Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 26
Tommy Shelby x Reader: Chapter 26
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 | Chapter 23 |Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26
Fic Summary: You came to Birmingham for a fresh start, to bury the past and keep your head down. As a former nurse in the war, you’ve seen enough blood and death to last a lifetime. But fate (and the Shelby’s) have other plans. After stitching Tommy Shelby back together, you find yourself drawn further into their world, a world of violence, loyalty, and power. When Tommy offers you a job, it comes with more than just good pay, it comes with expectations and lines you never planned to cross.
Chapter summary: Tommy leaves the hospital to handle business tied to the growing threat, you remain behind to watch over Finn. In the quiet hours that follow, the weight of everything they've endured begins to settle in. .
Word count: 5.5k
Warnings: Violence, injury, mentions of blood, physical assault, PTSD and war flashbacks, language, and emotional distress
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Finn had been in the hospital for five days before he finally woke up enough to have a full conversation.
The first few days had been touch and go. His eyes would flicker open, he’d offer a few slurred words, maybe a weak squeeze of the hand, before drifting off again. But that morning, when you walked into the room with a fresh cup of tea for yourself and a glass of water for him, he was already awake. Propped slightly on a pillow. Eyes open while he talked to Tommy.
You paused in the doorway, just for a second.
Tommy sat beside the bed, his posture relaxed in the way only exhaustion could bring. One arm rested on the chair, the other lightly gripping the edge of Finn’s blanket. His coat was off and sleeves rolled.
Finn looked small but alert. His skin was still pale, and the dark circles under his eyes hadn’t faded, but he was awake and speaking clearly. His voice was soft and hoarse, but steady enough to hold a conversation. He said something low to Tommy. It was something you couldn’t quite catch, but it made Tommy let out a short, quiet laugh. It was quick, almost under his breath, but you hadn’t heard him laugh like that in days.
The tightness in your chest loosened, just a little.
You stepped fully into the room, and the sound of the teacup tapping against the water glass in your hand drew their attention.
Tommy turned to look at you. His eyes flicked down briefly to what you were holding before lifting back to yours.
“He’s asking for sweets,” he said, nodding toward Finn. “Says the food here’s terrible.”
You walked to the side of the bed and raised an eyebrow at Finn. “Glad to hear you’re feeling better.”
Finn gave you a tired smile. “They just brought me by some toast. There was no jam. Not even butter.”
You set the tea down and moved to help him sit up a little straighter. “God forbid.”
“I mean, I’m already suffering, I might as well do it with some jam,” he said.
Tommy gave a small shake of his head. “You’ll get jam once you can stand without falling over.”
Finn groaned. “How long will that be?”
Tommy raised an eyebrow. “You’ll heal faster if you do what you’re told.”
Finn looked at him, unimpressed. “You never did what you were told when you got hurt.”
You blinked and turned to Tommy. “Is that so?”
Tommy gave a slight shrug, clearly not interested in revisiting that particular memory. “That was a completely different situation.”
You and Finn exchanged a look.
“Shelby logic,” you muttered, shaking your head.
Finn smiled again, smaller this time. His eyelids were already starting to droop again.
You reached for his cup and set it aside, letting him settle back against the pillows.
“You can rest, love,” you said softly. “We’ll be right here.”
He didn’t argue. Within moments, his breathing slowed again, deeper now, steadier. His face relaxed as he drifted off.
You let out a long breath as soon as his eyes closed. It was a quiet exhale you hadn’t even realized you were holding. Not until the fear loosened its grip.
Tommy reached for your hand. His thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles.
“He’s alright,” he said.
You curled your fingers around his before leaning back in your chair. You glanced at Finn, then at Tommy. “Tommy, what are we going to do?” you asked. “The men who did this– they’re still out there. They could come back.”
He didn’t answer right away. His gaze was steady on Finn, but you could see the shift in his posture, the way his jaw tensed, the way his thumb stopped moving against your hand.
“They won’t,” he said eventually.
