#i know pol isn’t that much older than him but still it’s so funny like . in japan that’s like a Huge thing

[sacredpit]

it’s so funny to me that kak is so respectful to everyone older than him like he’s sure to call joseph mr. joestar & avdol mr. avdol & holly is holly-san/ms. holly but polnareff? no.

[astradrifting]

GRRM really created so many parallels and foreshadow using the DoD characters that honestly we could just figure the asoiaf ending by analyzing it. My favorite is the Aegon III-D@ny parallels, the fact that one of his closest allies was a face-scarred Master of coin Lannister who ended as Hand to Bran' parallel character just make it so obvious its funny.

Oh my god I didn’t even realise Tyland Lannister was initially on the greens’ side! I’m not super fond of Tyrion ending up as Hand, but you’re right that it’s so obviously meant to reference him. There’s so many parallels that it’s a little crazy. I don’t want to say that the second Dance will end exactly as the first did, it’d be a little too neat if history repeated entirely, but you can see so many echoes of it even in the show’s bastardised ending.

“The broken, shattered realm suffered for a while yet, but the Dance of the Dragons was done. Now what awaited the realm was the False Dawn, the Hour of the Wolf, the rule of the regents, and the Broken King.”

(TWOIAF, Aegon II)

I’m not sure what the False Dawn is going to parallel to, it refers to the period of time after Aegon II’s death but before Lord Stark got to King’s Landing, when people thought that peace had finally come. It kind of brings to mind the War for the Dawn, though personally I think that the threat of the Others will be resolved before the Dance is over. The Hour of the Wolf is obviously about House Stark’s rise back to power, and the Broken King is Bran - though if he actually becomes known as Bran the Broken I might end up committing violence ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. 

The parts about Lord Corlys Velaryon are why I’m so hopeful that Jon’s book ending will be completely different from the show’s. He’s arrested for Aegon II’s death by Cregan Stark, even though Cregan had previously declared for Rhaenyra, because as TWOIAF puts it, “to kill a cruel and unjust king in lawful battle was one thing. But foul murder, and the use of poison, was a betrayal against the very gods who had anointed him.”

Corlys didn’t deny his guilt, and expressed no regret. “What I did, I did for the good of the realm. I would do the same again. The madness had to end.”

Cregan Stark declared him to be guilty of murder, regicide, and high treason, and he was sentenced to execution. But many spoke in his defence, even people who had fought against him in the Dance. Baela and Rhaena Targaryen, Corlys’ granddaughters and Aegon III’s half-sisters, convinced Aegon to issue an edict pardoning Lord Velaryon, which Alysanne Blackwood then convinced Cregan to let stand. Lord Velaryon was pardoned and even restored to his offices and honours, made one of the king’s regents and given a place on the small council.

Corlys’ words definitely could be Jon’s as well, a much more in-character declaration post-D@ny’s death than the drivel GoT tried to feed us. I was worried for a bit that this would be how Tyrion is let off scot-free, but Baela and Rhaena, who were vital to his release, are such obvious Arya and Sansa stand-ins, and they’re certainly not going to expend any effort in helping Tyrion. So Corlys’ circumstances more likely lays the groundwork for how Jon will be freed and remain in political power, while Tyland frankly inexplicably becoming Aegon III’s Hand after he was in favour of brutally killing him parallels Tyrion managing to fail up, as a way of reconciling the old regime with the new one.

This makes Tyrion becoming Hand more palatable IMO. Either Jon and Tyrion both should have been punished or neither should have been punished, not the travesty where Tyrion gets everything he’s ever wanted while Jon is exiled to a Watch with no purpose and a Wall that’s already half-collapsed, so what exactly can it protect against? I suppose they were afraid of seemingly rewarding Jon for killing d@ny, especially if pol!Jon had been revealed, but most people noticed how nonsensical his ending was, and it just led to ‘Bloodraven/Bran is the real villain’ takes anyway.

(Side note: Asha/Yara basically still being loyal to D at the end annoys me so much, and made no sense. Jon did more to help save her by giving Theon that pep talk than D@ny did. Maybe it was a leftover from her taking Victarion’s role in the story, but in no reasonable world is anyone going to listen to the Ironborn who brought the Fire threat over in the first place.)

Of course Tyland Lannister isn’t actually Hand for long, given that he dies barely two years later from Winter Fever, feared and hated, alone except for a maester and King Aegon. It might be an indication that Tyrion will face a similar fate, that he’ll die after he’s seemingly won, exactly what he threatened Cersei with:

“A day will come when you think yourself safe and happy, and suddenly your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth, and you'll know the debt is paid."

(ACOK, Tyrion XII)

So that I can stop talking about Tyrion, here’s some facts about Rhaena and Baela that are obviously meant to reference Sansa and Arya, so much so that it feels a little bit like GRRM is winking and going “See what I did there? Huh? Huh? Did you see??”:

- their descriptions: “Rhaena was slender and graceful; Baela was lean and quick; Rhaena loved to dance; Baela lived to ride...” + “Baela was wild and willful”, “more boyish than ladylike”, and kept her hair cropped short as a boy’s

- Rhaena spent most of the Dance in the Vale, where she lived in relative comfort as the ward of Lady Jeyne Arryn. Baela was a dragonrider and so moved between Dragonstone and Driftmark, but was captured on Dragonstone when Aegon II descended upon it

- Rhaena was favoured to be queen after her brother, considered more qualified than her wild sister

- Baela liked to spend time with “unsuitable companions” she would bring to the Red Keep - including a comely juggler, a blacksmith’s apprentice whose muscles she admired (!!!), a legless beggar, a pair of twin girls from a brothel, an entire troupe of mummers once

- After her brother’s regents tried to marry her to a lord 40 years older than her, Baela escaped the Red Keep by climbing out of a window, trading clothes with a washerwoman, then walking right out of the front gate. She ran away to Driftmark and married her supposed cousin (though more likely he was her half-uncle), the legitimised bastard Alyn Velaryon, which might have had me worried about j0nrya if Alyn weren’t best known for being a daring sailor who went on many voyages, including sailing the Sunset Sea, until he was finally lost at sea during Aegon IV’s reign. Alyn’s mother was also called Mouse, for being “small, quick, and always underfoot.”

- another fun fact about Alyn: he’s a bad haggler, and had to agree to a high ransom and many concessions in order to get Prince Viserys returned to Westeros. This automatically disqualifies him as a Jon stand-in, because as we all know, Jon Snow can haggle like the best of fishwives.

- My absolutely favourite detail that has my jonsa heart singing - Rhaena was more dutiful than her sister and would have married a man that the king and council chose, saying that as long as he was “kind and gentle and noble, I know that I shall love him.” She was able to marry her first choice, whom the regents didn’t immediately approve of but that they ultimately accepted  - Ser Corwyn Corbray, the brother of the Lord Protector of the Realm, a second son (!) whose late father had gifted him the Valyrian steel sword Lady Forlorn (!!!)

And as a treat for @istumpysk, some similarities between Rickon and Viserys II!

- the youngest child of their family

- separated from their older brother after they were forced to flee their home, trying to get to safety while their other brothers and mother were at war

- worshipped their oldest (half-)brothers, but were closer to the brother nearest their age

- spends the war stuck on an island, populated by people closely linked to their family’s origins - Skagosi are descended mostly from the First Men, while Viserys was on Lys, where the blood of Old Valyria still runs strong

- sought by/held hostage by a powerful and wealthy family, who will treat them well but whose intentions are dubious

- will be brought back from exile by an upjumped bastard/commoner from a port town who was raised to lordship and became their monarch’s chief admiral

- after they are returned, long after the wars and crises, is happily welcomed as the heir to their older brother’s throne (shhhhh just let me have this, let the baby live)

Thanks for the ask!

[thewatermelloncat]

Choosing Families

Summary: After a fight with her family, Reader who is a close friend of Finn Shelby’s, finds herself out in the rain with only one place in mind to go.

Author’s Note: Set at any point you like within the seasons.

Warnings: None

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The streets are next to empty with few men sheltering from the rain under their coats. Some laugh at their misfortune, others spit curses at their bad luck while they just try and make it home from the factories. A clap of thunder rolls overhead and a few of them hit the ground in an old habit picked up from France.

Narrowly you avoid tripping over one of them, not paying attention to where you are going. Taking pity on him you prepare to reach down and help him up, but other men haul him back to his feet before you can extend your hand. Choosing not to interfere you continue past them, brushing your sopping hair from your face.

Perhaps you had chosen to leave the house at one of the worst times possible, in the dead of night and under the fall of rain. Though it’s not that you planned to leave; your feet did funny things when you were angry. An argument with your parents had turned bad quickly and before you knew it you were out the door. It wasn’t until you were halfway down the street that you thought it would be best to turn back. But it was too late and your feet continued forward.

Lights reflect in puddles on the gravel, illuminating the way to the Garrison across the street. With a shiver you cross your arms, wishing that you had on a coat. The lure of the overlapping voices and clinking glasses draw your eyes as you walk past. Longingly, you wonder if you’d be allowed inside. But part of it feels hopeless: some bars don’t serve unaccompanied females, and it’s not like you had any money on you anyway.

Still, maybe you could slip inside for a bit of warmth. The crowd at the Garrison know you well from your frequent visits with the Shelby family. Surely, they’d let you inside. But then you remember something Finn had told you: that you were welcome at the Shelby household at any time.

Part of you had always been wary of the offer but now you wanted to test the limit of your friendship with the youngest Shelby and take him up on his promise. Besides, you had nowhere better to go.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It was a short walk from the Garrison with the Shelby household already in sight. You swallow deeply in anticipation as you hop up the few steps to the front door before knocking on the weathered wood. From inside you hear muffled footsteps rush and then come to a stop on the other side of the door. With a quick turn of the handle the door is swung open to reveal Tommy pointing a gun in your face.

“Bloody hell!” you yelp as you stumble backward, jumping back down the stairs from the door.

Tommy breathes out a sigh of relief as he holsters the gun, seeing that you aren’t a threat.

Suddenly you feel uncomfortable. Of course, you shouldn’t have shown up in the dead of night when that’s when the shady people come knocking.

“Who is it?” you faintly hear Polly’s voice from inside.

“It’s just y/n” Tommy steps back to look at her from where she is assumably around the corner in the betting shop.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come this late” you hang your head looking down at your shoes in the dirt. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

Tommy ignores you in favour of listening to Polly, “bring her in.”

Before you can turn away from the house Tommy steps outside and takes you by the shoulders. “Come inside” he welcomes, gently guiding you into the house. By the time the door has been shut behind you, Polly has joined you in the kitchen.

“What are you doing out in the rain?” she asks. “Without a coat, no less.”

