Calloway // Michael Gray x Reader - Peaky Blinders Fanfic

Chapter 34

Michael

Over the next week, Calloway begins to heal. The bruising and swelling subsides, and each morning a new wave of relief washes over Michael as he sees her gradually returning to normal, in constitution as well as appearance.

But, despite his desperation to see her healthy and unharmed once more, he cannot deny a small twinge of sadness each time he is no longer needed. In spite of himself, and confusingly, he's grown to enjoy taking care of her.

"Don't know how you do it," Michael says to his mum one evening, hearing the taps run from upstairs as Calloway steps into the bathroom and closes the door behind her to bathe. "All those bloody dried flowers and creams, she's in better shape after a week than Tommy was a month after his last beating."

"I don't think the flowers have much to do with it," Polly says with a sly smile. She washes the evening's dishes at the sink. "God knows Calloway's in better health than Tommy at the best of times. But I think your input might have something to do with it."

Michael takes a tea towel and begins absentmindedly drying the plates. "You think so?"

Polly stacks the last plate and dries off her hands. "It's not all pots and potions, love. You've been there for her."

Michael's gaze softens as he takes in his mum's words, mulling them over in his head. He never expected to find himself in this situation, tending to someone's wounds and aiding their recovery. He never thought he'd be either interested or capable. It's a side of him he's kept hidden for so long, buried beneath the tough exterior he's carefully and meticulously crafted over so many years. There's no room for weakness with the Shelby's.

"And now she won't need me anymore," he says quietly. "She'll realise she's better off elsewhere."

"I don't think she's the type to forget what you've done for her," Polly says, squeezing his arm gently. "And remember, healing takes time. Broken bones are easier to deal with than emotional scars."

Michael knows this all too well. It sends a familiar roll of nausea to his stomach, mingling with horrific flashes through his mind — the church, then Calloway, the sight of her left on the doorstep like that. Colour drains from his face.

"She may not say it," Polly continues, "but I can see it in her eyes. Just like I see it in yours. I have a feeling she needs you more than she lets on."

The words replace his nausea with a small thrill, and restore colour to his skin. But they also fill him with a sadness. "I won't let her be part of this, mum. I won't have her hurt like that again."

"And now you finally understand why I'd rather you kept away from your cousins activities," Polly says with a roll of her eyes.

"It's different."

"No it bloody isn't. It's natural." Polly plants a quick kiss on Michael's forehead. "It's—"

"Don't say it's bloody love," he groans.

Humour dances in her eyes. "Isn't it? What would you call it?"

Michael sighs in frustration. He dries the last plate and turns to Polly. "I don't know, Mum. Love just fucking complicated things, doesn't it? Look at what it's done to all of us."

Her gaze softens. "If it wasn't messy and painful, it wouldn't be worth it. Ask your cousins — I don't know how John or Tommy would be without their wives to go home to after everything else is done."

"With Calloway, it's different," he tries to protest.

"Why? Why is it different?"

"Just leave it, Mum."

"How can I?" Polly asks. "How can I just leave it when I've seen how happy you make each other?"

"Happy?" he scoffs. "Think my blood pressure goes up every time we're in the same room together." He regrets his words when they hang in the room, followed by his mother's smirk. "I don't bloody mean like that," he adds.

Polly gives a quick shake of her head, agreeing not to continue that particular train of thought any further, still smiling. "I've seen you with her, love. You can deny it all you like, but you're my son. I know what's in your heart. Don't make the same mistakes this family makes, time after time."

The water shuts off upstairs. A door opens, and then the stairs creak as Calloway descends. Michael clears his throat and quickly busies himself folding the tea towel, while Polly rolls her eyes and heads to the table, lighting a cigarette.

Calloway emerges wrapped in a towel, her right arm at an awkward angle. Her hair is still damp, and Michael's movements pause as his gaze falls on her.

"I need help with the sling." He can see how badly it pains her to admit the words. "I tried a few times, but it keeps getting twisted."

"I'll come," he says quickly, the tea towel dropping forgotten on the counter as he rushes to her.

Though he doesn't look back, he knows his mum is grinning and muttering something to herself, tinged with exasperation as she pours herself a glass of gin.

Michael places a hand at Calloway's back as they head up the stairs. His fingers brush against the cotton fibres of the towel, Cal's body still emanating warmth from the hot water.

They reach the top of the stairs and he gently guides Calloway into the bedroom. The dimly lit room glows from the bedside lamp, the curtains still drawn while she is undressed. Michael gestures for her to sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to put pressure on her injured arm.

He retrieves the sling and stands in front of her. His hands tremble slightly as he unwraps the fabric, and begins to carefully secure it around her arm. With her good arm, Cal pulls her hair from her neck, baring it for him to knot the bandage. His fingers brush against the edge of her hairline, her soft skin, as he adjusts it until it's tight. Goosebumps sear across her skin in response, and though he assumes it must be from the cold, it brings memories of their nights together fresh to his mind.

"Is that alright?" He asks quietly.

Calloway nods. "Thank you, Michael." She turns, and their eyes meet, a flicker of tenderness passing between them. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Overwhelming desires flood through him, a mixture of wanting to pull her close, and being afraid to hold her, to hurt her while she still heals. He brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary. For all his words in the kitchen, for all his protests each time John or Arthur try to tease him about her, everything fades into insignificance when they're together, like this.

"Don't need to thank me," he murmurs. "I want to be here with you."

Silence fills the room as their eyes lock in an unspoken understanding.

"I promise you, Cal," he continues, daring to brush a thumb across her cheekbone, "I won't let anyone hurt you again."

She leans into his touch, her eyes closing briefly. What Michael would give to see inside her head, to know what she is thinking in moments like these. Why she pulls away from him, fights him, raises her defences each time he thinks he's finally gotten through to her.

But this time, she doesn't.

"I want to believe you," she says.

His grip tightens ever so slightly as his resolve strengthens. "Then let me show you," he says. "Let me prove it to you."

Calloway opens her eyes. She places her hand over his and their fingers intertwine.

"Okay," she whispers, and the air shifts between them. Her eyes lock onto his. "Show me."