You studied his face. “You don’t know that.”
“No,” he admitted. “But I’ll make sure of it.”
You hesitated, then asked, “How?”
Tommy looked at you for a long moment, weighing how much to say.
“I’ve had someone watching every point of contact since the night Finn was taken,” he said finally. “Every alley, every shipment, every man who’s ever shaken hands with the Italians in this city.”
You frowned slightly. “Since when?”
“Since the wedding,” he said. “I knew Luca wouldn’t stop.”
“And?” you asked. “What’ve they found?”
Tommy leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, voice low so as not to wake Finn.
“He’s got people doing the work for him. Not just the Italians. Locals, too. Some of our own.”
Your stomach turned. “What?”
Tommy nodded once. “That’s how they got to Finn. Whoever let them through knew when and where to hit.”
He sat back slightly, his eyes narrowing like he could see it all playing out again in his head.
“Luca doesn’t kick down the door himself,” Tommy said. “He bribes the man who’s meant to be watching it. Men like him don’t come to finish the job unless they know they’ve already won,” he continued.
You glanced at Finn, your hand still curled lightly around Tommy’s.
Tommy followed your gaze. “He could’ve come after me. After Arthur. After any of the men who’ve had a hand in this war. But he chose Finn.” He paused, eyes fixed on the boy in the bed. “A child. A boy who had no part in any of this.”
His hand clenched once in yours, then loosened.
“If Luca Changretta wants a war, I’ll fucking show him one.”
Tommy’s eyes were still locked on Finn, his jaw set, his shoulders coiled tight like a man already halfway out the door. The shift in him was subtle, but you knew it well by now. You saw the way he straightened his spine, the way his expression flattened into focus. It was the version of him that didn’t hesitate. The one who made decisions with blood on the line.
He looked down at your joined hands for a beat, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.
Then he stood slowly, his fingers lingering in yours until the last second.
“I need to check in with Johnny Dogs,” he said, his voice clipped, already shifting back into motion. “We’ve got movement near the rail yard.”
Your stomach tightened.
Of course he had to go. Of course this couldn’t wait. But that didn’t stop the sharp prickle of unease crawling up your spine.
“You’re going now?” you asked, trying to keep your tone even.
He nodded.
You glanced at Finn, then back at Tommy. “I just…” you paused, trying to find the words without making it harder than it already was.
Tommy let out a quiet sigh. “You just what?”
You shook your head. “Never mind.”
There was something in his expression. An understanding, maybe, or guilt, or just the same exhaustion you felt. Like he knew what you were trying not to say: that you were tired of him walking out the door and not knowing what kind of version of him would come back. Or if he would come back at all.
“Go on. Just say it,” he said.
“I know we’ve been cooped up in this hospital for days, worried about Finn and eating shitty hospital food. But we finally got a minute. Just us. Without the next fire already waiting.”
Tommy didn’t move, didn’t interrupt.
“I knew it wouldn’t last forever. I know you have a job to do” you added. “But that minute was nice, that’s all.”
He looked down for a second, jaw working slightly, then back at you.
“I’m sorry.”
His voice was quieter now. It wasn’t fragile. Tommy Shelby was never fragile. But it was honest in a way he rarely let himself be.
You nodded, arms folding across your chest. “It’s alright. I just wish it could’ve lasted a little longer.”
He stepped forward then, gently, like he was approaching something delicate. He reached for your hand again, his fingers closing around yours.
“We’ll have more minutes,” he said. “Once this is done.”
You searched his face for a lie, but there wasn’t one. Just the same tired man who kept doing what he had to do because he didn’t know how to stop.
“Go,” you said finally, voice low. “I’ll see you when you get back.”
Tommy gave a single nod. He leaned in, kissed the side of your head, and let his hand fall away as he turned for the door.
You watched him go. Again.
You sat back down beside Finn’s bed, the chair groaning slightly under your weight as you settled into it like someone bracing for another long stretch of waiting.