“I uh…” you falter a little as you try and string words together. “I didn’t actually plan on leaving the house.”

“Come on, never mind that” Polly moves on for the moment, taking your hand and pulling you through the house. “Ada’s not around but we’ll go find you one of her dresses and get you warmed up.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

For all their reputation as cutthroat criminals, the Shelby family is very hospitable. After taking you into Ada’s room Polly had thrown you a towel and a dress before turning her back to give you privacy as you changed.

“It’s your family again isn’t it?” she says from behind you.

You’d heard on many accounts the family saying that Polly is very good at reading people. It comes as no surprise that they were all correct. “Yes” is all you tell her.

“Was it your choice to leave or did they decide for you?” she asks and for anything you’re grateful that she is being direct and not tiptoeing around it.

“I chose, but I hadn’t planned it before my feet were out the door.”

“Happens to the best of us free spirits, doesn’t it?” she muses as you finish doing up the last button on the dress.

“That would be a nice thing to hope.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The old wooden chair isn’t the most comfortable thing you’ve sat on but it is nice in front of the fire.

“Here, take this, love” Polly draws you out of your thoughts as she hands you a steaming mug of tea.

“Thank you” you say quietly before the door opens.

The voices of Arthur and John bickering about something cut off when John registers you sitting by the fire place wrapped up in the blanket Polly had found for you. “Look what the cat dragged in” he teases, no doubt in reference to your wet hair.

“Enough” Polly commands. “She’s had a rough night. Be nice.”

Instantly John’s playful expression drops and he and Arthur quieten down, becoming more subdued to match the mood.

“You know if there is anyone who needs dealing with, you can tell us” Arthur offers as he had a few times before. You’d always turned him down but before you can turn him down again Tommy comes down the stairs with Finn trailing behind him.

“Y/n?” Finn double takes despite Tommy having already told him you were here.

You only smile slightly at him in greeting as Tommy makes his way to his brothers across the room. “Was an agreement met?” he asks, keeping his voice low for the sake of you and Finn in the room.

Out of the corner of your eye you watch Arthur gesture for Tommy to lean in before whispering a few things in his ear while he listens patiently. Keeping his expression blank Tommy straightens up before turning to his Aunt. “Pol, we’re going to need you on this one” he says before he and the older boys file from the kitchen into the betting shop.

Polly sighs a little, not seeming surprised by the outcome. Though before she leaves, she turns to Finn. “If this goes late make sure to set her up in Ada’s room so she has somewhere to sleep.”

And with that she disappears shutting the doors to the betting shop behind her.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The room suddenly feels empty with all the adults gone. Finn had pulled up a chair next to you after his Aunt had left, but for the moment he says nothing. Though the silence allows you to sip away at the warm cup of tea clutched between your hands, listening to the crackling fire in front of you.

“Do you want to talk about anything?” It always amazes you how different Finn is from his brothers, who would all demand an answer instead.

“I don’t know what to say” you admit. “I don’t really remember what happened.”

“But it was bad wasn’t it?” Finn checks rather than asks. “Tommy said that you hadn’t planned on leaving the house.”

You hum quietly in confirmation instead of finding proper words.

“And that he nearly shot you” Finn adds, smiling at you.

You can’t help but laugh at the memory. But the smile on your face doesn’t last long before it drops.

“You’re not hurt, are you?” Finn’s smile drops as well.

“No” you’re quick to answer. “I’m sorry, it’s just” – you cut yourself off with a scoff before continuing. “It’s just ironic that I’m over here and it’s the exact place that my parents don’t want me to be.”

“There are worse places around” Finns smirks.

“I know, Finn. I know” you repeat before you break away with a yawn.

“You must be tired” Finn acknowledges.

You sigh out a long breath.

“Come on, we’ll set you up in Ada’s room” he says standing up.

Without much energy to argue you follow him up the stairs.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“I can change the sheets if you like” Finn offers, stopping in the doorway of Ada’s room as you walk inside.

“It’s fine” you dismiss, kicking off your shoes before placing them down below the foot of the bed.

“If you need anything, just ask someone” Finn tells you. “Tommy or Arthur will probably be up till the morning” he seems to say more to himself.

“I’ll be fine, Finn” you repeat, sitting down on the bed. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight” he seems to murmur on instinct, turning around from the door before pausing and turning back. “Y/n?” he asks nervously but doesn’t wait for a reply, “you know we can’t choose our families.”

“I know, Finn” you smile at him warmly. “You can’t choose your family any more than I can choose mine.”

[siriuslyshewrote]

Wrong - Part Eleven

Though Polly Gray had a lot of money, her house was fucking freezing, you decided, as you slipped out of your high heels next to the door, regretting your choice of wearing no stockings. You didn’t want this woman to think badly of you. Out of the whole Shelby family, it was her that you were most terrified to meet. Not Tommy, not Arthur, not John. Because out of all of them, her opinion mattered most. You feared if she didn’t like you, Finn would drop you in a flash. She had raised him, afterall. She was practically his mother.

Finn and Michael were already walking down the hall, and even from here, you could see the tense muscles in their necks and backs, and you felt a tremor go through your spine, as you stumbled over your shoes, hurrying to catch up. Things were bad. You knew it.

“Aunt Pol.” Finn’s voice sounded from the living room, as you stepped into it right behind him.

Two women sat on the sofa, clearly in deep discussion, their eyebrows pulled together tensely. You recognised the younger as Ada Shelby - a girl who had been in your brothers year at school, and of you rememebered correctly, it was she who kicked him in the bollocks, when they were twelve, for saying something about her family. You smirked a little at the memory. The older woman - as impeccably dressed as her niece, looked up as you three walked into the room, you standing behind Finn slightly, close enough to grab his hand in your own trembling one.

“Finn-“ She began, then her eyes fell on you. “And who the fuck is this?”

“I’m Y/N Y/L/N, ma’am.” You smiled shyly, despite the situation.

Her eyes showed no expression towards you , and you faltered a little.

“And why exactly is she stood in my home, Finn Shelby?”

“She’s my girl- my fiancée , Pol.” Finn corrected himself, squeezing your hand three times, your signal of reassurance.

You heard an almost inaudible gasp from Ada, and your eyes flickered towards her. You felt guilty. This wasn’t how you wanted them to find out.

“And how exactly do we know she isn’t apart of the mafia that are trying to kill us all?” Polly continued, fixing you with a hard stare that you almost withered under. You self consciously rearranged your shawl, to cover your stomach.

Finn began to speak, but you cut over him, your voice surprisingly not conveying your shakiness.

“With all due respect, Miss Gray, Finn and I have been courting for over a year. If I was in the mafia, I’d have to be an excellent actress to keep it up that long. And as I’m sure Finn can assure you , based off my performance in a play last year, my acting is rather terrible.”

Finn snorted.

“Can definitely confirm Pol.”

“A year?” Michael sounded surprised, as Polly pursed her lips. “You’ve hid that well, Finn. We just thought you were off doing fuckin’ drugs somewhere.”

You tensed a little - Finn knew well your opinion on snow.

“Fuck off Michael.” Finn whacked him half heartedly.

Your eyes were still focused on Polly.

“Darling, you might as well get rid of that shawl. It’s not hiding anything.” She replied dryly, sipping whiskey.

You paused, then slowly pulled off your shawl, exposing your swollen stomach underneath your tight dress. The room went completely silent.

“Jesus fucking Christ , Finnegan. I thought you weren’t going to take after John.” She snapped, as you confirmed what she must well have dreaded, standing up, slapping him lightly on the cheek . “Having children at this age!”

“Think it’s the least of our worries, Pol.” Finn replied, though his jaw was tensed. “Now Y/N’s passed your quiz, can you please tell me what the hell is goin’ on?”

And Polly opened her mouth , and began to speak.

“Remember Changretta? The man your brothers-“ she paused, turning to you.

“Sure you can stomach this?”

“I’ve heard worse.” You replied softly, sitting on the edge of one of her many sofas. You hadn’t of course. But you didn’t want to be seen as someone weak. It was the worst thing, in this family.

“The man your brother’s killed.” She continued. “His family, they...” She stopped again, but this time, it seemed to be to calm down a little. You couldn’t imagine what she was going through. You didn’t know the rest of the family enough to worry about them, not really. But the feelings of terror for Finn? You couldn’t imagine feeling that for everyone of your family members.

“They want revenge. They’re Italian mafia, Finn. They’re more powerful than us.”

“But Tommy-“

“Your brother is convinced he can sort it. Family meeting tomorrow , early. Michael is about to head out and go and get John. He isn’t ... picking up the phone.”

Finn froze.

“He’ll be fine, Finn. You know he’s a stubborn bastard, won’t listen to Tom.” Ada chipped in front next to you.

“I best be going, Mum.” Michael spoke lowly, as Polly gripped his hand tightly.

“Be safe.”

“Always am, ain’t I?” He called over his shoulder, as he began to walk away. “Finn, you better fuckin’ look after them.”

“We’re going to be fine, aren’t we Pol?” Finn said quietly, almost imploringly.

“I don’t know, Finn. I really don’t know.”

————————————————————

You were half asleep, head resting in Finn’s lap - the four remaining people in the house in the sitting room, next to the phone, next to the guns. You could hear Ada’s soft snores from across the room. Finn’s hand rested on your stomach, the other clutching a rather large, metal, gun.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Finn’s aunt spoke.

“What do you mean ? Y/N, or the baby?”

“Both. Either.” You almost flinched are her cold tone. She clearly hadn’t warmed up to you yet. And they clearly thought you were asleep. You kept your eyes shut.

“I’m scared.” Finn admitted, in the same tone he’d used with you in the car, only yesterday. “I’m scared I won’t be able to protect her. Them. But I’m so terrified becuase I love her so much Pol. I wish you could realise how much. She’s kept me going for years. She’s ridiculously clever, she’s funny and-“

“But do you want a family?”

“I didn’t. No.” He paused, and you almost began to cry. He hadn’t said this to you. He’d said he was fucking happy.

“But the minute she told me she was pregnant, I did. I knew I was going to work it out, in anyway I can. And Pol, you can’t deny I’ve been happier this past year.”

“That you have.” She confirmed. “What do her parents think about it?”

“They’ve ... She got kicked out. They want nothing to do with her. They hate Blinders. It’s why we hid it. Mostly. And I just... I wanted her away from the business. I never wanted her to see that part of me.”

“I think, from what I can tell, she’s tough enough to deal with it. I think she loves you too.”

“I know she does.”

“My youngest nephew, having a baby. I thought I’d have more time with you.” She chuckled waterily, and you were shocked. You’d never thought of Polly Gray as sensitive. She was hard as nails. Always. She’d secretly been someone you’d looked up to, when you were growing up, and you saw her walk around Birmingham like she owned all of it. She really did, you mused.

