TOUGH LOVE • MICHAEL GRAY FANFIC

1

One of them Peaky boys are in the ER.

He's quite the looker.

Gunshots to the chest, shoulder, torso. But he's recovering like a champ.

Wonder if he's married...

"If I hear one more thing about this Peaky Blinders guy, I'm going to lose my bloody mind." I murmur, putting my face in my hands, my hair fans over my lowered head.

The ER was unusually this weekend, which only seemed to drag out time. Stitching wounds, cleaning them up, taking and giving blood, that's what I did as a nurse. Alongside checking up on my previous patients, who were always so delighted to see me.

"Why?" Mary asks, lightly pushing her shoulder into me. "He is hot, the nurses were right."

Mary Martin, a woman of class, ass and great stitching skills. She's a good friend of mine, really my only friend here, we began training at the same time. Poor thing lost her husband to the War and has a little girl at home. Her and I get along well because we're really the only two girls who don't gossip or smoke, or go for drinks after work.

"Oh God," I roll my eyes, pushing my back against the wall, I look at Mary whose cheeks glow a bright red. "Not you too. Don't you know who the Peaky Blinders are, for fuck sakes, I hear they cut people smiles!" I whisper the last bit, watching as people walk by us. "What in the world could you find attractive about that? They're monsters."

"Trust me, that man in there has the capabilities of wiping all their bad doings away." She grins widely, crossing her legs, "Shit. He can cut me a smile any day."

"Mary!" I laugh, shaking my head. "Christ woman." I look across the hall, noting the new patients that arrive. "I heard over the weekend some Italians came in to retaliate or somethin' along those lines."

"Yes! And I heard it was a blood bath, two or three dead. Shot right in the head."

I scoff, so I guess the rumours were true then. What is this city coming to? Just a week ago a member of the gang was gunned down at his house! His house, where his kids and wife were. John, I believe his name was. A chill runs down my spine at the thought of how his wife is, and his children. Poor things.

There we sit, in a hallway that crawls with disease in one room, and another with a woman giving birth in the other. It's fascinating really, but I can feel my shoulders drop and my heart rate being to slow down, I'm exhausted.

"I wonder if I can go home now," I say after letting out a big yawn. My fingers wrap around the arm rest as I push myself up to stand. "I'm gonna ask Dawson if I can go." I walk with my head held high, reading to find Dawson and ask her to leave, because I can almost feel my eyes drooping shut. Should have had a damn tea.

"I think she's on break." Mary follows me.

"So?" Bastard overworked me.

I run a hand through my hair, noticing how dry it is. God, I used to take such good care of myself: bathed everyday, did my laundry, put on a little makeup in the morning. But ever since I've been working here full time, I look and feel a mess. Literally, I'm a walking corpse, I wonder how people can even trust me with their lives when mine looks unkept.

"He's an absolute stunner, and he's got these green orbs that feel like they strip me naked and make love to me-"

I gag, which makes her laugh. This mystery man has been the talk of the hospital, which makes me wonder if he really is that much of a handsome man. Young, I heard one of the nurses say as I put on my uniform. How young I wonder? Perhaps these nurses are cougars, finding a teenager to prey on.

And Mary is significantly older than me. So I side eye her and wonder if her 30-year-old self is interested in a young man, "How old is this lad, anyways?" We walk side by side.

"I reckon, he's about your age, June."

"Oh." No, that's not bad at all. I thought he was 15 or something, not 21.

I feel a tug at my arm which makes me stop where I am. I look at Mary, who holds my arm in her hand, she nods to the room to the left. His door is wide open, but two men sit there looking at us, glaring as if we'd do anything. The man sits at his table, his head lowered as he seems to be investing his time in a book of some sort.

I squint, looking further. Noting his brown hair, his bulky shoulders, and something comes over me that makes my body gradually tense up.

"What's his name?" I whisper.

"Michael," She says. "Michael Gray."

The name does not ring a bell, but his hair. No, I tell myself to calm down, how can you assume its him based off of hair?

He doesn't seem to want to look up at us, despite the guards who do.

"Can we help you ladies?" One of them asks, but both of them snickers at us. Well, mainly at Mary, she's got these massive tits, a great body. Amber red hair to match those cheeks.

"No," I grab her arm and pull, but she freezes up. "Lets go-"

"We'd just like to see how our patient is doing!" She pipes up, tearing herself from my grasp before stepping into the room. "That's all!"

I look at her, and then the men, and think about walking away but something stops me. I need to see his face, and make sure it isn't him. I need to make sure it isn't him. I need to. As if I'm compelled, I feel my feet moving in the direction of the room.

She glides away inside as if the room is hers, the guards let her enter without saying anything. And I stalk towards the doorframe, allowing myself in, noticing that it isn't a book he's reading. But rather writing, he's scribbling numbers into a book the size of his palm. He's left handed, my stomach drops as I remember him writing with his left hand in school. Oh no.

He hasn't touched the meal that sits on his bed, the strong smell of soup and fresh bread. I lower my eyes to the pack of cigarettes he reaches for. I ease up, Henry didn't smoke.

"Where are my matches?"

He asks as the men, who scavenge for a set of matches. One of them walks over to him and tries to light his cigarette but his hand shakes. It's embarrassing to watch, humiliating the way these grown men act towards their comrade. But clearly there is a prominent hierarchy.

That voice. It takes me back to a time when, well when I was a little girl. And he was a little boy. My eyes widen, and that tiredness wipes away when he raises his head and our eyes meet.

Oh Jesus Christ.

Henry.

The moment stretches out between us, as I stare at him, and he stares at me. As if we've gone mute, and can't say anything. I note this eyes, how exhausted and aged he looks. The Henry I know was filled with laughter and happiness, joy. But this man here, well he looks drained and old. He hasn't lit the cigarette, but the match between his fingers fizzle out. His eyes locked with mine, his face serious.

I must be dreaming, I mean, I haven't seen Henry since he left the orphanage. I think about this, as I move back. Denying the truth that sits right in front of me. His eyebrows pull together, his mouth drops open. I open my mouth too, ready to say his name before he beats me to it.

He licks his lips, putting down his cigarette. "June."