Peaky Blinders One Shots

Polly X Reader: A New Addition

"Would you like to come to my house for some food?"

She stares at you for what feels like a long time but is probably only a few seconds. She can't be more than 6, but the look on her face as she contemplates your question is unnervingly mature. This is not a child who trusts easily or reacts impulsively. She thinks things through more than John and Finn do, that's for sure.

Finally, after an age, she nods, rising up to stand beside you. She's small and skinny, too skinny in fact. Her collarbones jut out from the thin material of her tattered coat, her cheeks lack the baby fat most children her age would have. You can't imagine when the last time she ate was or how much food it was.

You lead her to the house, careful not to touch her in case she gets startled. You're thankful that it's early in the morning and that the shop won't open for another hour. With John living in his own house with Esme and the kids, and Polly meeting with her nephews in the Garrison over some issue, the house will likely be empty. The only person possibly home at this time is Finn, who could also be out causing trouble with Isaiah. You're glad because you doubt the young girl will feel safe surrounded by so many strangers.

Once you've unlocked the door and let yourself and the child in, you lead her to the kitchen, with patience and gentleness.

"Take a seat, love," you encourage. She sits down at the table and watches you put down your basket and open up the cupboards. Ideally, you would make the child a hot meal but that would take time to cook, so you pull out a loaf of bread and some butter. Cutting her some slices, you put them on a plate.

"Do you like butter?" You ask her. She nods, so you grab a butter knife and begin coating each slice with butter. Once that is done, you put the slices together, cutting the two sandwiches into triangles for her.

You set the plate down in front of her and she immediately reaches out for one and takes a large bite out of it. This must be the first thing she's eaten all day, maybe the first thing she's eaten in a few days. The thought makes your heart ache for the poor thing. It's likely that her parents are either dead or have abandoned her to survive on her own in the streets. You realise then that you know nothing about her, not her age, why she was outside, or even her name.

Pouring her a glass of milk to help wash down the food, you plop down in the seat beside her and wait for her to finish. Once she does, she looks up at you, as if she's expecting your questions.

"I forgot to introduce myself, silly me," you giggle, trying to put her at ease. You think you see her lips twitch upwards, but it's so quick that you can't be sure. "I'm Y/N, what's your name?"

"Elizabeth," you have to bite your lip to stop you from grinning. Polly's gonna love this.

"Nice to meet you, Elizabeth," you hold your hand out to shake, and she puts her much smaller, dainty hand in yours, shaking it lightly. Her grip is practically nonexistent. "I have a friend called Elizabeth, but everyone calls her Polly." Given how most people react to your relationship, you decide that calling Polly your friend is probably easier, even if she is only a child. "How old are you, love?"

"Eight," she tells you after she drops your hand. Eight. God she's small for her age, you think to yourself. Most children born during the war are small though. The food rations were barely enough to keep everyone going, so children often didn't get enough to help them grow at the normal rate. But still, her current situation probably has a lot to do with her height and weight. Each of these realisations has you close to tearing up. That's why the next question is painful to ask.

"Do you know where mummy and daddy are?" Her face goes back to looking as sullen as it did when you saw her for the first time, making you feel sick to your stomach. She looks down at her lap and fidgets with the hem of her brown coat.