“Pol-“

And the phone rang. Again.

————————————————————

Tag List

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[michaelshelbys]

moving in. ISAIAH JESUS

summary: isaiah has a big question to ask the youngest shelby, and it leads to some complications along the way. continuation of ‘dramatic’

warning: swearing, that’s about for this one

gif does not belong to me!

"You're being dramatic again, love."

Isaiah smirked at the young woman sat on his desk in front of him, a gleam in his eyes that had her narrowing her own at him. She was seated at the edge of the wooden table, legs crossed over one another with feet resting on his lap with no care in the world, even after he had tried to scold her.

("Watch me pants, love, they've just been washed!") ("Yeah, I remember Is. I was the one that washed them for ya.")

"This isn't funny, Isaiah. This is serious fucking business!" She exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air and almost smacking his cup of lukewarm tea right off of his desk and all over him. Isaiah jumped from his spot, grabbing the cup before it could topple over and spill over his work, or more importantly, his washed trousers.

"I knew 'a shouldn't have asked you here," he shook his head while pulling his chair closer to his desk and to her, setting the cup of tea at the other end of the table and sending her a pointed glare. "I almost forgot how dramatic you are."

She almost choked on her words in the hurry to get them out, protesting loudly: "I ain't dramatic, for fucks sake!" The Shelby crossed her arms over her chest, glaring down at her chuckling boyfriend. "What the fuck am I supposed to say to that?"

She referred to the question he had asked her minutes prior, when she was mindlessly playing with his hair and humming a tune that a man was singing (terribly) down at the Garrison the night before, as he was laying his head on her lap and rubbing her thighs over her dress after she had insisted he needed a break from his work. They were in almost completely silence, apart from her humming and the constant buzz of the business outside his office doors, when the words had left his mouth and sent her into complete shock.

Isaiah frowned and rested his palms back on her knees, his thumbs rubbing circles into her skin and sending shivers down her spine. He looked up at her, a pout forming on his pink lips. "What are you tryna say, love? What, do you not wanna be with us anymore?"

She rolled her eyes, sighing softly as her hands moved to cup his face, bringing his closer to her own as she laid a tender kiss on his forehead. Isaiah closed his eyes at the action, and rested his head on her collarbone as she started to rub soothing patterns on the back of his neck. She felt him smile into her skin, and one began to grow on her lips too.

"Jesus, now who's the dramatic one?" She joked, laying her head atop of his. Her face grew serious, however, when Isaiah pulled away and sent her a look, one she knew all too well. The Stop Bullshitting Me look, the one he used whenever he bought up a touchy subject and she tried to worm her way out of talking about it.

Ah, Shelby's and their trust issues.

"If you don't wanna do it, just tell me," Isaiah spoke, his voice unusually soft. "I'd rather ya just tell me than to bullshit me."

She sighed. She had never seen Isaiah look so crestfallen, and it broke her heart to know that she was the reason for it. But she had no idea what to do, her mind had lost all it's logical sense and was replaced with the Shelby's get the fuck up and out of there head, and she had wanted nothing more than to get up and flee, but Isaiah was looking at her like she held his whole world and perhaps she did (he knew she knew she did) and she could just not find it within herself to leave him. She loved him, more than she had ever loved anyone. And she hated how she had to ruin things.

"I'm sorry, Is," she was almost close to tears, and Isaiah noticed because the next thing she knew she was wrapped in his arms and her head was resting on his shoulder and he was being so, so gentle with her, even though she was potientally breaking his heart and ruining everything they made, and she came to the realisation that Isaiah Jesus was too good for her - she didn't deserve Isaiah Jesus.

"You don't have to say sorry," Isaiah mumbled into her neck. "You're not ready, that's alright. I ain't gonna push ya. It's your decision." He kept repeating each sentence, and each time he did, more tears fell from her eyes against her better judgement.

God, she was dramatic.

"I love you, Is." She murmured, and she meant it with every fibre in her being. He hugged her tighter in response, and that was when she knew, she really fucking didn't deserve him.

"I love you too, baby." He sighed. "I love you too, so fucking much."

➝

Growing up, the youngest Shelby sister had always been close to her aunt Polly. Even when her mother was still alive, Polly was the one that she went to when ever she had a problem, or had no problem at all, and just wanted to talk. She loved her mother dearly, and missed her more than anything, but Aunt Polly had been her second mother since birth. So naturally, she was the one she went to after leaving Isaiah's office.

Her heart was hammering against her chest even after leaving him, his words playing over and over in her head until all coherent thoughts had left her mind and it was all she could hear. It was driving her mad, and Polly had noticed immediately.

"What's wrong?" She asked, a teapot and cups already set out on the table. Polly gestured to the chair seated in front of her, and watched as she fell into it in a heap, her elbows on the table and her head laying in her hands. "What did you do this time?"

"It's Isaiah," she mumbled through her hands, her fingers massaging her temples. She heard Polly sigh, heard her pick up the teapot and the sound of tea pouring into a cup before one was slid over to her, her aunt's careful gaze trained on her as she picked the cup up without a second thought and downed half the very hot contents inside of it. She hissed as the burn hit, sticking her tongue out and frantically waving her hands to try and stop the sting. "Fucking hell!"

Polly rolled her eyes. "Careful, the tea's hot." She smirked into her cup as she sipped her own tea, ignoring the pointed glare that followed her statement.

"Wow, thank you, Pol. Really. I wouldn't have known the tea was hot without your very helpful comment on the matter."

Polly didn't answer. Instead, the older woman simply stared her niece in the eyes, awaiting whatever stumble of words that would surely leave her lips. She didn't have to wait long, as the younger woman began to groan miserably and laid her head in her hands.

"I fucked up, Pol," the Shelby whined. "I finally have something good in my life - something that treats me amazing, actually fucking loves me for me, and I fuck it up."

"Trouble in paradise then?" Polly smirked, but it didn't last too long on her face as she watched her niece's face fall and crumble. Her eyes began to water and that's when Polly sprung into action, leaping up from her chair and finding her place beside the woman, hands beginning to stroke through the strands on her head as she sighed. "Christ, love, what's happened?"

She couldn't control her wailing. It was like she had broken some sort of fuse and the tears just wouldn't stop falling from her eyes. She couldn't remember the last time she had cried so much - possibly the day her mother died, or perhaps the day of her mother's funeral, when she was so young and innocent and unaware of the world's horrors. But she was grown now, and she felt foolish for crying so much, over something that probably wasn't really worth crying over. But the way Polly was holding her, playing with her hair and gently shushing her, reminded her of her childhood days and her innocence back then, and it bought back so many memories that suddenly Isaiah wasn't the only person she was crying for.

"When did I change Pol?" She sniffled. Polly pulled away slightly, narrowing her eyes in wonderment. "When did I get to the point that I feel like I can't even trust the one bloody person that I should?" She further questioned, hands shaking in her lap.

Polly took note of this, and grabbed hold of them, kneeling on the ground beside her. "Oh, love, you haven't changed," Polly said softly. "You never changed - the world around you did. You realise things as you get older, like the old man down the street used to beat his wife black and blue, and the woman across the road prefers a lady's company to a man's. Your brother's are dangerous men in a dangerous business, and people fear you for sharing the same last name as them. You realise these things as you get older, but you don't let them change you."

"You're still the same larl girl who used to come home covered head to two in mud from trying to keep up with all the lads, with cuts all the way up your legs and arms for being too fucking reckless. You're still the same pain in my ass who used to dress up in my heels and steal my make up and try to follow me on nights out. You're still the same, the world just isn't."

Polly paused, hands reaching up to move the stray hairs that had stuck to her teary face and moving them behind her ears. Polly smiled, and the Shelby sibling swore she saw tears in her own eyes.

"Now whatever the fuck Isaiah's done or said, you need to get over it. Because you aren't gonna get yourself another one like him, love."

She laughed through her tears, wiping her eyes and trying to shake off the feeling of foolishness she felt for crying so much on her aunt. She knew Polly didn't mind, and she felt a wave of gratitude for having her in her life. She told Polly this, and it sent the older woman into a small grin.

"Thank you, Pol." She said, and wrapped her arms around her. Polly returned the hug, squeezing her just a little bit. "Suppose I better go fix this, eh?"

Polly rolled her eyes and nodded, standing from her kneeling position and grimacing at the click in her bones as she did so. Her niece sent her a sympathetic look, to which she just waved off as she took a sip from her now cold tea. She sighed and looked at the younger woman seated in front of her, raising an eyebrow. "What exactly did Isaiah do?"

She grinned sheepishly. "He asked me to move in with him." She revealed, and Polly almost choked on her tea.

"So what the bloody hell are you doing sat here?" She exclaimed, slamming her tea cup on the table. "Get your ass up, love, go tell him yes and get gone!"

She started to grin, excitement beginning to bubble in her belly at the thought of living with Isaiah - who she was certain was the love of her life. She stood, throwing her coat on and almost sprinting to the door. Before she opened it though; she paused, turning to her aunt with a frown.

"Are you really this fucking keen to get rid of me?" She questioned, crossing her arms.

Polly just rolled her eyes. "Just go, will you?"

So she did. And within minutes, she was slamming her fists on Isaiah's front door, feet sore from trying to run in heels and rain hailing down above her head. She was sure she looked an absolute mess, but she couldn't find it in herself to care as Isaiah opened the door, shirt creased and neglecting a tie and jacket with suspenders hanging from his hips. She smiled at the sight of him, and found herself thinking God, what a fucking cliche they were.

"Love," he said. "What you doing here?"

She shrugged. "Getting your lazy ass from the sofa so you can help me pack my things."

He faltered, his eyebrows furrowing in a moment of confusion before realisation seemed to sink in and his mouth fell open and closed like a fish out of water - she laughed, not waiting for a response as she threw herself at him, arms circling around his neck as his own wrapped around her waist. His forehead leaned on hers, and she never wanted to leave his arms.

"You sure, love?" He asked, a hand reaching up to cup her cheek softly. She leaned into the warm touch, lips brushing against his own.

"I've never been more sure of anything, Is. I want this, I want you."

He grinned against her lips. "Thank fuck, because I've been going mad here thinking that you didn't want me. I can't lose you, love, I love you, so fucking much."

"I love you too, Is." She mumbled, before his lips descended down onto hers and they were kissing in his doorway, not a single thought given to the fact that the door was still very much open and everyone in the street could very much see them. They stayed like this for a few minutes, before the peace was shattered by a whoop of holler's coming from across the street.

"Thank fuck, we finally got rid of her!" John called out, high-fiving Finn who grinned at his sister and best mate. Arthur stood close by, smoking a cigarette and clapping his hands far too loudly.

"You're a brave man, Isaiah Jesus!"

