Calloway // Michael Gray x Reader - Peaky Blinders Fanfic

Chapter 29

Michael

Michael swings open the front door, and immediately his anticipation of an evening at the pub with his cousins shatters. The streets outside are already engulfed in darkness — so pitch black that if it wasn't for the light spilling out from the hallway behind him, he might not have noticed her.

There she lies, crumpled in a heap.

Delivered to his doorstep.

"What the fuck?" Michael drops to his knees, his hands instinctively reaching for her face. Deep blue and purple bruises have already begun to form. Blood trickles from her nose, the corner of her mouth, and her arm's bent at an angle, crooked at the shoulder.

"Cal?" He stares at her in horror, a surge of anger coursing through his veins like never before. Tenderly, he shakes her, hoping for any flicker of response, any sign of life.

A notebook-sized piece of paper slips free as he moves her. It's folded in half, and addressed to: the Peaky Blinders.

This cannot be happening. What the fuck happened? Michael's frozen in shock, his head spinning so fast he might be sick.

His mind kicks back into action with the force of a lightning bolt. He clutches her closer. "It's alright, love. It's okay."

A simple plan forms in his mind, crystal clear as he stands up and lifts her into his arms. Call Mum. Call Tommy. They're at the Garrison. It repeats through his mind on a loop — Call Mum, call Tommy, they're at the Garrison. He's focused intently on it, until a small sound erupts that silences his mind instantly.

Breathing. Strained, yes, but breathing.

She's breathing.

He glances down for any sign of consciousness — it's hard to tell. Swelling has distorted her face, the bruises blooming like dark petals across her cheeks.

"Cal?" His voice cracks as he speaks, murmurs to her as he carries her through to the living room. "Are you awake?"

But she doesn't even whimper as he sets her down on the sofa, propping a cushion below her head and taking extra care with her bad arm. Here, inside in the full light, she looks even worse.

And he looks like he's seen a ghost.

He dials the Garrison. Everything takes way too long — waiting for the click, the operator's voice, the shrill rings that just keep going and going and fucking going. All the while, she's hurt. Closer to death.

Arthur's drunk, ruddy voice floods the line. "Can I help you?"

"Arthur, it's Michael. I need to fucking speak to my mum, is she there?"

"Pol? Yeah, Pol's in here somewhere... Hang on a tick..."

"You don't understand, Arthur, it's very fucking important."

"Yeah, alright."

"Arthur, put her on the phone right fucking now."

"Fucking 'ell, alright. Pol! Pol, it's for you. It's Michael."

When he hears his mum's voice, a wave of relief washes over him. "Michael?"

"Mum, it's Calloway." His voice is thick. "She's here. She's hurt."

"How badly?"

"I don't know if she's fucking breathing, bad."

"I'll be right there." Her voice is even, measured, yet filled with urgency. "Stay with her, Michael. Keep her warm. Check her airways are clear, and stop any bleeding. Keep talking to her."

The phone clicks. Michael paces back across the room to Calloway, and kneels on the floor beside her. He presses a hand to her forehead — his mum had said to keep her warm, but her skin's burning hot.

Stop the bleeding. He has to check.

He carefully removes her outer layer of clothing, his touch tender and devoid of any hint of desire. His gaze is filled with anguish, with pain, as he looks at her now. Those graceful, slender limbs are now discoloured with bruising. With a trembling hand, he lifts her shirt to see her abdomen, and the sight momentarily threatens to overwhelm him.

"What happened?" His Mum bursts through the door, already sanitising her hands with neat vodka.

"I don't bloody know, she was — she was just left here."

Polly's eyes widen as she takes in Calloway's condition. She moves swiftly to her side and inspects the injuries, pressing her fingers lightly across wounds, tapping on parts of her torso.

"She needs a hospital."

"No." Michael runs a hand through his hair. "She's been looking into some powerful people. She'd be a sitting duck in a hospital."

"Michael—"

"Not unless it's life or death," he cuts her off. He looks at her with an authority he's never before possessed. "If it is, we'll go."

She meets his gaze and nods. With a sense of urgency, Polly begins to examine her more closely, murmuring to herself all the while. "Break in the clavicle. That one might be a rib."

"Get me a clean cloth," she eventually says. "And a bowl of warm water, along with the herbal balms from the bathroom."

Michael obliges, and Polly begins carefully tending to Calloway. She dabs clean water at the dried blood, the wounds. Michael waits anxiously, knelt beside her, completely silent. Eyes wide with fear.

When Polly moves her arm to set the bone, Calloway lets out a whimper. Michael sits suddenly upright, eyes roaming her face.

"Talk to her," Polly urges. "She doesn't know my voice."

It's like the gentle encouragement from his Mum is all he needs. Michael reaches for Calloway's hand, and takes it in his own. "You're alright," he tells her. Strokes his thumb across her palm. "You're in good hands. Polly's taking care of you..."

Calloway speaks, her voice a pained whisper. "Michael?"

His heart sings. He squeezes her hand, brings his other to her hair. "You're going to be fine, sweetheart," he murmurs. "I'm going to take good care of you, alright?"

From the corner of his eye, he notices Polly hiding a smirk, but he doesn't care. Calloway releases a small, shuddering breath, and she squeezes his hand back.

"Opium?" Michael asks Polly in a low voice.

She shakes her head. "Not yet. Her breathing's too light already."

It's not until almost an hour later that Polly's satisfied, and Calloway is once again unconscious. Michael stays glued to her side and entirely unmoving. He couldn't even think about leaving her. But his Mum had declared her stable, the for now hanging unspoken in the room.

"What's this?" Polly asks, picking up the note from the floor.

"It was on her."

Polly opens it. She reads, then looks at Michael with dread. Says the words aloud.

Next time you want to play, stay clear of the monkey bars.

This means war.