peaky blinders imagines

contractions; arthur shelby

Arthur had become a father fairly late in life, after the wildness of his youth, the horrors inflicted upon him in war, and the barely-legible years of substance abuse that followed. He'd met you at the pub you worked at during the last of those barely-legible years that blurred together, and though he was at first put off by the near decade of age between you, the simplicity of being with you and the calmness you emanated convinced him you were right for him.
Your relationship was low-key and comfortable, to the point that Tommy was not aware Arthur was seeing anyone until he was introduced to Arthur's wife abruptly six months after they had gotten married.
The amount of integration into the Shelby family you participated in was minimal, and you were perfectly fine to maintain friendships with Ada and Polly and turn a blind eye to whomever and whatever else operated in the Garrison on a day to day basis.
There was a certain amount of usefulness in those relationships you'd fostered when you initially got pregnant, as you were thrilled to know you wouldn't go it alone, with Polly being more than happy to drop in on you and bring a home cooked meal or a blanket for the baby.
Beatrice was born in early November, and she was nearly angelic for a a baby, barely ever crying. Her father was far more teary than she was on the day of her birth, laughing in-between blurry eyes as she giggled and reached for his hair. Since that day, Beatrice had been the light of her father's life. He'd brought her home little trinkets from every city he'd visited, much to his wife's frustration, and no matter how exhausted he was, no matter what, he was always thrilled to see her and to pick her up and twirl her around while she giggled "Daddy!"
The year Beatrice entered school, there was a random outbreak of influenza in Birmingham. Arthur was long immune due to his over exposure during the war, and you had been inflicted with the illness as a child and were not worried about contracting it again. Besides, having recently become pregnant with your's and Arthur's second child, you had no spare time for worrying about what-if's.
Influenza had quickly spread among the schoolchildren, and Arthur was convinced your daughter was going to be infected.
"Love, she's only five, we can't risk her getting ill."
"Arthur, I'm not pulling her out of schooling for indefinite months because she might become sick."
Your husband sighed and turned away from you for a moment, clearly frustrated.
"I trust your judgment, love, but you know how worried I get about Bea."
"I worry about her too, Arthur. But one of us has to be the sensible parent."
Your husband conceded, laughing, and pressed a kiss to your forehead before walking upstairs to wish Beatrice goodnight.
The next month or so passed by relatively calmly, and as your bump grew and Beatrice became more excited at the prospect of a baby brother or sister, the still looming threat of influenza calmed down. When your daughter came home coughing, you nearly dismissed it. When she started complaining of chills and a headache, you knew it was influenza. It was near the holiday season, so Arthur was in London, promoting weapons on a 'sale' to interested customers. You'd assumed Bea would be fine if you kept her in bed and gave her medication, however, within a few hours of the beginnings of her harsher symptoms, she'd begun vomiting violently, and you had to bring her to a hospital.
You'd sat by her bedside for hours and hours as Ada tried desperately to reach Arthur on the phone, and there was little more you could do than smooth your daughter's hair back and kiss her sweaty forehead as the nurses bustled around her. Arthur finally picked up the phone close to two in the morning, and when your sister-in-law frantically explained the situation, he barked something that sounded panicked, and you could only assume he was on his way.
Arthur burst into your hospital room around seven in the morning, startling Beatrice from her slumber as her father cradled her in his arms and kissed her hair frantically.
"I'm so, so sorry, sweetheart," he murmured to her, as you leaned on one of the posts of her bed and reached over to smooth Arthur's hair.
He looked up at you and seemed more scared than anything else, prompting a quick apology from you.
"Arthur, I'm sorry, I should have known she'd have gotten sick, I didn't mean to put anything at risk."
"It's alright, love," Arthur said, reading out to pull you to sit down on the other side of your daughter. "You're more her mother than I'm her father."
You chose to let that detrimental comment slide, and smiled down at your daughter as she drifted back off to sleep, content and safe in her father's arms.