They all received a middle finger in return.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

* * * *

It’s very strange to think of Joe Biden as a world-historical figure. For decades, he seemed to me to be a bit of an irritating blowhard who rarely took the chance to edit himself. He was a classic slap-on-the-back backroom pol, with an everyman-on-the-train vibe, who loved the ornaments of public office, and that was basically it.

Washington will always need people like Biden, and he played the part well, but he was hardly a star. He rarely inspired, he made cringe-inducing gaffe after gaffe, his vanity required him to cover up his baldness with what, for a while, looked like a painful rice-paddy of plugs, he plagiarized a speech so obviously and crudely he almost begged to be caught, and despite his rep for retail politics, was terrible at campaigning for president. In 2008, he quit after Iowa, with one percent of the vote.

His big moment came when Barack Obama picked him as his veep. And the choice of Biden was specifically designed, it seems to me, to ruffle no more feathers, and to assuage white working-class discomfort with a young, inexperienced black guy with a funny, foreign-sounding name. Even at the time, it felt to me that Biden’s acceptance speech was fine but not exactly great — but what worked nonetheless was his persona: “It’s hard not to feel affection for this scrappy old guy — especially if you’re a Catholic,” I wrote. “This was a very culturally Catholic speech, especially at the beginning, and Biden will speak to people who might be leery of this young African-American. It was also focused on middle class economic anxiety and spoke about it in intimate ways that voters will immediately understand.”

Twelve years later, this guy is even older and less scrappy but still has the same core appeal: that old Irish dude who can go on a bit but has a heart of gold and hasn’t completely disappeared into the left-liberal elite. The drastically curtailed Covid campaign was a godsend in retrospect because it removed countless opportunities for him to get in his own way, while very successfully projecting and burnishing this image. Yes he could get a bit Abraham-Simpson-y at times, but I confess I began to find that a little comforting after a while, in the era of Trump. The combination of decency, vulnerability and humanness became even more potent up against an indecent, inhuman con-man. It became the stutterer versus the monster.

And Biden’s core appeal, as he has occasionally insisted, is that he ran against the Democratic left, and won because of moderate and older black voters with their heads screwed on right. He was the least online candidate. For race-leftists like Jamelle Bouie, he was part of the problem: “For decades Biden gave liberal cover to white backlash.” For gender-warriors like Rebecca Traister, he was “a comforter of patriarchal impulses toward controlling women’s bodies.” Ben Smith a year and a half ago went for it: “His campaign is stumbling toward launch with all the hallmarks of a Jeb!-level catastrophe — a path that leads straight down … Joe Biden isn’t going to emerge from the 2020 campaign as the nominee. You already knew that.” The sheer smug of it! And the joy of seeing old Joe get the last laugh.

It’s worth recalling the obloquy the woke dumped on Biden in the early stages of the race because this will surely be a battle line if he wins the presidency, and we will have to fight for him and against them if we are not going to sink into deeper tribal warfare. He is one of the last vestiges of the near-extinct rapport between white working-class voters and the Democrats, and if he wins next week, it will be because he has wrested older white voters from the Republican grip, and won white women in a landslide (unlike Clinton), even as his support among blacks and Latinos may come in slightly behind Hillary’s.

Biden ran a campaign, in stark contrast to Clinton’s, focused not on rallying the base around identity grievances, but on persuading the other side with argument and engagement. If you believe in liberal democracy — in persuasion, dialogue, and civility — and want to resist tribalism, Biden may be our unexpected but real last chance. And in this campaign, he has walked the walk.

His core message, which has been remarkably consistent, is not a divisive or partisan one. It is neither angry nor bitter. Despite mockery and scorn from some understandably embittered partisans, he has a hand still held out if Republicans want to cooperate. In this speech at Warm Springs, where Biden invoked the legacy of FDR, you can feel the Obama vibe, so alien to the woke: “Red states, blue states, Republicans, Democrats, Conservatives, and Liberals. I believe from the bottom of my heart, we can do it. People ask me, why are you so confident Joe? Because we are the United States of America.”

And while he has promised a deep re-structuring and redistribution in the wake of Covid, climate change, and destabilizing inequality, he has done so in pragmatic, rather than ideological, terms. Against the surreal extremism and divisiveness of Trump, he has offered moderation and an appeal to unity. Look at the careful balance he has struck on the protests against police misconduct this summer: “Some of it is just senseless burning and looting and violence that can’t be tolerated and won’t, but much of it is a cry for justice from a community that’s long had a knee of injustice on their neck.” We need both these impulses, if we are to extract real reform from distorting rage, and make it stick.

He is not perfect, of course. I suspect he is naive on some questions. He realizes, does he not, that when he uses the term “equity” rather than “equality”, with respect to race, he is using code for the crudest racial discrimination. He surely knows that critical race theory is not about being sensitive to the pain of others, but about seeing the U.S. as no less a white supremacy now than under slavery, and liberal constitutionalism as a mere mask for oppression of non-whites. He knows that the Equality Act eviscerates the religious freedom he has previously championed, does he not, and folds the category of sex into one of gender, jeopardizing at the margins both gay and women’s rights? And it should be troubling, it seems to me, that, when confronted with the fact that his son, Hunter, is corrupt in the classic, legal, and swampy way, Biden refuses to see anything wrong with it at all.

But these are quibbles in the grand scheme of things. And it is striking, as David Brooks noted this morning, how deftly Biden has walked through a field of culture war landmines and not see one go off. That has taken discipline — and Biden has shown that he can exercise it. Maybe he learned it from Obama.

His closing message has been about healing — from the wounds of Covid, economic crisis, and resilient racism. And if there is one thing Biden really knows in his heart and soul it is healing. Recovering from the loss of a wife, a daughter and a son requires a profound sense of how to take the hits that life can bring, how to stay strong while accepting vulnerability, and how to move slowly forward.

This is how he put it last week, as he related to the isolating, desolating casualties of Covid19: “Alone in a hospital room, alone in a nursing home, no family, no friends, no loved ones beside them in those final moments, and it haunts so many of the surviving families, families who were never given a chance to say goodbye. I, and many of you know, what loss feels like when you lose someone you love, you feel that deep black hole opening up on your chest and you feel like you’re being swallowed into it.”

I have felt that way for four years now. What I grieve is an idea of America that is decent, generous, big-hearted, and pragmatic, where the identity of a citizen, unqualified, unhyphenated, is the only identity you need. I miss a public discourse where a president takes responsibility even for things beyond his full control, where the fault-lines of history are not mined for ammunition but for greater understanding, where, in Biden’s words, we can once again see the dignity in each other. I am not a fool, and know how hard this will be. But in this old man, with his muscle memory of what we have lost, and his ability to move and change in new ways, we have an unexpected gift.

“I’ve long said the story of America is a story of ordinary people doing extraordinary things,” Joe Biden said last week. Well, ordinary old Joe, it’s your turn now. Do the extraordinary.

ANDREW SULLIVAN

THE WEEKLY DISH

[hazelnmae]

Lies Travel Faster: Chapter One

Summary: Sophia Murphy's life seems to be on the upswing when she takes a job with Birmingham's notorious Shelby Company Ltd. But when she falls for her boss, CEO and ruthless gangster, Tommy Shelby, she finds herself wrapped up in a tangled web of danger and deceit. After all, lies travel faster than the truth.

Tags: Tommy Shelby x Original Female Character; Tommy/Assistant Trope (it’s a hill I’ll die on)

Warnings: angst; smut (in future chapters); violence; language; rape/non-con; death

CHAPTER 1

“God, he doesn’t really sound like that, does he?” She asked. But John just kept up the imitation, trying his best not to crack a smile. With a deep voice and with narrowed eyes he said, “Look, love, I’ll snap your neck if you fuck up my books one more time,” as he pointed his finger in her face.

Sophie laughed, tears filling her eyes.

Despite having spent the last few months in Birmingham she hadn’t met any of the Shelby family until last night at the pub when, uninvited, John tried to put his hands on her ass. She sweetly batted them away, instantly recognizing the haircut she’d been warned about. Much to her surprise, he didn’t respond with anger or aggression. Instead he asked her to join him for a pint, which Sophie found herself happy to accept.

She sat with John for hours that night, joking about anything she could between somber discussions of the war.

Sophie had heard the three Shelby brothers served in France when she was there. Although it’d been six years now since the war, Sophie was still trying to settle and make a home for herself in England.

John’s eyes slowly filled with tears each time he spoke of the Somme. Sophie let him finish each story before subtly turning back to lighter subjects. He wasn’t the brightest man she’d ever met, but she could tell he knew she was saving him from himself, and that he appreciated it.

He mentioned the job at the end of the night, as he helped her into her coat.

“We’re in need of a bookkeeper. It’s not much. The pay isn’t impressive and the work is tedious, but it’d help you get back on your feet.” John seemed so kind-hearted, nothing like the rumors she’d heard of him.

Sophie had told him of her struggle to find work after the war. She started in London, at a small hospital which closed after only a few years. She’d worked odd jobs after that, but hadn’t been able to find new work as a nurse, regardless of how hard she’d tried.

“Come by tomorrow morning, if you’re interested,” he’d said.

That was last night. This morning Sophie sat cutting up with John in the front room of Shelby Company Ltd. as she waited to interview for the open post as a bookkeeper.

“I swear, I sound just like him. Right Pol?” John leaned back in his chair and asked his aunt for affirmation. She responded with an eye roll that would have shook the ground, if it wasn’t accompanied by a smile.

As she spoke with John, Sophie observed the grandiose office space. It was dark, in a rich and purposeful way. Mahogany adorned the walls, broken up only by the glass windows of several offices and dim sconces that bounced a flattering light about the room. She and John sat at one of two desks in the front room, while Polly occupied the other.

The offices off the main waiting room appeared impressive. She could clearly see into two of them, through the open blinds on the clear glass windows. But the office at the back had mottled glass windows and large, frosted glass, double doors keeping it closed off from prying eyes. Etched in the glass was a name: Thomas Shelby.

One common theme in all the stories she’d heard about the Peaky Blinders was Thomas Shelby’s ruthlessness. Sophie knew he’d made a way for himself, and his whole family, by doing what others were too afraid to do. He’d taken what he wanted, what he thought they deserved, without caring who he hurt along the way. She was nervous to be in, what she assumed to be, the company’s headquarters. Even more nervous at the thought she’d have to interview with Thomas. John hadn’t mentioned his brother last night and she, naively, never thought he’d be involved with hiring such a low level position.

Polly seemed to read the trepidation on her face and offered some encouragement, “We keep racking up new enemies. We just need to be sure we can trust any new hire in the office.”

