Thrice Grace came and went, bringing whiskey and beer when Arthur or John called for another round. Her behaviour was most certainly odd - not that the boys noticed, so deep in their whiskey - as she kept glancing expectantly at Thomas every time she entered.
"You know what, John boy?" Arthur was already slurring his words, tongue tripping over the syllables. He leaned sideways towards John, eyes still centered on Tommy. "I think it's that lovely lady helping our Ada, that pretty little Italian that's made our brother go all soft."
John feigned contemplation, scrunching his brows as if he were an ancient Greek philosopher contemplating the meaning of life. "Huh, you sure it's not the sweet lil' barmaid of ours?"
It had been a long time, far too long since they could properly mock Tommy over anything, and the brothers were having a field day. "Nah Johnny I tell ya, it's a feeling." The duo roared with laughter, clinking their pints and throwing other suggestive comments Tommy's way.
All the while Thomas sat back, observing his brothers with unhidden mirth.
"You've got a thing for Italian girls, aye Tom?" John jabbed swiftly, then promptly disappeared behind his pint again.
Thomas rolled his eyes before raising his own drink. "I'll drink to that." It provoked another round of laughter from his inebriated brothers.
He let them joke to their heart's delight, instead letting his restless mind roll over their words.
So quickly did the raven haired beauty worm her way into their lives, unlike anyone before. She was all elegant poise that screamed danger, wrapped up in bloodstains and dark secrets - but Tommy Shelby did always prefer danger.
The amber liquid in his glass did not look so tempting only for the promise of erasing his pains for the night. Under the dimming light of the bar it hauntingly resembled her eyes in a way that made his gut clench uncomfortably. He felt it once, though more faint, and long time ago - before the war chewed him up and spat out what was left of him.
A bullet shell of a man; cold, heartless, dangerous.
Unbeknownst to them, a certain blonde haired barmaid pressed her ear against the window separating her and the booth, listening to their every word, a grim frown growing on her face.
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Esme had been right, and once they helped Ada switch her position the labour proceeded as it was supposed to. For the next few minutes they all breathed in unison, whispering words of encouragement to Ada until a cry of life was heard in the room.
Labours were a messy affair, and some would even argue a dirty one. At least thrice Cat felt her stomach reach her escophagus and by the end of the ordeal she swore never to birth children in her lifetime.