…
The wind off the canal carried the stink of coal smoke and stagnant water. Tommy stepped out of the car without a word, shoulders stiff against the cold. Gravel shifted beneath his boots, sharp and loud in the stillness. He paused, glancing around the loading yard.
Tommy hadn’t been entirely honest with you earlier. He’d said it was a check-in with Johnny Dogs, nothing more. No point in making you worry about another possible setup, not when you’d just started to breathe again with Finn stable.
But the message that came two nights ago had been too precise to ignore. Someone claiming to speak for Luca. A neutral party. Promising terms. A place to talk.
Tommy didn’t believe in clean negotiations. Not with a man like Changretta. But if there was even a slim chance he could end this before another bullet flew, he had to see it through.
Arthur climbed out after Tommy, scanning the dark edges of the yard with sharp eyes. He sniffed once, wiped his nose on the back of his glove, and muttered, “Place looks like it’s been dead a week.”
Tommy didn’t answer. His eyes were already tracking the shadows, the dim pools of light cast by a few failing lamps.
Arthur stayed close, scanning every movement in the distance, but Tommy stood still. His gaze lingered on the far end of the lot. A delivery van passed in the street behind them. No one got out. No one pulled up. Nothing.
Johnny Dogs waited near the edge of the loading yard, half-hidden behind a stack of old crates. He didn’t wave. Just watched Arthur and Tommy approach with that taut, wary look he wore when something didn’t sit right.
Tommy lit a cigarette as he came up alongside him.
“Well?” he asked.
“No one’s shown,” he said without waiting for a greeting. “Nothing all day. Lads been posted since morning. Not a single fucker.”
Tommy nodded once, but his mind was already turning.
“Sure this is the right spot?” Arthur asked, stepping beside him.
Tommy didn’t answer right away. He looked at the crates again. The open space. The clear exits. Too convenient.
“I’m sure,” he said.
Arthur frowned. “You think they backed out?”
“No,” Tommy said. Even as he said it, the weight of the realization settled in his chest, cold and sharp. He took a slow drag from his cigarette and exhaled through his nose. “They were never going to show,” he muttered. “They wanted to know where I’d be.”
He’d known the message felt too clean. He’d known Luca didn’t send warnings. So why had he let himself believe it might be different this time? Because he was tired? Because he wanted to end it without more loss?
He swallowed hard, jaw tight.
Arthur said something beside him, but it barely registered. A thin ringing had started in his ears, the kind he hadn’t felt since France, right before the shelling would start.
He turned slowly, his breath coming faster now, though he didn’t show it. Not on the surface.
“They wanted me away from the hospital.”
Arthur went still.
And now Tommy slowly turned, looking over his shoulder like he could already feel how far away he'd let himself get.
“They’re going after Finn,” he said.
“Fuck,” Arthur spat, already running back toward the car.
Tommy dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his heel, then he turned and followed, fast.
…
You sat beside Finn’s hospital bed, your body folded into the chair like you hadn’t moved in hours. Your head rested lightly against the edge of the mattress, one hand still holding his. His fingers twitched now and then in his sleep, weak but warm, a small reassurance that he was still fighting.
The room was dim. Just the overhead monitor lights cast a soft green glow around. It had been quiet since Tommy left about an hour ago.
You didn’t sleep, not really. Just let your eyes close every so often, tuning in to Finn’s breathing, the soft beep of the machines.
Then, the door creaked open.
You lifted your head slowly, groggy but alert.
A doctor stepped inside.
He froze just past the threshold, like he hadn’t expected anyone to be there.
“Oh,” he said. “You’re… still here.”
Five days in the hospital meant you’d seen just about every doctor and nurse on this floor. Even the overnight staff. But you didn’t recognize this one.
“We’ve been staying with him. Didn’t want him waking up alone,” you said quietly, forcing a small smile as you rested your hand back over Finn’s.
The man gave a tight smile of his own, stepping inside a little farther now. “Of course,” he said. “That’s… that’s good of you.”
