Gun metal and Daisies (Thomas Shelby)

A second encounter that was not any better.

For a star to be born, there is one thing that must happen: a gaseous nebula must collapse.
So collapse.
Crumble.
This is not your destruction.
This is your birth.

Dorothy awoke with a snap. Quite literally, a snap. As her head twisted out of it's awkward position resting on her hand, her neck made a rather painful and wince-worthy crack. Bringing her hand up to the side of her neck, she softly caressed the tender spot.

It was only when her eyes stammered open did she remember the events of the night prior. If she was being honest, she didn't know how to describe what had happened.
Strange?

Despite the small panic that settled in her stomach, she shrugged off the fog that clouded her brain and stretched her limbs, flinching at the sound of the joints popping and cracking.
"Note to self to never sleep sitting up ever again."

Looking around the room she was in again, she noted that the man from the night prior was no longer there. No traces of him except the now half empty bottle of whiskey in the liquor cabinet.

Eyeing her camera on the table, she picked up the awkward contraption, inspecting it in her palms. By the looks of it, it had been fixed, she admired the handy work of who she could only assume was the rude man she had met.

The panic that had only been dormant a few seconds prior, now bubbled to the surface as she remembered this was not her home and her father did not know where she was.

Deciding to not dwell any longer in this strange house that she didn't like, she slipped her wellie boots on and strolled to the door, not glancing back as she left the confines of the -in her words- offensive building.

——

Thomas Shelby was not a man to dwell on the past. Deciding the moment he stepped back in the Garrison, the day he returned from France, that the past, could only affect the future; dare he cared for the future. The past was not his concern, nor was the future.

So it was no wonder that as soon as he stepped out of the small confines of the safe house that Thomas Shelby forgot of the woman he spent the night in the same room with.

He didn't think about the curves of her face or the way the hair fell in front of her eyes; he didn't think of the way she pulled the front of her fringe back together every time it set out of place; he didn't think of the way the woman seemed so infatuated by the woods and the prospect of him having a house on the outskirts of which offended her to the point she threatened him -even if the threat was pathetic-.

No, he didn't think about any of those things.

Walking into the betting shop, he pulled his mind away from not thinking about her.

He stomped into his office, taking a look at his paper work, stacked higher than he would have liked but when legitimate business settles nicely into the company, he realises this will be easy weekend work compared to what's to come.
He rubbed the need for sleep from his eyes and sat down slowly. Taking a deep breath, he picked up his pen and began writing.

——

About a week had passed since the curious encounter the two individuals had.
It was now Saturday, Dorothy's last day of the long week before she can spend the day off tomorrow, once again prancing around with her camera.

Dorothy worked in a bakery, you see. She worked for a lovely slightly older lady who was almost sweeter than some of Dorothy's baked sweets. She hired Dorothy after she found it harder to work in the bakery all on her own. Dorothy would be lying if she said it was her dream job, but she couldn't deny that she loved the job with all her heart.