Calloway // Michael Gray x Reader - Peaky Blinders Fanfic

Chapter 33

Calloway

Sitting up would be impossible even if I had the use of both arms.

But Polly has positioned my right arm in a sling, keeping weight off my collarbone where it has broken. I'm covered at all times in comfrey and arnica poultices and salves, and I smell like chamomile and lavender.

I try to push using my left hand, but my ribs scream in protest bringing tears to my eyes. It's easy to understand how people get addicted to opium — in this moment, I want nothing more than to be lulled away, back to a place where none of this exists.

"Here, love," Michael says, and before I can protest he takes me in his arms and eases me gently into a sitting position, supported by pillows. My body burns where he touches me, to the point I'm sure his handprints must have seared into my skin. It's not as unpleasant a feeling as I'd expect.

Even so, I hate feeling so useless.

And then, he lifts a spoon to my mouth. "Open up."

"No fucking way." I twist my head. "I'm not a baby."

"You do it then," he sighs.

I lift my free arm all of six inches before my body locks up. I hit my head back softly against the headboard in frustration.

Polly watches the exchange between us with a mixture of concern and amusement. She leans against the doorway, arms crossed, and offers a smile. "You two certainly know how to make a simple task complicated."

I glare at Michael, but then my stomach releases a traitor's groan in hunger. Between that, and the pain in my body rapidly exhausting my pride, I relent. "Fine. Give me the bloody spoon."

He smirks, biting back a laugh. He extends the spoon towards me once more. I begrudgingly open my mouth, and he places a small bite of scrambled eggs. The taste is familiar, a comfort, a reluctant admittance that it feels good to have something in my stomach.

Michael watches me intently as I chew, his eyes filled with relief.

"You've got a way of making even breakfast entertaining," he remarks, voice laced with amusement. "I've never seen anyone put up such a fight over scrambled eggs."

A flicker of humour crosses my features despite the pain. "Would hate to give you a dull morning."

Polly shakes her head. "You two are quite the pair," she mutters. "But don't worry, love. Your swelling's already beginning to subside. We'll wash you up after breakfast."

"I can do it," Michael offers.

I try to argue, but he tips an even larger spoonful of food into my mouth before I get a chance.

"Alright," Polly says. "John needs me in the betting shop, so I'll head down. I'll be back afterwards to replace the bandages."

"It's alright, mum," he says. "I've seen you do it enough times."

The thought of being so helpless in front of Michael is mortifying, but I don't want to inconvenience Polly — and therefore John, and therefore all the Peaky Blinders.

Polly nods in agreement. "Very well. I'll leave you in capable hands, then." She gives me a reassuring pat on the shoulder before leaving. "Don't push yourself, alright? The easier you take it now, the quicker you'll mend."

I give her a grateful smile, my mouth too full of yet another spoonful of egg to speak, and she heads out. Silence hangs between Michael and I for a moment, broken only by the spoon clinking against the bowl as he prepares another bite for me. His gaze meets mine and there's a tenderness in his eyes that I can't quite discern.

"I'm sorry you have to go through all this," he says softly.

I swallow, managing a small smile amidst the discomfort. "I appreciate that, Michael."

He leans closer, his warm breath brushing against my cheek. "And just so you know, I've had worse breakfast companions."

I say, "Don't get used to it."

The simple act of nourishment fills the space between us, and I feel as though my words would be all muddled, even if he did give me a chance to speak between bites — which he does not. And then, with the bowl empty and me thinking the humiliation is over, he stands to his feet.

"I'll go run your bath," he says.

"What? No," I protest as he moves swiftly from the room. "Michael, get back here."

"Can't hear you," he calls back.

"I don't need a bloody bath, your mum hasn't stopped wiping me down."

"You'll feel better for it."

"Michael—"

I can't protest any further as the sound of running water creates a barrier. I bite my tongue, saving my strength for when the taps finally shut off, and he comes back into the room.

"I'm perfectly clean," I argue.

"You need fresh clothes. Don't want to risk infection." He bends down and places one arm at my back, the other beneath my knees. "Don't worry, Cal. I filled it with lots of bubbles."

Despite my protests, Michael remains resolute in his decision. He gently lifts me into his arms, cradling me against his chest. The warmth of his touch, and his body against mine, is more soothing than any salve.

Not that I'd admit it.

He gently lowers me into the bath, peeling the long shirt from me as I sink beneath the water. His hands are gentle, firm, as he settles me in, ensuring my comfort. He unwinds the bandages from my ribcage, and gently releases my arm from the sling.

I watch as he reaches for a washcloth and starts gently cleaning my battered body. The herbs swirl in the water with the bubbles as he wipes them from my skin. I soak through his shirt as he leans me into his chest for support while he cleans my ribs, my jaw clenched against the shout I want to release at the sensation.

"All done," he tells me softly.

But he doesn't lift me out again. He washes the bandages, the cloth, his brow heavy in concentration.

"I didn't think I'd ever find myself in a bubble bath with a gangster," I say.

"Accountant," he corrects me.

"I don't think many people get beaten up for associating with an accountant."

A sear of pain flashes across his face, and I regret my words. His grip on the washcloth tightens for a moment before he releases a deep sigh.

"You're right," he admits. "This life... It's not what I wanted for you. Maybe I understand my mum after all, when she fights me on every decision where I could get hurt."

"You didn't do this. I made my own choices."

He shakes his head, averting his gaze for a moment as he inhales sharply. "That doesn't make it right. I should have protected you. I just... I care about you, Cal." He meets my eyes, then drops his gaze once more. "More than I should."

I exhale softly. Somehow, here in this bathroom, we're transported once more to those nights in the hotel. Everything else ceases to exist. "I care about you too, Michael. More than you know."

Silence envelops us for a moment as we let our words linger in the air. The room is filled with the gentle sound of the water and the bubbles crackling. I watch as Michael's gaze softens, and he reaches out to cup my cheek, his touch tender against my bruised skin.

I lean into his touch. "Thank you for taking care of me."

"Thank you for letting me. Finally," he adds.

I splash him with water. "Don't get used to it. I plan to be fully functional by tomorrow."

He laughs and rolls his eyes, clearly more experienced in healing times than I am. "We'll see."