He glanced briefly at the monitors, then down at Finn. Not in a way that seemed particularly concerned, more like he was checking the room.
You leaned back a little farther in your seat, watching him.
“I thought I’d seen the entire staff rotation these last few days, but I haven’t seen you before yet,” you offered lightly. “You just come on shift?”
There was the briefest pause before he answered.
“Yes. Just filling in.”
He stepped a little closer to the bed, flipping open the clipboard in his hands without really looking at it.
“I’ve got some pain medication,” he said casually. “Just to help him rest a bit easier. Should take the edge off.”
You frowned.
Finn had been given pain meds less than an hour ago. You remembered the nurse coming in gently. She’d even explained the dosage aloud while logging it in the chart.
You straightened slightly in your chair. “They already gave him something,” you said, voice still even but firmer now. “About forty minutes ago.”
The man didn’t look at you right away. Just stared at the clipboard like he was reading something.
“Oh,” he said after a beat. “Well, this is a different dosage. Coordinated by a different team.”
You tilted your head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Which team?”
Another beat.
Then he smiled again, too quickly. “Pediatrics. Just an adjustment.”
You glanced toward Finn, then back at the man.
“I’d like to check with the nurse on duty first.”
The smile faded. Just a flicker.
“There’s no need,” he said, a little too quickly. “Really. It’s all logged—”
“I said I’d like to check,” you repeated, louder now, rising slowly from your chair.
The man’s posture shifted, almost imperceptibly, but you saw it. Then, the man’s hand dipped into his coat. When it came out, he was holding a syringe.
Time seemed to stutter. For a split second, you couldn’t move. Your mind tried to catch up to what your eyes were seeing.
Then he lunged.
You stumbled backward, the chair screeching across the tile as it tipped over behind you. The man came at you fast, expression flat and focused, the needle clutched tightly in his fist.
You barely caught his wrist mid-swing, and shoved back with everything you had, your forearm slamming into his chest. The syringe dropped to the floor with a soft clatter, but his other hand grabbed your shoulder, shoving you hard into the wall.
You kicked out, caught him in the shin. He cursed, accent thick and definitely not local, and stumbled, but recovered fast. You barely had time to breathe before he slammed into you, tackling you hard onto the tile.
You hit the ground flat, the air knocked from your lungs, your head bouncing off the floor with a dull crack that made your vision blur.
Then he was on top of you.
Heavy. Hands everywhere. One clamped hard around your wrist, the other scrambling down toward your side—your coat, your pockets, something he was trying to get to. The syringe. Or worse.
You fought blindly.
Your knee came up hard, catching him in the ribs. He grunted but didn’t move. His other hand grabbed a fistful of your hair and slammed your head back into the floor.
The lights above spun.
“What’s going on?” Finn’s voice cut through the haze.
It was thin. Fragile. The sound of a boy barely awake and already afraid. But you couldn’t turn to look. Couldn’t reassure him.
All you could see was the man straddling your hips, his face inches from yours, sweat beading at his brow, nostrils flaring, breath hot and sour on your cheek. His jaw clenched tight, lips pulled back just enough to show his teeth. There was a smear of blood on his neck now. Yours, maybe, you couldn’t tell.
His eyes never blinked.
You saw the spit gathered at the corners of his mouth. Saw the twitch of his fingers as his hand moved toward your throat, slow but certain, like he wanted to feel the life leaving you.
You twisted beneath him, arms pinned, the back of your head slick with blood against the tile.
His fingers closed around your neck, squeezing hard.
Your breath cut off instantly, a strangled gasp catching in your throat as pressure surged against your windpipe. Your back arched instinctively, heels kicking against the slick tile as you clawed at his wrist, nails digging into skin that didn’t give.
The weight of him crushed down on your chest. Your lungs screamed for air.
Your vision blurred at the edges, black creeping in like spilled ink. You heard your own pulse thudding in your ears, heavy and distant.
One arm was still trapped beneath his knee, useless. The other scraped blindly along the floor, your fingers twitching and skittering across smooth tile, desperately searching, grabbing at nothing.
