her, untangling their limbs, leaving her cold and weeping, and stalking towards the harsh whistle of the leaving train. His brothers called and fought to follow him, he couldn't hear them but. All he could hear was her crying, shrill and high—pitched following him through the mass of uniformed bodies of the men who'd be shot and blown apart in just a few days time.

But he wouldn't look back to where Polly stayed frozen with his daughter in her arms. Della'd need that, maybe, one day when she was older and needing to know whether or not her da looked back, needing evidence whether or not he loved her. He couldn't give it to her but.

He got on the train, and he disappeared, and he didn't look back.

━━━━━━ annie speaks ━━━━━━

friends and enemies, my peaky era has been reawakened. with season six finally over, it is time to release this baby that i have been secretly writing for the past two years. baby adeline means everything to me, as does her waaay complicated relationship with tommy. not to mention her relationship with the rest of the family! i'm so fricking excited. who's ready for a whole lot of angst and trauma? i am for sure! i can't wait to hear your thoughts on this chapter and all the chapters moving forward. let's do this thing!