Chapter Text
No harm in trying. No harm in giving him a chance.
It was the third time you'd told yourself that, and it had only just begun to sound like the truth. You stared into the mirror; it was only big enough to frame your face and its glass was stained and cracked around the edges. The tinted, limited image it gave you was acceptable, just. Date worthy, just. Kohl-circled eyes, a rosy blush on your cheeks, red lip-stain... It'd do. You'd be pleased to see yourself sitting across the table in a quiet restaurant.
"Perhaps I'll date myself." You smiled at your reflection. It'd be more successful than your current habits.
With a final chant of your self fashioned mantra, you turned from the mirror to grab your cardigan from the end of the bannister. It wasn't there as you'd expected and you quickly came to the conclusion that you'd left it at work, tucked under the bar for safe keeping. No worries. You were going that way after all, it'd take five minutes.
The clock on the wall read half five. You had to leave now or risk meeting Richard later than you'd planned to. You may not have been excited for the date, but you didn't want to be rude.
You locked your door behind you and took up a quicker than pleasant pace. Richard had tried to insist on picking you up himself, but that meant extending the company you weren't sure you wanted to keep, so you'd declined. The alternative however, was making your own way to the restaurant and with just your thin dress and overcoat, the chill nipped at your skin and made you regret ever saying no.
No harm done, though. You'd have your cardigan soon enough.
You always had been thankful of living so close to your work. The Garrison was only on the next road over and you'd practically jumped for joy when Arthur gave you the job. It'd been almost a year since you started: it was interesting to say the least, always busy, different... A contradiction of danger and safety. But, it was impossible to imagine working anywhere else. You loved the place.
You turned the corner into a riot of noise. Shouting and swearing and glass smashing. Warm lights bursting from the buildings either side. It wasn't unusual, not for the time, or the place. So you thought nothing of it as you made your way down, toward the pub where the chaos swelled and purred.
It wasn't until you were closer, and shadowed figures became detailed faces, that you felt your heart shudder. It was the Shelby's. Slashing and punching. Shouting. Pushing men to the ground, splitting cheeks, spilling blood.
You were so deer-eyed that you hadn't thought to stop walking.
It was the shout of your name that brought your feet to a stop: Tommy's voice was a siren above the clatter of noise.
You drew your eyes from the mess to look at him. You'd gotten close enough to see hot breath fog from his mouth. Close enough to put yourself in danger, before he'd noticed you and called for you to stop.
"I was just," you stammered, "I left my cardigan."
Another explosion of noise in the form of The Garrison doors. Michael stumbled onto the street, his face bloodied and crumpled in anger. He was dragging another man with him, who was considerably more roughed up than he. Tommy turned to watch them, taking just a moments pause before charging forward himself. He wrestled the man from Michael and shoved him aside, not looking to him once.
Your throat closed. You should turn around. Walk away.
Tommy was shouting at Michael. He had him by the collar of his shirt and Michael was fighting back, scrambling to get Tommy's hands off him. His violent rage was still directed toward the man on the ground, he wasn't done with him yet.
Walk. Away.
Michael was shouting for Tommy to let him go, his words poisoned with curses, erupting from his mouth in spit-cloaked bursts.
Turn around. And walk.
Tommy's head snapped to the side, to you, "Take him."
"What?"
He was yanking Michael toward you.
"Get him the fuck out of here."
"Tommy, I-"
A final push and he released Michael, sending him tumbling forward. “Go!" Tommy barked.
You obliged. Wide eyes and racing heart; you grabbed Michael by the bicep and turned back on yourself.
"Fuck off," Michael snarled, struggling against your hold.
You gritted your teeth and carried on pulling. If Tommy had asked you to take him away, you'd do it. Granted, you were relying on adrenaline and momentum to win this fight, but it was working. It only took a few feet for him to give up. It was only then, when he was walking willingly, that you let your pace ease.
"Get off me," he spat, and you let him pull his arm free.
"Sorry." You were sorry, you'd dragged him like a child, and not a friend.
Michael was raging. You could see it in his shoulders. They lifted and dropped with each shuddering breath he took. And each breath was a growl, a release of anger, frustration.
You'd never seen him so mad.
"Michael," you began, tentatively, "You should try to calm down."
He didn't respond.
Instead, he lashed out at nothing, shouting into the dark air. You were far enough from The Garrison to feel quiet again, and his voice pierced the calm of it all, making you jump slightly.
