Birmingham, 1926

To think ones name could mean such an awful lot to their pet is an odd thought to dwell on, how do they see us? What do they know us as?

To your fancy breed Persian longhair, you had many names, though only one who called you by them, Thomas Shelby was a man of few words though when he did speak you could feel the air bend under their weight.

To your cat, your names were love, sweetheart, darling heart, dove, birdie, angel, treasure, and your favourite, my darling. To hear any of those names from Tommy made your blood feel warm and fizzy.

After countless invitations to live with him in Arrow House, and upon those polite refusals, Thomas took it upon himself and visited you in your home, subsequently meeting your cat in the process.

She didn't much care to go outdoors, not a street cat, no far from it, she came from a long line of elegant contest winners and a high pedigree, and she knew it too.

She would only venture out into the garden if you accompanied her, there she'd chase birds and bugs and do her business tucked behind a bush. She'd lay in the sun on the back step with you of a summer's evening and bask as her tail idly curled around your ankle.

Tommy was no exception, despite the fact you loved him, he was still a stranger to your cat, who made this very clear upon his first visit. Tommy had offered her his fingers to smell, having really only ever interacted with horses and dogs, cats weren't all that mysterious to him.

Your cat immediately raised her hackles, her tail frizzing and up something fierce, yowling and hissing and spitting like you'd never seen before.

"I thought my charm with animals might extend to the feline variety, birdie." Tommy smirked as your cat ran to hide behind your calves, still growling at Tommy.