Calloway // Michael Gray x Reader - Peaky Blinders Fanfic

Chapter 32

Michael

Michael sips back the whiskey, but rather than quelling the rage that burns in the pit of his stomach, it only drives the flames higher. His hands shake — not from dread. Not from concern. From pure, unbridled rage.

"Mosley's coming to Birmingham to deliver a speech in two weeks' time," Tommy says. "That's when we act."

They're sat in the Garrison. Or rather, John and Arthur are sat, while Tommy leans back against the counter. The place has been cleared out. Only the smell of stale smoke and a few puddles of whiskey remain of the night's patrons.

"Two weeks?" Michael says. "Two fucking weeks? I'm going after them tonight."

"It's not night anymore, Michael," Tommy points out. "It's morning. And you've no idea who you're even going after."

"I'll find them."

"Look," Tommy sighs. "As far as he's concerned, he's hit one of us. And if Calloway's one of us to him, she's one of us to us now, too. We're not taking this lightly. Alright?"

"That, uh, that first part confused me a bit, Tom," Arthur mumbles into his glass.

John rolls his eyes. "It means we're taking it seriously. You'll get what you're after, Michael. We'll put the prick beneath the ground."

"No you won't," Michael says sharply. "It'll be my bullet."

Tommy raises his eyebrows. "And what will Polly say about that?"

"I don't fucking care." He begins to pace, to move, to do something or anything to shift the fury he feels.

"I think you're in love, Michael," John teases with a grin.

"Shut up," Michael mutters.

John's expression drops. "He fucking is," he adds in wonderment. "That what all this fuss has been about with the bank, eh?"

"I said shut up," Michael repeats.

He's so menacing John doesn't speak again, though he does cast a glance in Arthur's direction.

"I met with Calloway myself and couldn't get through to her," Tommy tells his brothers. "This hasn't been Michael's doing. And regardless, she's on our side now. Arthur, I want you to find out everything you can about Mosley. Anything we can use as leverage. John, find out who his men are, and find them quick, while they've still got marks on their face and we can identify the ones who attacked her."

John nods, all humour vanished at the gravity in Tommy's voice, his words. But Michael continues to seethe. His brain works overtime, racking up all the ways he might enact vengeance sooner.

Tommy claps his hands on Michael's shoulders. "I know it isn't easy," he says quietly. "But you don't win a war by launching into battle. These things take time, Michael, if they're to be done right. You're no good to the girl if you're dead, eh?"

Tommy reaches into Michael's blazer pocket and pulls out his pack of cigarettes, pressing them into his hand. If it was anyone else, Michael would tell them to go fuck themselves. But this is Tommy. And the respect he holds for his cousin shines through. Gives him room to pause. To pull a cigarette from the pack, light it and inhale, while the others release a collective sigh of relief.

Because, if he were alone, Michael would be asking himself, what would Tommy do? And here he is, giving him exactly that insight. Not only that, but such a plan rings true with everything Michael's learned from books. Machiavelli wouldn't rush into battle headfirst, and Sun Tzu would throw his hands in the air in exasperation if confronted with Michael's instincts.

He knows this. He's always known it. So how has Calloway buried herself so deeply within him that he's not only willing to relinquish, but also powerless to uphold, his very core sensibilities? How has she turned him from a deep thinker to a snarling wolf, ready to lunge at the enemy on canine instinct?

"And what do I do, Tom?" Michael asks quietly. He turns the cigarette over in his fingers.

Tommy says, "You look after your girl. You work. And you help Arthur and John where you're needed."

Michael nods slowly, thoughtfully. "I'd better get back to it, then."

***

"She awake?" he asks his mum, the front door clicking shut behind him.

Polly's sat at the table with a bottle of gin, looking about ready for bed even as the sun's risen. "Asleep," she answers. "I didn't want to go to bed until you were back. She's had opium, and I'd still rather keep an eye on her."

Michael nods. "Go on up to bed, Mum. I'll watch her."

Polly drags herself to the doorway, taking the gin bottle with her, which makes Michael smile in spite of everything.

"Michael?" she says, hesitating at the doorway. She presses a cigarette to her lips, and she has that look in her eye — the one when she reads a person's tea leaves, or speaks of candle soot announcing a visitor is coming. "Life's short. A short, fragile thing. Do remember that, won't you? By the grace of one god or another, Calloway survived tonight. That's not always the case. And words left unspoken to a corpse have a way of haunting you forever."

She smiles sadly and leaves. Michael approaches Calloway, kisses her forehead, and checks her breathing. His mum's words roll around his mind for hours.