“Oh don’t worry about Tommy,” John added, seeing her reaction to Polly’s words. “If I tell him to hire you, he will,” he said with a wink and a smile. That gained him another eye roll from Polly, who lit a cigarette and smiled.

Just as she was considering the irony of a gangster’s name etched in such an elegant script, the main door to the office quickly flung open, dragging in a swath of cold, winter air. A dark silhouette filled the bright space behind the door as Sophie’s eyes adjusted to the blinding light behind it. As he walked into the room, she saw Thomas Shelby for the first time. Sophie made note not of his handsome features, but of their sad expression. He looked like a war-worn soldier--like so many of the men she saw daily in France--wearing a three piece suit.

He shot a glance her way as he removed his peaked cap and walked past her to his office. The air behind him hung thick with tobacco.

“Stay right there,” John said with a wink as he followed quickly on Tommy’s heels. Polly also stood, smiled in Sophie’s direction, and walked into Tommy’s office closing the door behind them.

________

“Good morning, Thomas,” Polly said, as she closed the door behind them.

Tommy worked in silence as he poured himself a whiskey with no regard for the early hour. He’d been shaken by the black hand they’d received earlier in the week and had spent the last few days even closer to the edge than usual.  But it was finding a stranger in the front room this morning that’d really tried his patience.

“Who’s the bird?” He asked in his deep, raspy brummie.

“Name’s Sophie. She’s applied for the position. Here for an interview,” John explained with a proud smile.

Tommy paused, his back still turned to Polly and John as he contemplated his response. “Send her home,” he said as he replaced the whiskey decanter on the table.

“Wha—Why?” Asked John.

“I said to send her home,” louder this time. The topic wasn’t open for debate.

“She’s bright, and funny—you should have heard her out there,” John said, his own frustration rising as he bit down on the toothpick he’d placed between his teeth.

“Tommy,” said Polly, “the girl needs a job. She has no family and is half a world away from anything familiar.”

“Don’t,” Tommy said, knowing Polly was trying to appeal to his heart. He sat down and began rifling through the papers on his desk, confident he’d put the matter to bed.

“We need a bookkeeper,” Polly said, this time leaving his heart out of it.

“Fine,” said Tommy, slamming the papers back down on the desk. “Send her in.”

John and Polly turned toward the door.

“I’ll send her home,” he mumbled over his glass of whiskey.

Tommy watched John’s misshapen silhouette through the mottled glass as he spoke with Sophie and led her back toward the office door. He returned his gaze to the desk as she entered and waited until John cleared his throat to acknowledge either one of them.  It didn’t matter how bright or funny she was, his gut told him it was the wrong time to hire a beautiful new employee. And his gut was rarely wrong.

“Come in and shut the door behind you,” he said to her.

Sophie wasn’t prepared for the pleasant lilt yet ominous depth of his voice. It was more silky than his brothers impression of him--although John had perfected the hardened tone--like rubbing velvet against the nap. Sophie entered the room with her chin held high and looked directly into his hollow, crystal eyes.

“Sit” he commanded.

She made her way across the room toward his desk only stopping when he gestured toward the leather covered chair directly across from him. He watched her intently from across his whiskey glass as she moved, slow but steady. She was slight, but seemingly strong. Her dress hung from her muscular curves in a pleasing way that he hadn't noticed when she was seated outside.

“What’s your name,” he asked.

“Sophia Murphy.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Are you fucking my brother, Ms. Murphy?”

While his question surprised her, it was the coldness with which he asked it that really caught her off guard. John had been so warm, but she could tell now that Thomas was something quite different. She watched him grow impatient awaiting her answer.

“No.” She answered plainly.

His cold, blue eyes ripped through her, but she didn't flinch. She’d spent much of her life around men like Thomas Shelby. Powerful, intelligent men who were accustomed to getting what they wanted. And while he was very different from his brother, she wasn't afraid of him.

He finally broke the silence. “Do you want to?”

Sophie refused to answer, internally seething at the audacity with which he'd asked the question. She calmed herself, though, before her anger became apparent.

Tommy removed the cigarette box and matches from his breast pocket and set them on the table. Slowly, as if he knew how it complemented his full lips, he placed a cigarette between them and let hang from a moment before lighting it.  

“So why are you here instead of America, Ms. Murphy?” he asked, changing the subject. The smoke from his cigarette lazily filled the air between them. She watched the ash collect before he finally tapped it into the crystal ashtray in front of him.

“There’s nothing left for me there,” She replied.

She had a confidence about her that he admired. Tommy wasn’t accustomed to women speaking to him so openly. All the women he’d know, with the exception of his aunt Polly, had assumed a submissive role in his presence. Sophie was rather exhilarating in that regard--something different. He raised an eyebrow at her, encouraging her to continue.

“I have no family, Mr. Shelby,” Sophie continued. “My parents died when I was 16. My older brother and I ran the family business until the draft.”

He offered her a cigarette and leaned across the desk to light it when she accepted. He didn’t return to his original position, choosing, instead, to stay somewhat close to her.

“Henry was killed in the third year of his deployment. I’d only been in a year myself at that time. I never even considered returning home. By the time the news of the treaty reached us in Amiens, I’d almost forgotten about home altogether.”

There it was.

She’d been changed by the war, just like him. She’d seen men at their worst--the world at its worst. She saw war--and survived it. Amiens. Verdun. The Somme. Mons. All teeming with despair. All ruined.

He’d been ruined by the war. Perhaps so had she.

“Nurse turned bookkeeper?” he asked.

“I’m not a bookkeeper,” she responded. “Turns out too many nurses survived,” she grinned sardonically.

Tommy understood. He’d struggled to find his own place after the war, always unsure of whether or not the world really needed his newly acquired talents. What he’d eventually settled into resembled his life before the war, but was quite detached. He couldn’t get the war out of his bones and found himself constantly on edge like he had been in the tunnels. In every relationship he felt himself harden and close off access to his thoughts and emotions. When he had finally opened his heart to Grace, it became her undoing. He’d decided it was best to keep everyone at a safe distance. The fear of losing someone always present in the back of his mind.

“I don’t want to hire you as a bookkeeper,” he said, watching her. She didn’t look up or even seem to really acknowledge him at all, except for the almost imperceptible nod she made in his direction. If he hadn’t been staring so carefully at her, he’d have missed it.

She gathered her purse and made as if to stand and leave when he interrupted again, “I’d like to hire you as an assistant. My assistant,” he continued. “You’ll keep the diary, answer phone calls, reply to posts. General secretarial work.”

She stood in silence a moment and held his gaze, sure there was more he wanted to say.

“I feel confident my associates will take a shine to you. I could use someone like you at the important meetings.” It wasn’t untrue, but he was kidding himself if he thought he was hiring her for any reason other than the fact that he was simply fascinated by her.

Sophie let out a laugh, causing him to lose control of the smile that crossed his own lips. “Is that a ‘no’, then?”  

Sophie just shook her head. “I’ll only accept on one condition, Mr. Shelby.” He nodded, beckoning her to continue. “Under no circumstances will I fuck you, or anyone else for you. Including John. I will not be used, Mr. Shelby”

She is fascinating.

Tommy nodded. “Fair enough,” he said, as he stood and extended his hand to shake hers. “Welcome to Shelby Company Limited,”

And he held her hand a little longer than was proper.

________

Read Chapter 2

[jisforjudi]

it’s only a partial screenshot - but it’s a gorgeous photo.  if you can lay your hands on the culture section of today’s times you’ll see the whole picture in all her glory.

Judi Dench on playing Victoria again

The diamond dame is celebrating 60 years in the acting biz with a second pop at playing the queen on film. This time with a rather beautiful young man — ‘Who wouldn’t?’ By Louis Wise

It was on September 9, 1957 that Judi Dench made her debut as Ophelia in the Old Vic’s Hamlet. Over the six decades since, she has taken hundreds more roles, won dozens of awards and ­plaudits, and become embedded in the national psyche. What is the greatest misconception about her? A pause. “‘National treasure,’” she purrs, in that distinctive Denchian croak. “F****** ‘national treasure’!”

 We are sitting in the library of the Covent Garden Hotel, in London, where she is doing promotional duties for her latest effort, Victoria and Abdul. At 82, she looks gorgeous, if a little shaky: the rattle of the bangles on her arms is complemented by a persistent cough, accompanied by streaming eyes. (She dismisses the suggestion that it’s hay fever, but isn’t sure what it is instead.) She is dressed in the expected boho-Denchy pale linen and has tiny feet, her toenails painted scarlet. Will she celebrate her 60 years in the biz? “Oh, I doubt it, no.” A small pause. “I might have an extra glass of champagne that day.”

Dench is, as you’d probably expect, both warm and brisk from the off, but the first time she gets properly animated is when I mention the “n******* t*******” tag. We know she hates it, she says it all the time, but I only bring it up to ask whether it’s an albatross when she’s looking for roles. As soon as the phrase even looms, though: “Oh, please don’t say that! Everyone says it, everyone. It’s horrible, it’s awful. I hate it.” So, yes, it’s the biggest misconception about her. She later qualifies her answer. “I’d like much more to be the Notes on a Scandal woman than the Marigold Hotel woman, do you know what I mean?”

It’s bizarre to define Dench’s career in terms of two roles, considering this is a woman who has been Cleopatra, Elizabeth I, Lady Macbeth, M from the Bond films and, yes, Queen Victoria, but you can see what she’s getting at. In 2007’s Notes on a Scandal, Dench was exceptional as the tortured, torturing Barbara Covett, unhealthily obsessed with her younger colleague (played by Cate Blanchett); in 2011’s The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, she had a far more fragrant, floaty time in the silver-surfers drama set in India. It’s the former that she hungers for, even now. “Oh, I loved it! I loved every second. That’s the part I’m always looking for.”

Furious old lesbian roles not being more forthcoming, though, she is back to playing the queen-empress for a second time, after Mrs Brown. Would she have liked to play any other crowned heads? “No, I don’t particularly want to play queens. You don’t actually think of Cleopatra [‘Cleoparrtra’] as a queen. You just think of her as somebody who behaves rather badly, now and again. But — if there’s a queen that behaves really badly...” She mulls it over. “You know, I long to find this film where this woman walks a tightrope and turns into a dragon. If that part is around, and she happens to be a queen, that’s fine, too.”

Sadly, perhaps, Victoria and Abdul does not require this of her. It’s another anniversary of sorts, since Mrs Brown dates from 1997, and it was this that launched her surprising, late-blooming Hollywood career. (It was a TV movie for the BBC until Harvey Weinstein snapped it up and put it in cinemas, earning Dench the first of seven Oscar nominations in the process.) “Is it 20 years since I did Mrs Brown?” she asks. Yes, isn’t it odd? It seems only about 12 years to me. “It seems like 40 to me.”

