Shelby Manor – Evening
The fire crackled in the hearth, casting long shadows against the walls of the drawing room. The scent of whiskey and smoke hung heavy in the air, a familiar comfort to the Shelbys.
For the first time in what felt like forever, the family was gathered in the same room—no deals to be struck, no fights to be fought, no enemies to outwit. Just the Shelbys.
Arthur sat slouched in his usual chair, his feet propped up on the coffee table, a glass of whiskey in his hand. His eyes were bloodshot, but for once, there was a softness to him. He hadn't had to chase the demons inside his head for a few hours. Instead, he focused on the warmth of the fire and the presence of his family. It was a rare moment of calm, and it felt… different.
Tommy, ever the enigma, stood near the window, his arms folded, staring into the distance. Even when he was quiet, his presence was larger than life. He was the anchor that held them all together, but tonight, he wasn't giving orders. He was simply… there.
Polly sat across from Arthur, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her eyes, sharp as always, were softened by the warmth of the room. She had long since stopped pouring over papers and discussing deals. For tonight, she was just Polly, the mother, the matriarch, who had seen so much tragedy and triumph in equal measure.
Michael, sitting beside her, had his eyes on his father, a mixture of admiration and skepticism in his gaze. He was still trying to carve out his place within the family, still learning what it meant to be a Shelby. He had never experienced this kind of quiet before. It felt… foreign, yet oddly comforting.
Then there was James, who had been unusually quiet that evening, a brooding presence at the edge of the room. His thoughts were far from peaceful, weighed down by the prophecy, the fire, and the strange power that pulsed within him. But in the presence of his family, the world outside seemed a little less urgent.
"D'you think we'll ever just be… normal?"
Arthur asked, his voice laced with a rare vulnerability.
Tommy didn't answer right away. He never did when the question was about the future. There was too much blood between them all, too much history. The weight of it had settled on Tommy's shoulders long ago, and he had never been able to shed it.
"I think we've never been normal," Tommy finally replied, his voice low, but not without affection. "And that's how it's always going to be."
Polly looked up from her hands, eyes softening as she regarded her son, her nephews.
"We've had our share of misery," she said quietly. "But it's brought us here. To this room. To this family."
Her words hung in the air for a long moment, the weight of them sinking into the very bones of the house. It wasn't often Polly allowed herself to acknowledge how far they had come—and how far they had fallen. The truth was, they had all been shaped by the violence, the betrayal, and the bloodshed. It was in their bones, in their blood.
But tonight, they could let it go—just for a moment.
Arthur leaned forward, eyes glassy from drink and something more.
"We've all made mistakes," he said, looking at Tommy. "Me, especially. But there's one thing I'll always know: you keep us together, Tommy. You make sure we don't forget who we are."
Tommy's lips quirked into a small smile, but it was fleeting. He wasn't used to hearing praise, especially not from Arthur. Yet, there was something about the weight of his brother's words that softened the edge of the night.
Polly reached across the table and patted Arthur's hand. "We all keep each other together. It's why we're still standing. The blood that runs through us binds us, whether we like it or not."
For a brief moment, silence fell over the room, not the uncomfortable kind, but a peace of sorts. The kind of quiet that had been foreign to them for so long.
James, who had been standing near the fire, turned his gaze to the family. His jaw clenched, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—regret, perhaps, or a longing for something he didn't fully understand. He had been caught between two worlds—one with the Shelbys and the other with the fire that was growing inside him. But here, now, in this room with his family, he felt for a moment that he could just be... James.
He let out a breath, and slowly walked over to the table. Without a word, he poured himself a glass of whiskey.
Arthur eyed him warily. "You all right, James?"
James didn't answer right away. He just lifted his glass and took a long, deep drink. The burn in his throat matched the fire that had begun to take hold of his soul.
"I'm fine," he finally said, but the words didn't convince anyone. Not even himself.
Polly studied him for a moment, then turned her attention back to Tommy. "We should be planning our next move. We can't afford to waste time."
But Tommy's gaze was on James, lingering, as if trying to decipher something that had shifted in the younger Shelby. He didn't speak, but the wheels were turning in his mind. The Peaky Blinders had always been a family of survivors. And whatever path James was walking down—whether it was leading him closer to them or pulling him farther away—Tommy wasn't going to let him fall.
"Tomorrow," Tommy said at last, "we deal with the League."
Arthur grunted in agreement, his hand still wrapped around his glass. "It's about time."
"Until then," Polly said, a rare smile crossing her face, "let's have a drink. For the family. For surviving."
And for the first time in a long while, the Shelbys laughed together. Not the nervous, forced laughs from the world they inhabited—but something warmer. More human.
The night wore on with more whiskey, stories of the past, and fleeting moments of peace.
They didn't know what tomorrow would bring—but for this moment, they were just the Shelby family, bound by blood and fire, sharing a rare night of calm before the storm.