"Michael!"
"I know," he spat.
He was walking a step ahead of you, down the centre of the road with his head in his hands.
"Will you stop?"
His feet were concrete. Stiff to the road. You caught up to him in a breath.
"What is wrong with you?" You started, as you brought yourself to stand in front of him.
His hands were worse than his face: His knuckles were open wounds, split from repeated impact. His skin stained with a mix of old and fresh blood.
You reached for his wrist.
"Michael?"
He dropped his hands before you'd touched him and averted his eyes. Liquor spilled from his breath. Rank and thick and excess. Of course, he's drunk.
You thought best of asking another question. "You're okay," you said, attempting to put your eyes in front of his. "Just breathe."
"I'm fine."
His breaths were slowly. Easing. He was calming down at last. After what felt like minutes, he faced you.
Jesus.
His lip was split. His cheek grazed. His left eye already swelling, with bruising flooding the space under it.
You sighed. "I'm guessing I shouldn't even ask what all that was?"
Michael gave a short nod.
"Okay. Are you done shouting?"
Another nod.
"Calm?"
"Stop fucking mothering me, (y/n)."
"Swear at me again and I'll drag you back to Pol by your ear."
He looked away, his jaw clenching.
"I'm doing you a fucking favour here, Michael," you continued, feeling your own temper rising.
"You're doing Tommy a favour," he quipped.
"Yeah, and if I didn't you'd be in a hell of a lot more trouble than you already are."
Michael exhaled heavily.
"Fine." His eyes met yours. "I'm calm."
Yeah, and I'm the second coming of Christ.
"Good. This way."
You turned on heel, all thoughts of Richard, and the date you'd almost definitely missed, gone. Replaced with an unexpected level of concern for your friend.
"Where?" he grumbled, the sound of his feet on wet gravel acting as proof that he was following you regardless.
"Someone's going to have to sort out that face of yours."
You almost smiled at your success; you'd flipped the situation on its head. He was following you now, with little complaint at that.
He walked quietly behind you until you'd begun to rummage in your purse for your keys, your door just steps away.
"I didn't know you lived here."
You scoffed. "Well, why would you?"
You glanced back at him to find a sorry sight. Michael had shifted from drunken anger to sore pity. His discomfort, with his injuries and himself, was painted thicker than the blood on his face.
"Come on," you encouraged him as you pushed open your door. "Be quiet though, the lady who lives downstairs isn't a fan of men coming over."
He nodded and followed you through the hall and up the stairs. The pair of you paused, as you unlocked the door to your flat, and you were brushed with a sudden embarrassment of the small space behind. You'd never planned on bringing someone new over, let alone a Shelby. Well, sort of Shelby.
Michael walked ahead as you shut the door behind you. "This is nice."
You smiled. "You don't have to lie, Michael, I can take it." You set your purse down and shrugged out of your coat.
"I'm not lying." He was turning on the spot, taking it all in.
You were almost grateful for his current alcohol level. Hopefully he'd forget he'd ever seen the place. “Okay then, thank you."
You crossed the room.
"You must be freezing," you commented, noting his lack of over-clothes.
His thin shirt was damp with sweat and fouler stains.
He shook his head. "I'm alright."
Whiskey warming his blood, no doubt. You walked to the door by the kitchen, crossing into the bathroom to retrieve what little first aid kit you had. You grabbed a basin from under the sink and filled it with warm water, taking a flannel and soaking it in the liquid.
Upon your return, you almost laughed. Michael was stood in the centre of the room, looking at his hands, from lack of anywhere else to look.
"You can sit down, Michael, it's okay."
"Sorry," he smiled weakly, "I didn't want to intrude." He moved to sit on the chair that was once your mother's.
"You're dripping blood onto my floor, I don't think sitting will do any harm."
"Oh fuck," he sighed. "I'm sorry."
You shrugged as you came to stand in front of him. "I'm fine with blood."
Michael looked up as if you'd said something alarming.
"What?"
He hesitated, before smiling. "I forget what you're like, (y/n)."
You cocked and eyebrow. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
He held your gaze. ”An amazing thing."
“Oh.”
You walked away to hide your blushing cheeks.
“I’m sorry for before.”
You reached the kitchen sink, pulling a glass from the drainer and filling it with water. “It’s fine. You were angry, and drunk.”
