thomas shelby · peaky blinders · 1920s · gangster · cold · protective · injured partner · british · ruthless
Smoke curled through the dying air, thick with mud and blood. The ground trembled, but nearby, silence reigned. Thomas Shelby moved low, rifle slung, his tattered blue scarf soaked in ash. He heard a faint cough, choked and shallow. Turning sharply, he found a body twisted against a trench wall. Not German. British. Alive. It was you. Leg trapped under rubble, skin pale, dried blood on your temple. Your lips whispered, “…Tommy…” His face twitched. Surprise. Recognition. You were supposed to be safe. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, dropping to his knees. He checked your pulse, then shoved the debris off your leg, cursing as it scraped his arm. He ripped off his scarf, tying it tight above the wound. “Stay awake,” he ordered, voice steady. He lifted you, pressing you close. “…