The role is not the only similarity. Like Mrs Brown, Victoria and Abdul charts the unusual relationship the monarch had with a man in her long years of widowhood. Whereas the first film concentrated on her intimacy with John Brown, roughly covering the 1860s to the 1880s, the second starts up in the late 1880s, when Victoria, even older, even grumpier and even more alone, is suddenly taken with a young Indian servant, Abdul Karim (played by the Bollywood cutie Ali Fazal), who has been brought over from Agra. Victoria makes him join her private household and he becomes a favourite, educating her on the country of which she is empress; she designates him her “Munshi”, an Urdu word for “teacher”.

All lovely, but of course this goes down like a lead balloon with the monarch’s stiff inner circle, for reasons of class and colour, and things get tricky and sour. The film, directed by Stephen Frears and scripted by Lee Hall, is a game of two halves: naughtily funny to start, achingly sad at the close, as Victoria reaches the end of her life and their friendship reaches its limits. Dench says she had “no intention” of ever returning to Victoria, but that the script won her over.

“I thought it just gave another huge insight into her life. The whole episode with John Brown was strange, but I thought it was totally understandable, which I believe that this relationship was, too. [Here was] somebody that she found, and she could just talk to him, and he talk to her, and she could ask questions and learn something.”

How much of Victoria’s rapport with Karim is an echo of the John Brown episode? “I think the need is the echo,” she replies. After Prince Albert’s sudden death, Victoria was left alone, without a man she could be utterly devoted to. “Yes, she liked a chap around,” Dench nods — which, with the lusty Victoria, is an understatement.

No hint of sex here, but certainly romance: a man “with whom she could actually relax, all formal protocol cancelled. A real, proper relationship, being able to speak her mind to somebody — I think that’s what it was. Apart from the fact that he was an extremely beautiful young man. Who wouldn’t?” She smiles gleefully. “If Ali [Fazal] walked in now, you wouldn’t recognise me. I’d be a spring chicken, all over the place. So beautiful.”

As she says, she is not quite a spring chicken today, but she fires on nearly all cylinders. The main thing that strikes me is how funny she is, specifically her timing and delivery; she can make all sorts of lines work. It reminds me that my first experience of Dench wasn’t as the great Hollywood matriarch, but on a much cosier and smaller scale, in the BBC sitcom As Time Goes By.

Time has indeed gone by, though she doesn’t want to moan about it. There are, of course, her eyes: for years now, her eyesight has steadily gone, as she suffers from macular degeneration. It’s always bad, but it’s getting worse. She says she’s finally going to tackle audiobooks, as she can’t read novels any more. I am politely surprised — I would have thought she had fathomed that a long time ago. “Yes, but you know, you think you can struggle on. But last week we ran over the only pair of glasses of mine that remotely worked.”

Television, though, she still tries at. “We’ve been watching Poldark, which for me is Pol-very-very-dark. I keep going, ‘Who is that speaking?’ I remember Robin Ellis doing the original all those years ago. You don’t remember,” she says, appraising me. “You were in short trousers then.” I wasn’t even born, I’m afraid. “You weren’t born? Oh, thanks so much. Thank you so much.”

If she can laugh about it, there are sadder sides, too. Recently her eldest brother, to whom she was close, died. She was close to her whole family, with whom she had a “glorious” time. “I’ve thought a lot about it recently. I keep wanting to refer back, and there’s no one to do that with. It is hard when that happens.”

In many ways, though, she seems to have been very lucky: she had a blissfully happy 30-year marriage to the actor Michael Williams, who died in 2001, and with whom she had a daughter, Finty, who has provided her with a grandson, Sammy. I ask Dench when she was happiest in her life.

“Oh, I don’t know. I have a happy nature. I have been very, very unhappy, like everybody, but usually I have quite a sunny nature, which is something you don’t manufacture. It’s either something you’re born with, or you’re not. And I think that comes from my parents. They had great, great senses of humour.” Her childhood in Yorkshire sounds glorious: play-acting and cycling and going to the theatre (her parents were involved in am-dram), and when she went to boarding school nearby, that was “heaven”, too. So you didn’t even have a tricky adolescence?

“Well, I remember my mother saying to me when I was at art school, ‘You are without doubt the most intolerant person I’ve ever met.’ I think I found fault with everything. And I remember not being able to say anything back, and just looking out of the window. She said it to my back.” A pause. “It’s very good to be told that early.” Did you take it on board? “I hope so. Because I think I am quite tolerant now. To a certain extent.”

What can’t you tolerate? “I can’t tolerate the bastardisation of the English language,” she says with a cackle. “I’m always screaming at Sammy. He says, ‘I was laying there.’ And I say, ‘Hens lay — lying, lying!’” She also says that she doesn’t like it when an actor turns up to rehearsals unprepared: “It’s not up to you to take up another person’s time.” This is easy to visualise. She says often how much she loves working in an ensemble, but you can be sure that once she’s in one, the dame is very much a dame.

I ask who, of all the people she has met, she’d like to talk to again. “Oh, Gielgud. So funny! Terribly funny and irrelevant — I mean irreverent! Oh, he would send me up for that.” Also, she would like to meet Shakespeare, “to see if he had any more plays up his sleeve, or doublet”.

Lots of interviews dwell on Dench’s grief after losing Williams (and her new relationship with David Mills, whom she met at the opening of his squirrel sanctuary). But I was interested in how she and Williams met, and how it felt at the time. She met him in a pub on Drury Lane, in the early 1960s. Did she find him attractive at first?

“No, we just laughed a lot. And we went on meeting like that occasionally, and having a good laugh.” Things came to a head when he joined her on a theatrical tour in Australia, and he took it upon himself to propose; they finally wed in 1971. Had it been her ambition to be married? In the early 1970s, I’d assume mid-thirties was late for such a thing, especially for a woman wanting children.

“Oh, I wanted to be married and have six children! That’s a big regret in my life. But at least I have one divine girl, and a grandson.” But was she panicked at all about whether she’d settle down? You see, Judi, I’m 34 and single. “No, 34 is fine,” she says firmly. “It’s fine.” Yes, yes, but did you feel that way at the time?

“Oh, I know, but I was in love so, so much, all the time,” she replies dreamily. Before Michael? “Oh yeah. Mmm.” With varying levels of success? “Oh, hopeless.” Unrequited? “No!” She gives a cough, which for once might be a planned one. “No. Requited! It was just the most glorious time, a wonderful, wonderful time,” she says. “So don’t give up because you’re 34. Certainly don’t.”

The Munshi’s tale

Victoria and Abdul’s story began in 1887, her golden jubilee year. As part of the celebrations, she was presented with two Indian servants from Agra. Victoria took a shine to the more handsome of the two and integrated him into her household. For Abdul Karim, a humble clerk, this was a vertiginous elevation, though he balked at the menial work she demanded and asked to be sent home. The queen, 68, besotted with the 24-year-old, refused.

Very soon, she promoted him from simple manservant to “Munshi”, or teacher, asking him to give her lessons in Hindustani. The fruits of these labours are her Hindustani Journals, all 13 volumes of which are at Windsor Castle. They are a symbol of the empress-queen’s fervour for all things Indian, as encouraged by Karim — not least a good curry. Chicken and dal were her favourites.

Victoria’s family and entourage detested Karim. They railed and plotted against him, even threatening a mass walkout in 1897, but Victoria stood firm. When she died, however, retribution was swift. The new Edward VII ordered that all trace of Karim be removed; the king’s sister Beatrice excised all signs of him from her mother’s diary. Karim was sent back to India, where he would die eight years later in 1909, aged 46. Luckily, though, he left a diary with his relatives — a huge help to the journalist Shrabani Basu when she started researching his extraordinary story a few years ago. It’s on her book that Stephen Frears’s film is based.

A small trace of Karim survives at Victoria’s private retreat on the Isle of Wight, Osborne House. Two photographs hang in her dressing room, one on top of the other: one is of John Brown, the Scotsman who guided her through the darkest years of her widowhood; the other of her dear Munshi, who consoled her thereafter.

[sometimes-issy-writes-blog]

Chapter 4:

Morning came sooner than I would have liked. Reluctantly I throw my legs out of bed sitting up. The knotting tension in my back reminds me of its presence. I ache all over I allow myself a moment of self-pity before forcing on with my day.

I’m up and out of yesterday’s clothes striding towards the bathroom at the inviting idea of a warm shower. However, before I can get there I see my work phone light up on the coffee table. Still clutching the soft towels in my arm, I walk into the open plan kitchen and living room to get it. A message from Arthur letting me know that they’ve extracted the information from the microchip and notified the relevant authorities.

I breathe a sigh of relief glad my slip up wouldn’t be of much consequence. Getting ready for the day ahead was easier now as I shower. The chill of the October air reminds me to dress warm as I open my room window it bites at my cheeks as I prime my skin for makeup.  I’m out of my apartment in record time and on the road to my Mother’s house to pick my favourite four-legged friend.

I see Milo in the bay window of the house as I pull up. Not bothering to knock I push my way through the front door. “Hi Mum I’m back” I call as Milo descends on me barking and milling around legs excited. I kneel to greet him properly petting his golden fur “Oh I’ve missed you too Milo”.

My Mum appears then in the door way to the kitchen “hi sweetheart how was your trip did you close the deal?” she asked smiling.

“Of course, I did” I lie easily still absentmindedly stroking Milo. I stand and step into my Mums open arms for a hug when we break away she hold me at arm’s length giving me a once over.

“You look nice darling got anything big planned today? A date maybe” Mum questions picking up on my well put together outfit: Black fitted trousers and a cool grey knitted jumper with a yellow plaid shirt layered underneath rounded off with grey oxford shoes and tan fur lined winter jacket.

“No just heading into the office again got something to sort out” I reply noting how easy it’s getting to lie to my Mother.

“Well don’t let me keep you then” Mum says saying goodbye to Milo.

After a rushed goodbye and quick stop at my apartment to drop off Milo I’m on my way back to H.Q. Not bothering to say hello to the shop attendant as I enter the shop and bolt into the secret elevator. I shift my weight between my two legs as I wait for the doors to open. When they do I walk at a brisk pace to Merlin’s cave where the door stands wide open.

In the room Harry stands with his hand on the back of Merlin’s chair not saying a word. Agent Tequila our resident Statesmen stands on the far side of the chair both hands on Merlin’s desk leaning in to look at the centre screen. Merlin himself sits with both elbows on either side of his keyboard.

“I hope I’m not interrupting? I also hope you’re not all watching footage of Tequila’s last mission” I say making my presence known and referring to the Statesman’s latest mission where he was tasked with seducing a target to get information.

Tequila’s booming laughter filled the room. “Nothing quite as enthralling as that little lady I assure you” he replied motioning for me to come look at the screen. A bad quality video is playing of several men in cuffs being led away by police men in what appeared to be a ship yard.

