Bancroft - Peaky Blinders Reverse Harem x Reader

Chapter 35

"What happened?" I ask quietly, finally obeying as Tommy sits me down on the bed. He sits beside me. "How did it go?"

"Took a few punches," he says. "Dealt more than a few in return. Gonna cost me a fortune to have all the bodies disposed of."

"Why did it take so long?" I ask.

"There were a few issues at the drop-off point, just with the tires," he says. "Johnny had to do a couple more trips than we expected. But it's done. They're being held somewhere safe, until all this blows over." He focuses intently on his cigarette, not looking at me as he says his next words. "You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were worried about me."

I gulp. "No more than anyone would be in the circumstances," I say.

He nods. "Right."

I'm caught by a moment of bravery. "And if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were worried about me. When I was shot."

He finally looks me in the eye. "No more than anyone would be in the circumstances," he echoes.

My breath catches in my throat. I don't think I'll ever get used to his eyes, like arctic snow and lightning.

He reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a bunch of yellow flowers.

"For you," he murmurs. "Thought they'd liven up the place."

I take them from him, handling them gently as though they'd been spun from glass. For some reason, the gesture hits me right in the abdomen. He's giving them to me in person. And now I know they're from him. I feel as though I might cry — and not from sadness.

"You must have picked every buttercup in Birmingham by now," I say.

"They're bad for livestock," Tommy says. "Must be they prefer belonging to you, instead."

My eyelids flutter shut for a moment. I need to pull myself together. "No water?" I ask jokingly.

"I thought you'd have some already, being a bloody hospital and all," he says, rolling his eyes.

I tilt my head. "What are your favourite flowers?" I ask him.

"Tobacco-leaf cigarettes."

Now it's my turn to roll my eyes. "Seriously."

He taps out his cigarette. "I never cared much before," he says. "But now... I suppose they'd be buttercups."

***

"We'd better go see if John's still here," Tommy says.

I take a deep breath, readying myself to stand up again. My legs are already tense in apprehension, begging me not to, but I ignore it. "Okay."

I stand up, and infuriatingly, Tommy pushes the wheelchair over to me.

"Not a chance," I say.

He looks at me blankly. "It's a bloody wheelchair. You've got a gunshot wound."

"I don't need it." I try not to make it too obvious that I'm clutching the bed as I attempt to move past him.

"I must know a hundred men who've been shot, Bancroft. I've seen how they heal. And if you don't rest, you might never be able to ride a horse again." He bends down, adjusting the foot rests as I still. "And I, for one, enjoy having you with me in the saddle."

He's got me there, and he knows it.

"This is so embarrassing," I mutter, sitting down. "There's people in here with real injuries, you know. Probably limited wheelchairs too. There'll be someone else who needs it more."

Tommy rolls his eyes. "Let's go find John," he says, pushing me through the corridor.

"I can steer this thing myself," I try to insist.

But as he releases me, my arms get confused with the signals from my brain, and I crash into the wall. Fucking sedatives.

Tommy does me the kindness of not laughing, though I can see him holding it back. In return, I cease my complaints and protests as he takes over once more.

"You'd do the same for me," he says.

"Don't count on it," I mutter.

Finding John is easier than I thought — we simply follow the smell of whiskey and the sound of laughter. My heart sinks when I see him — it definitely could have been worse. But he's covered in gashes and stitches, across his arms, chest, and two on his neck.

"Look at this, Bancroft," he grins, exposing a long one on the side of his throat. "Just like yours. We're matching."

I run my hand instinctively across the thin, white line McGuffin left on my throat. "I think yours is more impressive," I tell him. "I didn't even need stitches."

"Paying for it now, though," he says seriously, nodding at my leg. "You kill the fucker who did it?"

"More than once," I say with a small smile, recalling all the times Tommy got revenge on Peter.

John lowers his voice. "We fucking did it though, didn't we? Johnny get them all off alright, Tom?"

"The job's done," Tommy says. "Too early to celebrate yet, mind. We've thinned their numbers, but there's every chance they'll try to retaliate before we can stamp them out completely. So we need to be on high alert, alright?"

"We'll make a night of it," Arthur says. "Down the Garrison."

I try not to groan. The last thing I want is to be asked questions about how I got hurt.

It's as though Tommy can read my mind. "Won't be tonight, Arthur. I've gone and booked us a dinner instead," he says. "Pays to be cautious until this all blows over."

I wonder how long that will take.