peaky blinders imagines

worried about the workaholic; tommy shelby

English had never made less sense to you, staring down desperately at words and figures on one of Tommy's company earnings sheets, willing your brain desperately to remember what to do.
Tommy hadn't been home last night, doing an overnight stint in London, and so you tossed and turned in bed, coughing and gulping down water to help your sore throat. Eventually, around three in the morning, you decided to quit trying to sleep, standing up slowly from the bed so as not to inspire another dizzy spell, getting dressed and freshened up in attempt to trick your brain into thinking you were healthy.
You made your way into Tommy's study, turning on a few lamps and immediately pressing your palms to your forehead as even those dim lights caused a pounding in your head so loud and insistent it made the sounds of central Small Heath seem like birds chirping and brooks bubbling.
Opting instead to function by the faint light of the slowly rising sun, you turned the lamps on, walking slowly again to prevent sudden fainting.
Settling back down behind the desk, you turned your attention to the ever-growing stack of paperwork in Tommy's inbox, the one he habitually ignored unless you held his nose to the grindstone.
Sighing and tucking your hair behind your ears, you grabbed the first paper available, and diligently tried to remember just how much money was owed to Shelby Ltd. by Alfie Solomons.
Four hours marched dutifully by as you completed sheet after sheet, writing half as fast as you usually could and taking frequent breaks to stare aimlessly at the wall and ignore the blurriness at the edge of your vision.
By the time you reached the work related to actual, legitimate business (at the very bottom of the pile, no wonder Michael was always stressed), it was all you could do to keep your eyes open. A combination of fatigue, nausea, and chills had descended upon you, rendering you essentially immobile; the comfort of your bed may have seemed appealing, but the idea of walking up stairs to get to it felt like a Herculean effort you just couldn't exert.
Tommy returned home around eight-thirty, and the sound of the car was a faint buzzing in your ear that caused you to swat at the air with an annoyed groan.
He strode right past the study at first, before realizing the door was open and doubling back to greet you.
"I was going to surprise you in bed, but it seems you've gotten an early grasp on the day," he said, laughing until you looked up and met his eyes.
Your neatly pinned hair and carefully applied makeup clearly couldn't mask the dark circles under your eyes and the general air of illness that hung around you.
"Are you alright?" he asked, placing the back of his palm on your forehead and flinching back at the surprising heat he encountered.
"Haven't slept," you said, giving him a rueful smile, "so I decided to come make some progress on the work."
"On my work I can't be bothered to do, you mean," he chuckled, absentmindedly tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear. "You look half dead, love, c'mon."
You waved him off with a mumble that sounded like 'nononono', indicating the papers in front of you and picking up a pen to begin writing again.
He stood and watched you work for a while, jumping at each violent sneeze you erupted and sighing each time you screwed your eyes shut to prevent the oncoming headache that was lingering just behind your eyes.
At a loss of what to do when presented with his wife, dead on her feet and still insisting on plowing forward (he may have rubbed off on you a bit), he stepped forward again.
"Are you certain you're alright?"
"No," you moaned, leaning forward to tilt your forehead against the warmth of his shirt.
"Alright, then, no more debate," he told you, helping you out of your chair.
"You can barely handle me on a full night's sleep, I can't well be encouraging all-nighters."