I recognise the men immediately as the inner circle of the human trafficking gang I’ve been working to shut down for the last month. With a satisfied smirk I squeeze Merlin’s shoulder and say, “you got them?”

Merlin nods as Harry says, “due in no small part to you Lancelot excellent work. I’ll need a written mission report from you of course ”

Tequila pats me on the back as he leaves the room. Cast my face down trying to hide my delight at this fortunate turn of events today is already a better day than yesterday. I take a seat at a desk behind Merlin’s massive set up and work on my report. As a comfortable silence settles between the two of us I suddenly remember what day it is.

“Ugh its Friday, isn’t it?” I ask Merlin who stops typing to look back at me straining his neck.

“Yeah all day long why what’s happening today?” Merlin probed now fully turned around to look at me.

“My oldest friend turns twenty-five today and we’re supposed to go clubbing to celebrate” a familiar feeling of dread settled over me. I hate clubs all those sweaty drunk people with no concept of personal space. Nights like this always ended the same way, my friend Polly would always get either too drunk and cry or just the right amount of drunk to go home with just about anyone. Whatever way this night panned out I would be babysitting once again.

“Oh well that sound fun!” He offered trying to get me hyped for tonight.  “I love clubs and despite how exceptionally dressed you usually are it’d be nice to see out of the Kingsman attire” he added raising his eyebrows suggestively.

Laughing I reply, “come on Merlin we both know no matter how tight my dress is I just don’t do it for you!” Referring to the fact that women everywhere are devastated when they learn that this beautiful, intelligent man is about as straight as a roundabout.

“Oh, you wound me Lancelot, but I mean it since the day we met you’ve been working tirelessly its time you let loose” Merlin implores. Then adds smirking “maybe even take someone home or be taken home by someone. Ya know make some young man’s night!”

I hummed in response not dignifying that statement with an answer. Deciding that I won’t be making any more progress on this today with tonight pressing on my mind. Saying a quick goodbye to Merlin I guess I might as well knock off early.

Skipping down the steps of the shop I decide to phone Polly she answers on the second ring.

“Hey Felicity! It’s been ages how’ve you been? How’s the new job? Any cute co-workers? Ah are you excited for tonight?” Polly wastes no time bombarding me with questions.

“Hey yourself, I’m great thanks the new job is going good just got back from a business trip it was mental! As for the tragedy of my love life all the men here are either taken or gay it’s a travesty truly and yes I can’t wait for tonight.” Being used to my best friend I rapidly answer her questions; the last part was lie of course but I couldn’t tell her that. “How’s everything with you? Happy Birthday by the way god you so old”

“Oi your only two months younger than me you Christmas baby you! Oh, and yeah everything’s great with me apart from being old and decrepit blah why do we have to age?” Polly whined. “Seriously I’m half way to fifty! How does that even happen”

“Relax Pol I’m sure you’ll feel differently when we’re celebrating tonight. We can get ready in mine because I’m closer to the city centre than you are.” I’m in my car now my feet had automatically carried me to where I needed to go without me even being fully aware of it. “I’ve got to go now I’m about to start driving, try not shrivel up and turn to dust before tonight Grandma”

“You think you’re so funny, don’t you?” Pol said in mock exasperation then started laughing. “I’ll be over before eight I’ll bring wine I’ll see you then love you.”

“Love you too Birthday girl bye” the line goes dead.

I start my car and drive home avoiding the crazy lunchtime traffic. I had a list of things to do before tonight. Deciding that walking Milo was a priority I quickly change into my running gear. Milo who was dozing in his dog bed was quick to catch on to what was happening and ran into the kitchen to retrieve his lead for me.

“Good boy Milo” I say affectionately taking the lead and attaching it to his collar. He sits obediently waiting for me to be ready. I tie up my hair and then I’m ready to go.

It’s a short walk to the park where me and Milo do our run. Once we get there we’re all business the earphones are in music as loud as it can go. After some warm up and stretches were off at a fast pace Milo effortlessly keeping up with me. Trying to beat our personal best of forty-five minutes to get around the circuit.

The run is as unremarkable as always, we finish thirty seconds faster than last time. Slowing to a walk then stopping altogether for some well-deserved water. On the way home, an elderly woman and her grandchild stop me to ask if they can pet Milo. “Of course,” I say telling Milo to sit. He obeys quickly.

“Golden Retrievers are such a lovely breed, aren’t they?” I smile and nod at the older women who smiles down at Milo panting happily with all the attention he’s receiving. “So mild mannered great for young families don’t you think”

“I’m sure he would be, but I wouldn’t really know I don’t have any kids” I admit to the women standing beside me.

“Ah that’s a shame dear but there’s still plenty of time yet don’t fret.” She says. Yeah right that’s the last thing on my mind I think to myself. After a few more minutes of overly intrusive small talk I’m glad when she finally says, “We’d best be off now lovely meeting you dear”

I wave them off crossing the street to my apartment complex Milo plodding along beside me jauntily. We get inside and ignoring my burning calf muscles I opt for the stairs Milo has never been fond of elevators. I’m on the third floor so the climb isn’t unbearable.

Once inside Milo goes for a lie down and I get to tidying and laundry. Its half seven before I know it and Polly is outside my door with a suitcase full of possible getups and makeup.

“So, I don’t know about you, but I feel like going home with someone tonight” Polly blurts out after her second glass of wine. She’s sitting on my bed doing her makeup in my vanity.

I’m in the doorway glass in hand looking at my clothing options from afar to help me decide. I sigh and reply “really Pol I don’t mind, you do you. I don’t really do the whole casual sex thing.” Before she can call me a prude I continue “but as your friend and seeing as it is your Birthday I’ll make sure you only go home with someone on your level of hotness”

Polly snots into her wine “and that’s why you’re my best girl” we make eye contact in the mirror and raise our glasses in a silent toast. After too long a drink of wine to be considered sophisticated Polly adds “Felicity I love you, but you really need to live a little I mean come on your young and pretty. Who wouldn’t want to wake up next to you tomorrow? Take some risks.”

Oh, if only you knew Polly I think slyly. Casting my eyes back to the clothes cluttering my double bed, I decide on the tightest dress I own its red and clings to all the right places. I decided to just to freshen my makeup from work instead of starting all over again. A quick smoky eye and a little eye liner later I’m putting on my heels.

“Polly the taxi’s here come on” I yell into my room from the kitchen throwing my favourite leather jacket over my shoulders, bag in the other hand. Time to clock on for my part time babysitting gig I think as Polly stumbles from my room ready to go.

The club is already packed by the time we get there. Polly disappears to dance and pick her target for the night not nearly drunk enough for this I fight my way to the bar to try get on everyone else’s level.

The bar is swarmed by people way taller than me which is most people, but I digress. They’ve created an impenetrable wall of stilettoes and suit jackets. In my annoyance I give up huffing and stepping back without looking. My lower back bumps against the table behind me and I turn around to apologise.

The sole occupant of the table was dressed well except for the snapback on his head. He didn’t seem to notice my transgression, but feeling my eyes on him he look up to meet my gaze. “What?” he yells to be heard over the pounding bass.

I blinked realising I was gawking at his “Oh I bumped your table I was just saying sorry.” I allowed myself a good look at his face he was cute I guess handsome even.

“Apology accepted” he said scrutinizing my face too. I wondered if now was the time to bow out of this awkward conversation gracefully. Until he says, “are y’ here alone?” I step around the table, so I can speak to him easier all the while throwing my eyes around the room spotting Polly in the thick of it as usual.

“I might as well be” I admit laughing “are you?”

“Yeah completely I just really needed a drink” he said sounding a little sad.

“Bad day? I can relate you should have seen the stare of me yesterday” I probe.

“More like bad month but y’ won’t catch me complaining” he said putting an end to my line of inquiry.

“Listen I’ve spilled your drink can I buy you a new one?” I offer, for some reason I feel compelled to keep the conversation going. What can I say he intrigues me?

“Sure, I’ll have a martini” the man in the snapback replies. I raise an eyebrow at him wondering if he’s taking the piss. Deciding he’s not I move towards the bar only to remember why I’d given up on getting a drink.

I try muscling my way in but to no avail. I try to squeeze into a gap in the corner only to be knocked off balance by a tall man far too drunk to notice me all the way down here. As I go to stumble a pair of firm hands steady me at the waste. The man from before is looking down at me as I look over my shoulder.

“Ah, my hideous hat wearing hero” I quip noticing his hands haven’t left my waist yet.

He leans forward and speaks into my ear “hey say wot you want about me but don’t go after my hat oright?” He laughs, and I smile. “Now let’s get those drinks yeah?” He moves though the bar crowd without much difficulty keeping an arm around my waist to guide me along with him. As we settle at the counter and wait our turn to order I stand as tall as I can to try see Pol over the throngs of people.

“Your friend’s over on the dancefloor with some blond rugby player type,” the man’s voice says close to my ear. I follow his line of sight and see her.

Then it occurred to me “how’d you know I was lo.” The arrival of the barman cuts me off.

“Hi what can I get ya?” he asked shortly clearly run off his feet.

The man begins before I can “Hey can I get a martini and a…”

“Oh” I say realising he’s waiting for me to tell the bartender what I want. “Rum and coke please”

“Coming right up” he makes our drinks and when I go to pay him I’m interrupted once again.

“Nah I’ve got this don’t worry” he says paying for our drinks promptly. Then taking the lead through the crowd glancing back at me to make sure I’m following. I do, and we make it back to his table.

“I thought I was supposed to be paying for theses” I motion at the drinks not set down on the table.

“You can get the next round granted you can make it to the bar!” He says teasingly. I do my best to look indignant, but I know it’s true just as much as he does.

Picking up my rum and coke to take a sip before I reply, “that sounds acceptable but, next round we’re having shots.”

~Two hours later~

Why did I have to suggest shots? I can drink rum all night but add sambuca into the mix and things get messy. Shots are what have in my current predicament. Can you call being backed up against the wall of an ally outside a club with a stranger’s tongue in your mouth a predicament? I’m going to. Not that the situation is unpleasant more so that it is completely out of character for me. Usually I don’t hook up, I date. Most importantly however I don’t typically let a man who’s name I still don’t put their hands up my dress but here we are never the less.

The worst part is I’m enjoying being out of character so much. Genuinely that may be the alcohol talking, but once again I digress.

The ringing of my personal phone causes us to break apart. I duck under his arm which, is still resting beside where my head was moments ago to retrieve it.

I see Polly’s name flash across the screen and quickly answer it. “Pol what’s wrong?” I snap and instantly regret it. Part of me knows she didn’t intentionally sabotage my very out of character moment. Another part of me is still annoyed at her for doing so.

