• STRANGER • A Thomas Shelby Fanfic •

(4)

Ocean eyes meet mine, crisp and cold, but also warm and welcoming. Tommy and I are across from each other, he stands by the stove, bent over in search of a kettle.

I feel like telling him to check by the pantry, something tells me it might be by there. But I don't fucking know. The thought makes me chuckle, I don't know anything about this place I once called home.

He had asked me if I wanted to eat anything, to which I weakly nodded. He whipped up some eggs, laughing as he said, you were the one who taught me how to make these.

What, eggs? I asked, overlooking him as he undercooked my scrambled eggs. He didn't even season them, for Christ sake.

Yeah. He gloats, I didn't know how to cook before you. You called me a no good twat, if I do recall.

I was baffled, but now, as I watch him get irritated, I can tell he has no clue of what to do or how to act. No, instead, I can see that this massive house does not only belong to him and I. But also a pack of maids and cooks, there must be several housekeepers, given how large a space this is.

I lean over the counter, propping my elbows on the cold marble. Finished my eggs. "What is that you do?"

"What do you mean?"

"As a career." I toy with the words.

He turns around, raising an eyebrow at me. "You don't remember?"

A question with another question. He's that type of person, deceptive.

"I forget." I reply.

"My family and I, you, we own a business." He breaks into a shy smile, clearly he's being modest, by the look of his face, we own a bloody empire.

"Hmm." I nod, looking around. "A big business, I reckon."

"We're doing well." He pulls his eyebrows together, studying me. "I basically built this house with you, you don't remember that?"

I want to say yes, of course I remember but as I look around, I cannot place my thoughts or memories in this house. I feel almost lost, my mind pulls towards the thoughts of little ones running around the house. My stomach flips, please tell I don't remember having children because I don't have any.

I hold my breath. "Do I—we have children?"

He shakes his head. "We've tried but-"

"Oh." I look down, happy and sad. Like Cathy. Cathy! "Where's my little sister Cathy?" My eyes shoot up at his.

"Cecilia," Tommy stares at me, stopping what he's doing. "Fuckin' hell." He looks away, rubbing the back of his head.

My eyebrows pull together. "What? What is it?"

"She had the flu. It killed her just before you and I got married. Absolutely broke you in half." Tommy's face reads more sadness than I have seen before.

I fall back against my chair, dumbfounded, I am shocked to feel no real feeling of sorrow as I look at him.

"I feel like I already knew that." Just like mum, I press my lips together. "Just like mum?"

"Yes." He nods, processing my words. "Your mum passed away from the Spanish flu, but that was years after Cathy-"

"Died? I know." I swallow, licking my lips. "I remember certain things, the photographs really helped."

His mouth opens, he stares at me shocked. "That's wonderful." He coughs out.

"Why do you think this happened to me?" I can feel my heart pang, as if I know this answer. As if I know better than to ask. But it's too late for me to turn back now.