Vendetta | Michael Gray Imagine
Summary: Reader wants to kill the Blinders, as they killed one of her family members, and she meets Michael not realising his identity. They fall for each other and she has to decide whether to carry out her vendetta or not.
Pairing: Michael x Reader
Warnings: Usual violence, but fluff
A/N: I don’t know how I feel about this. There’s many parts I love, but I tried to keep it short, 1.2k words.
The assassination of your uncle sent you into a downward spiral. He was a bad man, like your father. But he did more than your father ever did, swapping places in your heart.
In all honesty, you would have preferred your father to have been killed. The last time you saw him, you told him that, the anger seething out of your lips like daggers. Your father agreed.
His agreement only lead to the redirection of your anger. If one outlet wouldn’t work, you found another.
The Peaky Blinders were an upcoming gang out of Birmingham. Established yet cautious and hard to track, they were elusive to say the least.
You wound up in Birmingham with two old guns hidden within a compartment of your luggage. Your mother let you go, a trip to relieve your undying grief, because she didn’t think a dainty young woman such as yourself would harm a fly.
On this particular day, the weather was grueling with whipping winds and a bitter chill. The sky was cloudless but its gray complexion was all the same.
You had traveled to multiple locations this day on old leads. You were tired, you were aching. The Garrison functioned conveniently as a bar, not just a crime scene, you recalled with weighted eyelids.
It was swinging, alive with people. By this time, you had staked out the place on numerous instances, only to find it unnerving and dark.
“Tired,” a low tone greeted you. He was attractive, you couldn’t deny, with proper style. He appeared from nowhere after a mere seven minutes inside the pub. “This’ll help with that.”
“Thank you,” you accepted the sparkling glass, though not entirely convinced of its refreshing properties, ignoring nagging butterflies. There wasn’t the usual space in the Garrison, so he ushered you to an outlying wall.
“Cold out there, isn’t it?” He asked, a smile on his lips that made him look familiar.
“Terribly,” you nodded, drinking up for warmth. You allowed him to pique your interest because it served as the energy boost you needed.
Nonchalantly, a nosy stranger eager for the continuation of conversation, you inquired, “Do you happen to know the Shelby family personally?”
Michael felt his eyes flutter closed. “No, not personally.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth. “Why do you ask, love?” He drawled.
“No reason. Oh and,” you said quickly, “I’m Y/N. I apologize, I completely forgot to introduce myself.”
He stared at you, making you wonder whether or not your professional, anonymous guard should be up. You trusted your gut in that it was okay to be momentarily rid of it.
“Henry,” he lied as smoothly as you did. “My name is Henry.”
It seemed unnatural how often you had bumped into Henry after that night. He was always just far enough that his association never occurred to you. It should have.
Childishly, you chalked it up to a divinatory sign. It was meant to be, you convinced yourself.
Your trail was growing dangerously close to the Blinders. Anxiety and adrenaline burned your skin as you grew more interested in Henry and less in murder.
The next critical day in the sequence was significantly brighter, but dark by midnight when a bleeding Henry greeted you at the door with red teeth.
“I’m fine,” he spoke dryly, following you to the bathroom where he sat on the countertop. Henry watched as you retrieved a washcloth and other medical equipment stashed away in respective drawers, trying his hardest not to snap then and there. “Y/N, why are you here?”
You spilled your secret. He didn’t seem to absorb the information so you continued, desperately needing for him to grasp onto your mentality.
“The Peaky Blinders are cold people, Henry. You don’t understand. They aren’t like us.”
He didn’t have much else to say. His injuries were offhandedly excused.
You felt the magnitude of your situation when Henry became Michael. Various emotions overwhelmed your body already afflicted with grief. Fear manifested itself first, survival instinctive.
You were pressed against a building, watching as the Shelby members ruthlessly murdered a group of men. A gun was clutched in your hand and you were ready to use it.
Until someone yelled for a boy named Michael, the newfound son of Polly Gray.
You had heard about the boy previously but never put a face to the name. The character was never of your concern because from what you’d heard and seen, he wasn’t nearly as dirty as the others.
He didn’t murder your uncle and didn’t partake in it, either. He was never around when you were stalking around in the shadows.
You took in a ragged breath at the reveal, dropping your gun in shock. To your fear, Thomas and Arthur Shelby turned their heads at the noise. Two hounds, you remarked to yourself, struggling to level your breathing.
“There’s nothing,” Michael said. He persuaded them to continue walking. He turned his head back once, and you swear you caught his eye.
You invited him over for breakfast the next week, and when he came his eyes were cold. His identity was obvious then and he cut right to the chase. “I don’t have a gun. Go ahead and do it, if you want to. I’m right here.” He stuffed his hands in his coat pockets.
His expression was absent of all emotion. When you looked at him, you saw Henry flickering into a faded view of your uncle.
It was the hardest decision you ever had to make. Your heart would never follow through with murder, but your brain was on the fence until the end.
The boy in front of you was an enemy. But his dark eyes were familiar, eyes you adored. He knew just as well as you that you were in over your head.
A smart man would have killed you on the spot. Your vendetta backfired, and you were the only person you could blame. You were wrong for so many reasons that became clearer than ever before.
You looked away in anguish, a hand on your forehead. The trance you had been in shattered to pieces, a sick delusion. “I’m sorry,” you whispered hoarsely. “Do they know? Am I going to be killed?”
Michael pursed his lips, instinctively taking you into his arms at the first sob. He held you tight, caressing your hair as you cried. “No, no one knows. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
He lifted your chin so your eyes met and the ice dissolved. His lips pressed against yours. It was the strangest moment with all of the emotions swirling around inside you at once.
“Will you give this up?” Michael questioned, pulling back to gaze into your eyes. “You’re lucky you’re not dead.” He added, voice protective and straining, trying to express concern.
“I was just so upset,” you said into his shoulder, your insides burning. “I never would have done it. It was stupid. I thought I could kill Thomas or Arthur, but meanwhile I’m head over heels for their cousin and didn’t even know it.”
He stared down at you, lips quirked into a smile. He agreed that you made a pretty shitty assassin before teasing, “Head over heels?”
A/N: I don't know how I feel about this?