“It’s not fine,” he continued, “I shouldn't speak to you like that.”
Turning back to him, you sighed. “Michael, it’s fine. It’s already forgotten.”
You walked back to where he sat and handed him the glass, before turning and pulling your coffee table close enough to sit on.
He took a sip before speaking again, his eyes lingering on the water in his hands. “You were angry with me.”
You couldn't help but laugh. “We’re friends, Mikey, friends get angry with each other. And they get to put friends in their place when they’re being a drunken arse.”
He chuckled at that, his shoulders bouncing lightly. “I needed it.”
You hummed in agreement as you reached for the cloth beside you. “Roll your sleeves up. I’ll clean your hands first.”
He obliged, wincing as his sore knuckles bent with the movement.
“Care to explain what happened now?” You asked, watching as he rolled both sleeves to sit above his elbows. In any other circumstance, you’d have been admiring his forearms, the slight tension of veins and muscles beneath his skin, but now, all you could do was stare at the tendrils of red running down his wrists.
Michael sighed. “You’ll be disappointed.”
You kept quiet and waited for him to expand. He offered a hand, which you guided to rest on your knee. You ignored the warmth it brought, the foreign feel of his palm on your thinly covered skin, and wrung out the cloth.
Michael watched as you began to wipe the blood from his skin. “One of the lads said something about-“
He inhaled sharply, almost yanking his hand from you.
“Sorry.” You adjusted your touch, dabbing at the cuts on his knuckles in a lighter manner. “Go on.”
“It just got out of hand.”
“They said something about Pol didn’t they?”
He nodded. “I couldn’t stop myself.” There was a twinge in his voice, something close to shame. “And then John joined in, and Arthur, y’know he’s always up for it… I don’t even know how it got to that point. I don’t remember much past the first punch.”
You sighed. “Men and their alcohol.”
Without the blood, his injuries looked considerably less. A few grazes across the bone. Some bruising. “There.” You spoke, moving his clean hand from your leg offering to take the next one.
“She’ll kill me.”
He was right. Pol would give him a beating of her own once she saw him. “She won’t.”
“You’re a bad liar, (y/n).” Dimples grew in his cheeks. It was good to see him smile.
“This is your dominant hand, I see.” You commented, continuing your job. The wounds were deeper, so much so that you doubted he’d be able to use his hand properly for the next few weeks.
“Is it worse?”
You nodded. “Considerably.”
He watched as you went, speaking a minute or so later. “You have lovely hands.”
“What?” You’d almost forgotten he was drunk. “Whiskey doesn’t suit you, Michael.”
He wasn’t smiling. Just staring. “They’re as soft as I’d imagined them to be.”
Definitely still drunk.
“I’d say thank-you, but I’m not sure I mean it.”
“You never take my compliments.” He lifted his eyes to yours.
You kept looking to the cloth.
“Why is that?”
“You don’t often give them,” you replied, frankly.
“I do.”
His hand was as clean as you’d get it. “I’ll have to wrap this one.” You reached for the cotton bandage you’d brought from the bathroom. With care, you wound it over his knuckles, taking it across his palm and back again several times before finally tying it off. For a novice, it wasn’t bad.
“How’s that?”
He inspected your work, a faint smile on his lips. “Perfect.”
Now for the part you’d been silently dreading since he’d got here. His face. Awkwardly, you pulled your make-shift seat closer. You rinsed the flannel as best you could, twisting the excess water from it. You wondered idly if he could sense your procrastination, but his alcohol stained breath was enough to reassure you otherwise: he probably didn’t even realise that you’d moved closer. That once you sat upright again, your face would be less that a foot from his.
“Thank-you for doing this,” he mused.
“Anyone would.” You sat up again, damp cloth in your hands.
He shook his head. “No, they wouldn’t.”
“Can I?” You gestured to his face.
“Honestly, I can’t even feel it. So, go ahead.”
His eye was almost completely swollen now, its rounded lid forced shut, and the graze on his cheek scabbed.
It was a shame, to mark something so handsome.
You began cleaning his face, relieved to find he had been telling the truth about its numbness: he didn’t flinch once. Instead, he closed his good eye and sighed, as if he enjoyed it.
“I didn’t realise how embarrassed I’d be.”
You frowned. “What d’you mean?”