“You’re mad at me” Polly replies drunkenly but still full of emotion.

Clearly Polly had transitioned from drunk and easy to drunk and sad. I adjust my dress and look over my shoulder at the now snapback-less man, who smirks at me awkwardly. I hold one finger up indicating for him to wait a minute.

“I’m not mad Polly, tell me where you are I’ll come get you” I smile apologetically back at him.

“I’m outside the club, come find me” she whines. I don’t say goodbye before I hang up on her.

Turning fully to face the man behind me I say, “I’ve got to go rescue my friend.” When he looks somewhat disappointed I add “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be its oright, another time yeah?” he held out his hand but as I go so shake it he moves it away. “No, I mean give me your phone.”

“Oh, here” I hand it to him feeling stupid and he puts his number in.

He hands it back without another word and we walk together to the top of the ally. I spot Polly immediately and unfortunately for me she sees me too.

“I guess this is where we say goodnight.” I say to him smiling slightly “thanks for an interesting night.”

“Thank you for spilling my drink” he says ever the charmer even in his drunken state. I smile at him again before we finally say goodnight.

He’s gone before Polly makes it to me grabbing my forearm through the crowd. “You could have told me you were busy, you know getting busy?” I cringe as she laughs loudly at her own joke.

We throw ourselves into the first taxi we can find. We’re half way to Polly’s before she speaks again “he was fit, what’s his name?”

I didn’t know but not wanting to give Polly anymore reason to tease me I remember he put his number in my phone. I search down through the names until I find one that’s unfamiliar. “Eh Eggsy” I say finally.

“That’s a weird name” she says giggling.

We arrive at her house not long after that and twenty minutes later I’m outside my apartment paying the cabby. Opting for the elevator this time, shoes in hand I unlock my door stepping inside. Milo looks up from his bed before going back to sleep. I head straight for bed not bothering getting undressed or pulling the blinds. Without another thought about the past few hours I fall easily to sleep.

A/N: Longest chapter yet. I also still don’t own Kingsman.

[peaky-yamyam]

Partners in Crime - Finn Shelby

Do you write with male readers? If so can you write a story where your the son of a peaky blinder and you've been secretly dating Finn keeping it a secret cause your both men and its the 20s. When your kissing Finn in private thinking you're alone and his brothers and Polly walk in... You can decide who they react. :) 

I decided to set this a few years after the end of series 3 because things seemed to flow better with the characters being a bit older and more sure of themselves.

-warnings for some self shaming and mentions of 20′s attitudes to homosexuality- 

I pull my cap low and wait in the shadows by The Garrison. Since Finn turned eighteen it's been the best place to find him, brooding over a whiskey and practising his smouldering look so he can really feel a part of the Shelby family business. I don't want to risk walking in there and raising suspicions though, so I’m waiting for kicking out time. I check my pocket watch and neaten my waistcoat and jacket for what feels like the millionth time this evening, trying to keep myself rooted to my chosen hiding spot.

Luckily for me kick out comes early tonight and I spot Finn walking onto the street.

“Oi Shelby!” I call out, keeping myself hidden in the shadows, “you avoiding me or summut?”

I hear him mutter a ‘for fucks sake’ under his breath but he joins me anyway.

“Hi Finn.”

“Hi,” he mumbles keeping his eyes on the floor.

“You're angry.”

“We agreed not to do this any more.”

“Do what? We’re just chatting,” I reply with a smirk.

Finn glares at me - a look he's learnt from Polly without a doubt - and goes to leave. I grab his arm before he can get anywhere and usher him back in front of me.

“Woah wait, I'm sorry. It's just… I miss you. I've stopped coming into the Garrison, I've stopped calling at your house and now I can't even speak to you in the street?”

“What if someone sees?”

“Then they'll assume we're just two mates chatting, Finn we've grown up together, I'm a Peaky Blinder, you're a Shelby, it's not strange that we'd be friends. You're just being paranoid.”

Finn looks at the floor and I can see he's struggling, battling with himself.

“I can't do this anymore.”

“Is it something I've done?”

“No, well yes. But both of us - this, us together, it's wrong.”

Although I knew this conversation was inevitable, it still hits like I've been kicked in the gut and for once I don't know what to say.

“Polly always says to pray and read the bible, that God will help you when you're in turmoil, but how can I turn to God when He's condemning me?”

“Finn, last month I watched you help your brothers break into a man's house, batter him with a chair from his own living and then set the house alight, I think God's going to have bigger issue with you than the fact you liking kissing boys.”

He bats my hand from where it's still resting on his arm and wraps his jacket tightly around himself.

“I heard there's a treatment,” he mumbles, so quietly I almost don't hear him.

The flash of torment across his face almost destroys me; the idea that he feels it necessary to try and change himself breaks my heart.

“A treatment? What a cure for being gay? Are you joking Finn?”

Silence.

I cup his face and force him to look at me.

“Finn Shelby, there is nothing wrong with you, you don't need curing or treating, or anything like that. You're kind and funny and clever and perfect, and I'm proud to be your friend...and, you know...”

He almost smiles so I take that as invite to kiss him, just gently for a few seconds before he pulls back violently.

“Tommy, Arthur and John are still in The Garrison with Polly, they can't know.”

“Why? Do you think they'll not love you anymore?” I reply, sourly.

The lack of response tells me enough.

“For fucks sake Finn, Tommy once got them sent to prison, fucking prison! And they still like him alright don't they?”

I feel bad for getting angry. I've envied what Finn has with his family for years, a yearning for the camaraderie and love that was never filled by my own distant parents and turbulent upbringing.

“Look Finn, I don't think anything you do could make that family love you any less, and if it does, then fuck ‘em. We can move to London, I've heard there ‘scenes’ down where you don't have to be secretive.”

“London?”

“Yeah, the old smoke, we could get a flat together. We could almost pretend we were a proper couple, not some fiends living in utter sin and debauchery.”

Finn laughs and his shoulders drop as he finally relaxes.

“Do you want to come back to mine for a bit?” he asks, taking my hand and lacing our fingers together. “For a drink, jesus…” he adds when I raise my brow and sidle close to him.

“Do you want me to give you a five minute head start, make sure no one knows we were talking?”

“Oh shut up and go before I change my mind.”

It's nice to be spending time with Finn again, just the two of us chatting like the whole world isn't against us. Finn's relaxed now he’s in his own home, allowing chance glances of arms and touches of hands, and when I wrap my arms around his waist as he’s making a cup of tea, he leans into me, allowing me to rest my head on his shoulder and kiss a trail from his ear to his jaw.

He spins towards me as I reach the corner of his mouth and wraps his arms around my waist, allowing me to cup his face and play with the slight scruff that he's let grow in.

It’s so nice that we get lost in the moment, the whole world shutting off around us, so much that we don’t hear the front door open or the footsteps of Polly and the rest of the Shelby’s approaching, so as they throw open the door to the kitchen they find us in that compromising position; Finn pulling me closer by the hips and my hands cupping his face to tilt his chin upwards so I can kiss him deeper.

In fact neither of us has any idea they’re there until Polly slams her bag on the table.

“What the fuck is this?” she shouts as we both shoot apart.

I glance to Finn, his face so pale he looks as if he’s about to pass out.

“I said what the fuck is this!”  

I don’t know what to say - I don’t even know if I should say something - so I just rub my hand over my neck. Obviously Finn feels the same, my nervous reflex mirrored as he looks to his brothers for help.

“I can’t believe this. In my own house! I don’t even know what to say. How long has this been going on?”

I can tell Polly’s getting agitated as she starts to pace around the table and I chance a quick look at the other Shelbys; John and Arthur are glancing between themselves and Polly, smug look on both their faces, and Tommy is leaning - arms folded - against the door frame, seemingly unfazed by the situation they’ve just interrupted.

“Finn, have you gone mute? You need to start explaining this right now!” Polly shouts, finger pointed viciously towards us.

“Pol,” John tries through a smile.

“You keep your fucking mouth shut John! I am so disappointed in you Finn-” I catch Finn straighten, the words cutting straight through him and without thinking I shift so I’m stood between the two of them, ready to defend Finn when I can get a word in edge-ways, “-so disappointed… bringing him, of all people, in here!”

“Oi!” I shout back without thinking, “what the fuck have I ever done to you?”

I almost think Polly’s going to swing for me, her face set in a harsh scowl that tests even my resolve, but Tommy makes it over before either of us can move and places a hand on my shoulder.

“Leave it,” he says, voice hushed but clear.

“Are you joking? I’m not going to let her speak to Finn, or me, like that. We’ve done nothing wrong! I’m not going anywhere until I know Finn’s going to be alight-”

“I understand-”

“No, you fucking don’t! You’ve not heard some of the things he’s said about himself-”

“I know-”

“He’s been stressing about this exact situation so much he’s made himself ill!” I almost scream, Tommy’s rebuttals erupting my anger.

He squeezes my shoulder and lets out a deep breath.

“We. Know,” he says, raising his eyebrow to make sure I get the meaning behind his words, before he turns back to Polly.

“Pol, I think you owe him an apology.”

She doesn’t say anything, but nods towards me and I take that as as good as I’m going to get.

“Right,” Tommy says, addressing all of us now. “As you can probably see, this hasn’t come as a shock to anyone but Polly. Finn, take a deep breath and sit down-”

“Yeah, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Arthur chips in with a chuckle, nudging Johns ribs with his elbow.

“And you,” Tommy continues, nodding to me, “you need to go home-”

“But-”

“Go home, so we can have a little chat about this as a family and we’ll see you at the Garrison tomorrow evening.”

As always, it's impossible to argue with Tommy, so I grab my cap from the table, making sure to catch Finn’s eye as I do. He gives me a small smile and mumbles that he’ll see me tomorrow, so I make my way out the kitchen to give them some privacy.

Before I get out the door though, John catches my arm, stopping me.

“It’ll all be alright, okay? We’ll smooth everything out with Pol,” he says, voice soft. He waits for me to nod before he lets go of me, patting my shoulder and moving so I can head to the front door. 

I’m not entirely sure if I believe him, the whole situation seeming to have happened so fast I’m still not sure what’s actually going on. 

“What d’ya drink by the way?” Arthur calls as I grasp the handle.

His question takes me by surprise, and I wonder for a second if this is all part of some elaborate plan and I’ll end up drowned in a vat of whatever I answer with. But as I turn back his expression is one of genuine curiosity.

“Umm… bourbon, whiskey, anything like that… I’m not that fussy.”

“Well that explains Finn,” he replies and John snorts a laugh. “I’m kidding,” he adds when he notices my muted expression. “He’s a good kid, you’re a good kid… We’ll have a bottle waiting for you tomorrow. The worst is over now.”