𝐲𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐬 ; tommy shelby

09 - 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞

09.

Thomas' head throbbed to the point that it felt as if his brain was pulsating, and there was a constant low ringing in his left ear. It was morning, but which morning, he didn't know. He'd lost count of the days he'd been in this prison cell. Sometimes he didn't even know if he was awake or asleep, dead or alive. Although, since France he'd felt like that often, just now it was much more intense.

"Mister Shelby," the polite voice of the Scottish nurse, Claire, rang through his ears. "Miss Burgess is here to see you."

Thomas blinked, focusing on the blurry light in the doorway as he struggled to adjust his eyes. It could've been the drugs they'd been pumping through him, or maybe he was dead, but he could see Grace in the doorway. She smiled, and his vision was still fuzzy, but he could see how beautiful she was, like the day he'd met her.

"Hello, Tommy," she said softly, sitting down on the bed beside him. Thomas reached out a hopeful hand, and as his fingertips brushed against her lovely cheek he knew she was really there.

"Am I dreaming?" he coughed.

Grace let out a soft chuckle. "Not quite, Shelby," she responded.

"Dead?"

"You look it," she commented. "But you're not."

Tommy pulled her into a hug, inhaling the odd scent of rose and thyme in her thick blond hair."I miss you," he mumbled into her crisply ironed shirt. "I miss you Grace."

Suddenly she pulled away, springing back, the ethereal beauty in her smile shattered by a shocked glare.

"Grace is dead, Thomas," she spoke harshly, but looked hurt herself. "It's Emma."

Tommy blinked. Of course, why hadn't he noticed? Grace never wore suits, she definitely didn't call him Shelby, and her hair always smelled of lavender.

His mind, drunk on morphine, focused on the other little features he'd missed. The beauty spot on her left cheek, the stormy quality in her navy blue eyes. Oh it was his Emma, alright.

"I'm leaving Birmingham for a while," she said quickly, standing up. "For Paris."

It might've been the drugs, but it looked like there were tears in her eyes,

She brought something out of the front pocket of her jacket, and slipped it under his pillow. "Come and find me when you're out," She said, pulling a pair of dark blue leather gloves on. "Or don't." With that, she clip-clopped out of the room in her expensive Italian boots.

Tommy pushed his hand under the pillow and retrieved a cold, metal watch. Carved on the back were the initials E.S.B. He slipped it back under the pillow and drifted off to sleep.

He sat watching the flames of the fire lick the dark night sky. He was somewhere like Charlie Strong's yard at midnight, just watching the fire flicker furiously at him.

"Thomas," she said, her voice a whisper, almost lost in the crackling of burning logs.

She said his name again, but this time her voice was stronger, overpowering the fire's spits and hisses. Her skin came into contact with the back of his neck as she traced her fingers onto his shoulder. He glanced at her hand, which was rested on his left shoulder. He recognised her long fingers, her wedding ring.

"Why do you dream about me?" She asked in another whisper. "Do you enjoy the torture?"

He stayed still and quiet.

"Why, Thomas?" her overpowering voice was back, drowning out the roar of the flames.

Thomas instinctively looked back at her hand, but this time the wedding ring was gone, and the hands were in red leather gloves.

"If you love her, why do we both haunt your dreams?" she demanded.

Thomas jerked away and stood up quickly. Emma stood behind, her hair wild and matted, blood caking the side of her cheek, completely naked bar her red gloves, smirking challengingly.

"Why do I interest you so much?" She asked.

"Go away," he managed, his voice falling victim to the flames the same way Grace's had.

"Oh no, Tommy, this is your dream," she smirked manically. "If you really wanted me gone I wouldn't be here."

"Shut up," he clapped his hands around his ears but her voice remained just as dominating.

"You want me, Thomas," she taunted. "Excitement, mystery. You want it."

"Go away!" He yelled, suddenly tossed back into reality. Back into his hospital bed.

Clammy with sweat and heart beating a mile a minute, Tommy reached underneath his pillow. His fingers brushed against the cold metal of the pocket watch, a chilling reminder of what was real and what was imagined.

"See you in Paris," he mumbled to himself without thinking.