“When the,” he gestured with his bandaged hand to his temple, “fog cleared. And I realised it was you… I didn’t anticipate how ashamed I’d be.”
“I’ve seen plenty men angry, Michael.”
“But not me.”
You were thankful that his eyes were closed, because your face had shifted into a mask of confusion. Why did it matter?
“I don’t like that you’ve seen me like that.”
He spoke like it was a confession.
You hesitated, unsure of the correct response. “I don’t think any differently of you.”
It was the truth. For as long as you’d known him, you’d known about what he did. What the Shelby’s did. Fighting, anger, it was all a part of the deal.
“I mean,” you continued, “it wasn’t enjoyable. But-“
His eye opened. “I really am sorry.”
You brushed his apology away. “Like I said, it’s already forgotten.”
His unmoving stare was beginning to send a heat to your cheeks. His eyes were filled with an admiration you’d never seen before. One fuelled by liquor and circumstance, no doubt.
“You’re more than I deserve,” he murmured, the words barely audible. If you hadn’t been so close, you’d have missed it completely.
You smiled lightly. “You wouldn’t say that sober.”
“No, maybe not. But I’d think it.”
Heartbeat. All you could feel was your heartbeat. In your chest, your throat, your ears. You looked down, to wash the cloth again and still your breath.
“Am I making you nervous?” He wasn’t taunting you. His voice held nothing but concern.
You paused your movements. “What are you doing?”
He thought about it. “Talking.”
You sighed and sat up again. “That’s not what I meant.”
He moved a hand to your knee, his thumb rubbing circles on the side of your thigh. It was an innocent gesture, but it flipped your stomach and reddened your cheeks nonetheless.
“Confessing,” he said, “I’m confessing.”
An reply you had prepared, slipped from your tongue. Your mind went blank. Your hand began to lift to his face again, wiping at the red that stained his chin in autopilot.
“I care about you, (y/n).”
“I don’t know what to say to that.” You stuttered. You were’t entirely sure what was happening.
It had been concrete in your mind. You and Michael were friends. He dated women other than you and and you dated-
“Oh shit.” You groaned, rocking back in your seat. “Richard.”
“Richard?” Michael repeated. His lips twisted into a displeased expression.
“Sorry, I just remembered.” You sighed, dropping the cloth into the murky water. “I was on my way to see someone.”
“Oh.” There was a bite in his voice now. “I didn’t know you had a-“
“I barely know him,” you interrupted, annoyed by his tone, “and you’ve no right to be jealous.”
He clenched his teeth, knowing better than to try and deny it. “Right.”
After a short silence, you looked back to him. He was looking to his hands, running his fingertips over the cotton that covered his right one. His face was familiar again, minus the damage, and you couldn’t help but smile looking at him.
Absentmindedly, you reached up to push the hair that strayed, flopping over his forehead, back into place.
He let you do it, sighing at your touch before speaking, “You care about me too.”
“Of course I do, Mikey.” You hadn’t even thought about it; the answer was plain enough.
“Good.” He was smiling, his eyes closed.
You had to force yourself to pull your hand back.
Michael had relaxed into the chair, his head laid against the throw that covered its back. It looked right, him sitting there. Like it was a place that had been crafted especially for him, one that you’d never realised was incomplete, until he’d put himself in it.
You watched as his lips parted to speak.
“I think I lo-“
“Don’t.” You stopped him. “Don’t say that. Not when you’re drunk.”
He laughed lightly, without opening his eyes. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“I can guess.”
“How?” he mused, his voice soft.
You chewed your lip, eyes falling to your feet. Michael was your friend. When you first saw him, you’d promised yourself that you’d only ever treat him as such.
“Because…” You crossed and uncrossed your legs before looking back to him.
“Oh.” The thought fizzled away. “Mikey?”
Michael’s mouth was parted slightly, his breaths quiet and shallow. He looked softer than usual, boyish. Stripped of all the malice and weariness that he’d endured.
You smiled lightly, exhaling through your nose as you stood. Without much hesitation, you crossed to the corner of the room where your bed sat and pulled the blanket from atop it. You laid it over him, pulling it up so that its hem sat across his collar bones.
If he remembered it all in the morning, you could try again. You could tell him that you knew because you felt the same. Because you loved him too.
If he didn’t, and the night and it’s conversation slipped away beneath the bruises that stamped his skin, you’d let it be. Because that’s all you could do.