peaky blinders imagines

a flame rekindled by way of a bruise; arthur shelby

TRIGGER WARNING: this fic contains several references to domestic violence
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The ring on your finger was lightweight, lighter than most; your husband was not very rich, but over the last six months, it had begun to feel like lead. Your involvement with Arthur Shelby was not intentional, but rather the prolonged result of a night of passion.
You stirred the pot on the stove mindlessly, staring straight ahead at an old dent on the wall from when your husband had driven his fist into it.
Just the thought of the man you married made your stomach turn, so you focused your thoughts on reflection.
You'd know Arthur Shelby for as long as you could remember knowing anyone; he was behind every twist and turn in the streets, in school whenever he bothered to attend, and as a teenager, chain smoking and winking whenever he caught you staring.
He'd come fairly close to making you his, had nearly talked you into running away to London, but then the war broke out, and you couldn't wait four years for a man who'd never told you he loved you.
Your husband had been in the war too, stationed in one of the larger cities of Austria-Hungary, but he'd been discharged after a year and a half when his left arm was blown clean off by shrapnel.
His status of 'disabled' had always angered him, to the point which there was only one mirror in the house, so as to reduce the risk of an accidental glance at his lopsided torso. He may not have been physically capable of fighting anymore, but his mindset was still very much that of a soldier's, and he'd taken his fury out on you more times than you wanted to think about.
Though you cringed away from that unpleasant thought and tried to focus on the soup in front of you, the front door made a faint creaking sound, and as you glanced up at the clock, the ring on your finger became painful, as if tattooing a cold fire onto your skin.
Your husband slid his hand along your waist and pressed a kiss to your cheek, and you tried very hard not to let him see your smile was strained.
"Y'alright?" He asked.
"Yeah."
"Soup almost done?"
"It's done now, actually, if you could get bowls," and he leveled you with a smirk before reaching into the indicated cupboard.
You spooned dinner out meticulously, but your gaze kept darting over to the indentation of a fist on the wall, squinting just right so you could pick out the prints of each individual bent finger.
Unbeknownst to you, the man sitting at your dinner table had noticed the direction of your eyes, and his face tightened.
"Don't fucking look at it," he hissed to you.
"Sorry," you responded, staring down into the contents of the bowl in front of you, chips detracting from it's black and white print.
"It was just...I was thinking..."
"What?"
"Well, maybe we could call someone to come cover it up."
You didn't dare look at him, but he fell silent, and you swore you could feel twin swords boring into your back as he stared at you. Eventually, his chair squeaked as he stood up abruptly, walking over to you and placing a hand on the small of your back with enough pressure to make you pitch forward.
"That wasn't my fault, y'know. It was yours, cause you fuckin' pissed me off. Would have been a problem if you knew how to shut up and obey your husband."
The hand pressing you forward pulled back suddenly, and as you stumbled to regain balance, it lay flat on the nape of your neck and shoved your face into the cupboard directly in front of you.
You could feel the spikes on the round doorknob press into your cheek, and as he pulled you back and shoved you forward, you heard a distinct rip as they punctured your skin.
Throughout the entire encounter, you'd not turned to face him, so you heard rather than saw his retreat, walking back out of the front door and slamming hard enough one of the hinges came loose. You stood in front of the stove, completely unmoving, for another half hour before you could bring yourself to face the damages.
The entire left side of your face was bruised, and one long cut ran down from the edge of your eyebrow to level with your lips. Warm water did little to remove the harm done, and so you collapsed, shaking, into your bathtub, wrapping your arms around your knees and falling into a fitful sleep.
-
The next morning, you did your valiant best to convince yourself the events of the previous evening had never occurred. Like your husband before you, you diligently avoided your reflection, dressing in the dark before walking the nine blocks to the outdoor market.
Fresh air calmed you, and whenever you found yourself about to descend into hysteria, you took a deep breath, letting the scent of the harbor not far from where you were standing relax your mind and bring you back to memories of your childhood.
It was not long before an elongated shadow came to stand behind you, and a veiny pair of hands rested briefly on your shoulders as the man pressed a kiss to your hair.
"Hello, love," Arthur Shelby murmured into your ear, and the ring which symbolized your bond in holy matrimony to another grew uncomfortably tight, and though you knew it was unreasonable, you were afraid your hand would burst.
"Hello, Arthur," you said, praying he'd leave quickly, though that was never the case.
He got halfway through asking if you were alright before deciding to take action, gripping your shoulders again and spinning you around gently.
At the sight of your mangled face, his eyes grew dark and hard, though the finger that brushed your cut, which was now beginning to scab, was the epitome of gentle.
"He did that, yeah?"
"Do you really need to ask, Arthur?"
"Gun or brick?"
"What?"
"Shall I shoot him, or beat him over the head with a brick?"
You shook your head frantically, one hand gripping the front of his shirt in a vice as he tried to draw you in closer while shushing you.
You made several attempts to speak, forcing out half sentences and excuses for the marring of your visage, but Arthur wouldn't hear it. Taking you by the hand, he led you over to a secluded alley for privacy, and forced you to look him in the eye, cold fingers holding your cheeks lightly.
"I'd never lay a fucking finger on you, y'know that? I'd rather die."
"I know, Arthur," you told him. Bringing your left hand to rest in your right, you twisted your ring anxiously, watching as his gaze switched from your face to your palms. He took hold of both of them, and very gently removed your wedding ring.
He shook his head at your shocked gasp, refusing to feel remorse.
"Forget about him, eh? I've got a house."
"I know that, Arthur."
"No, I-" he took a step away from you, losing himself in his thoughts for a split second as he reckoned with how to politely ask you to leave your husband and live out the rest of your life with him in one of the premier offices for Birmingham's crime hub.
"Live there with me. S'got everything, I swear, never even seen all the rooms. You can see the water, and I've got a couple goats, you can name 'em if you want. And if you want-if you want to just stay there, you don't have to be with me. I just want you safe."
He screwed his eyes shut, palms pressing against his temples but fluttering away in surprise when you pressed a sweet, short kiss to his lips.
"Get me out of here, alright?" He nodded frantically, but you cut him off before he could speak. "And don't feel sorry for me, alright, I should've waited for you. You deserved to go off to war and know I would be there when it was over."
"No, no, love," he shushed, pulling you into his chest and wrapping lanky arms around you, "the only thing you should feel bad for is the naivety of that man thinking he'll live to see Sunday."