All The Kings Men {Peaky Blinders} (Completed)

Thirty

"How much have I missed?" Lily had repacked her overnight back, and was driven up to the hospital later that day by Linda. The blonde woman had tried to make small talk for most of the ride, asking what Lily had dreamt about so terribly that it had given her a panic attack.

She had succeeded in talking for most if it until she brought up God, to which Lily promptly shut her down with a barely coherent sentence. Now, she sat at the table in Michael's hospital room, picking the skin off an orange.

He sat opposite her, looking better and healthier. He could stand, not for long, he mostly didn't move unless he had to piss or if he had visitors. He also smoked, which was against the rules of the building, but, well, he was a Shelby. And Shelby's could do whatever they wanted. "I don't know."

He scoffed quietly before grunting in pain as he re-adjusted himself to see her better. "Haven't been paying attention much." Lily pulled her trousers down her waist and let her fingers rest on her thigh as she watched him finish the cigarette.

"What aren't you telling me?" Michael breathed through flared nostrils as he stubbed out the cigarette, his jaw clenched. He watched her, his fingers moving in the rhythm of a song that had not been written, and watched her smaller, sharper movements. He had learned, over the years, how to tell what a person is going to do next just by watching their body language. The sharp intakes indicated a secret on the tip of her tongue that she wanted to talk about but wasn't allowing herself to. Her fingers, now spread as far as they can go across her thigh, meant she was willing to be completely open about the topic. Her eyes, trained on him, as emotionless as Tommy's. He supposed with the length of time she had been a Shelby, she should be better at this than he.

She raised an eyebrow, only slightly, almost involuntarily. It was a betrayal, feelings over rationality. Lily mentally scolded herself, something like that, if she faced the Mafia, could be the signature on her death warrant. She watched Michael, as he sat there so still, the only indication he was still in his body was the constant tap-tap-tapping of his fingers against the hardwood table.

"It's not important."

"You're lying."

She narrowed her gaze on him, the small turn upwards on his lips, the cheeky emotions hidden behind his raised eyebrow and shiny eyes, the clenched jaw and the eventual stop of the tapping told her all she needed to know.

Michael watched as she kept a steady face, she won't tell her truth or her lies to anyone but the papers she draws naked bodies on. He watched the deep movements of her chest as she breathed slowly, the glazed look in her eyes as she trailed her sights from his eyes to his lips- the slow movements of her fingers slowly pulling into her palm that she though he couldn't see it. But he could. 

He leaned towards her, and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. It was there, the war, between land and sea. Her loss of connection to Polly and the Shelby's had been growing, yearning her to break away from calling them family. Would Polly be okay if she wanted to un-adopt herself from the family? One day. That's all she knew. One day, things between them would make sense. 

"I think I know who my real family is." She stared at Michael, his feature's soft and irrational at this moment in time. "It's not you, or any of the Shelby's. They live by the water, letting the sea rule their lives." 

He kept quiet, mulling over her words. She stared out of the window for a very long time, before returning her gaze to him. 

But she couldn't see him, not properly. He seemed to be covered in fog, blocked by sea spray and the ambient sounds of roaring waves crashing on deck. She tried to reach out, to touch him, bring him back- bring her back - she didn't know. Her fingers moved slowly, her arm swaying as if she stood in the middle of the storm.

"Lily?" He had broken it, whatever it was. His fingers were clenched against her wrist, hold her hand a mere few centimetres from his cheek. "What is it?"

She didn't pull her hand away. The sensation gone. The lingering scent of ocean water and spilt rum remained in the room. "Can you not-?" She looked around, her eyes darting around the room, before landing on the closed window. She dragged her sight back to Michael. "Never mind. I don't know, honestly."

He believed her. She got off, brushing the dust from her trousers. She sat back in her original seat, her gaze on the tiny rock of sea salt in between two of her fingers. "I want to find them. My family."

His eyes flickered up to hers, and they stared at each other for a minute, he said nothing and waited patiently for her to continue. "It's odd, it started as dreams. A woman, a boat, the sea- and then, in what can only be described as a vision, the woman spoke to me. Called herself Ophelia. Said we're family, that they have been looking for me."

She leaned across the table, and pulled open Michael's closed fist. His palm sat facing the ceiling, as she dropped the salt rock into it. He picked it up, his sight switching from her to the rock and back again. "They are not ghosts, nor gypsies, nor make-believe. But they live on the sea."

"Pirates." Her voice was low. Michael's face was masked once again, but you could still smell the trace scent of amusement in his gaze. 

He let the entire facade fall as he looked at her again. "You cannot possibly believe that pirates are still alive?"

She half shrugged, entertaining the idea in her mind. "I will have to research the possibility..." Her thoughts spilled backwards into her mind, patterns and book titles and headings on documents, nothing making sense until the entire pile had unloaded. The book that Ada had found her, it was tucked away at the bottom of her bag along with her paperwork from the children's home.

Her hands moved faster than her mind as she was already across the room and digging through her belongings until she felt the material cover the book had underneath her fingertips. "Uh, uh-uh."

It was an unmistakable voice, very precise and low - it was raspy and hungry for unserved revenge. She pulled her hand out and turned around to see Luca Changretta, in a long black coat and a toothpick between his lips. He was tall and handsome, in a sharp Italian suit with a hat tilted on his perfectly flat hair. He smirked at the two of them, and moved towards Michael as he left one of the two Italians who had come with him to keep his gun on Lily.

"Where I'm from, a hat on the bed is unlucky." He faced Michael as he stood up, close enough that they were breathing each other's air. "My family," He reached into his pocket and pulled out a gun before holding it to Michael's forehead. Metal against skin. Death against life. "-say it brings death." Luca dropped his hat on the bed.

He looked sideways as Lily, the other gun pressing against the side of her head. "Maybe, maybe that's what happened. Last time my man was sent for you, you got lucky." It was excruciating, how slowly he talked. It was casual, in style, and it added to the suspense they were all feeling.

"Now, your luck's run out. And tell your mother," He looked into Michael's eyes, and Michael saw nothing but death. "We have a deal."

He got to the doorframe, and looked back at them. Lily felt the cold metal of her handgun hidden in her bag against her rough fingers. "Don't let the tall tales of pirates cloud you, they're worse than his lot for blood spilt."

Neither moved as he dropped his gun to his side, and the three Italians left the room. Michael stood, frozen, as he stared at the doorway. Lily moved, her joints creaking and her soul aching as she closed the space between them. He managed to turn his head, and look at her, before she wrapped her arms around his torso, and held him close to her.

"Life cannot wait for death, to let the people to dance." It was something she had just missed in her first dream of Ophelia, something lost in her memories, buried so deep nothing could raise it until she faced death again with the chance of life in the foreground. Michael began regaining movement, but still rested his weight on her. The two remained there, unmoving, for the longest of eras, like statues lost to the history of mankind.

And eventually, as the universe turned a new timeline into reality, and he let go.