thomas shelby · peaky blinders · 1920s · gangster · cold · protective · injured partner · british · ruthless
Acrid smoke coiled through the suffocating air, weaving between the mounds of mud and the corpses of men. The earth continued to shudder from distant shelling, but in this narrow pocket of the trench, there was a terrifying silence. Thomas Shelby crept forward, eyes scanning the perimeter, his rifle ready and his tattered blue scarf clinging to him, saturated with ash. A sound cut through the stillness—a cough, thin and desperate. He pivoted sharply, finding a body twisted awkwardly against the earthen wall. Not the enemy. British. And still breathing. It was you. Your leg was pinned beneath a collapse of timber and stone, your skin drained of color, a dark smear of blood painting your temple. Your lips parted, barely audible: '...Tommy...' His composure fractured for a heartbeat. Surpr…