The panic was animal now. Pure survival.
And then, your fingertips hit something. Cold. Flat. Metal. The trauma shears.
You wrapped your hand around them and wrenched upward, muscles screaming, body twisting.
The next second, you were swinging.
You swung upward first, the blunt-edged blades catching him across the ribs. He snarled through gritted teeth, fingers still crushing your windpipe, his face inches from yours, breath hot and sour. Black was creeping in around the edges of your vision now, your body screaming for air—
You swung again, harder.
This time, the shears connected with the side of his neck.
Not deep, but enough.
He shouted, voice guttural and animal, recoiling with a sharp jerk. The pressure on your throat loosened just enough for you to drag in a desperate, choking breath.
You coughed, wheezed, and drove your shoulder into him, pushing him off balance. He staggered back, clutching the side of his neck where blood was already welling between his fingers.
You lunged after him.
Not because he was still a threat. Not because he was getting back up. But because he might. Because he would, if you gave him the chance.
You straddled his chest, one knee digging into his ribs, your hand still clenched around the trauma shears. His eyes widened, but he reached for you again.
You didn’t let him.
You brought the shears down, once, through his chest.
Then again.
And again.
It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t careful. There was no technique to it, just the weight of adrenaline and terror crashing through your limbs like a storm.
He tried to yell, but it came out a gurgle. You didn’t stop. Couldn’t.
Your hands were soaked now, his blood warm and slick on your fingers, your arms, your clothes. Your breathing came in gasps, ragged and animal. You couldn’t stop shaking.
You raised the shears again.
The man beneath you wasn’t moving. His arms were slack, his face unrecognizable through the mess. But your body didn’t understand that yet. Your mind was still caught in the moment, in the fear, in the fury.
Your hand tightened around the handle.
One more.
The door slammed open behind you.
“Jesus Christ—”
You froze.
Your chest was still heaving. Your knees still dug into the man’s ribs. But you didn’t move. Didn’t lower your arm. Just slowly turned your head toward the doorway.
Tommy stood there. Arthur right beside him, wide-eyed, a half-drawn pistol hanging forgotten in his hand.
The room was silent now, except for your breathing and the soft beeping of Finn’s monitor, still alive, still steady.
You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just knelt there, frozen, blood smeared up your arms, drying in streaks across your hands and mouth. Your chest rose and fell too fast, each breath shallow and ragged. The trauma shears were still clenched in your fist, white-knuckled and rigid, as if some part of you believed he might get back up.
The room felt like it was underwater.
Then, Tommy's voice broke the silence. "Are you alright, Finn?"
“He was trying to kill me. But she stopped him.” His voice was thin and scared. "I'm alright."
You didn’t turn to look at him.
You just stared forward, eyes unfocused, fixed on the blood pooling beneath the man’s body, the red streaked across your skin, the shears lying motionless by your knee.
You couldn’t feel your hands. Or your legs. You weren’t even sure if you were breathing.
Tommy stepped forward slowly, like you were a wounded animal, still caught in the middle of the fight.
He didn’t speak.
His eyes dropped to your hand. The shears still gripped tight in your fist, the blades slick with blood, trembling slightly as they hovered in the space between you and the man on the floor.
“You can let go of them now,” he said softly, his voice low but steady. “It’s over. He's gone.”
Tommy took another step forward, slow and deliberate.
You didn’t respond. Your eyes didn’t leave the body. You looked like you couldn’t hear him, like your brain was still caught in the moment, waiting for the fight to start again.
“Give them to me, darling,” he said gently, reaching out but not touching you yet.
Tommy crouched down in front of you, just far enough to meet your eye line.
Your grip didn’t change.
Not at first.
But then slowly, your gaze lifted. It met his. Your eyes were wide, glassy, hollow. He saw the exact second you came back to yourself.
“Give them to me,” he repeated, softer this time.
Your fingers finally loosened. The shears fell into his open palm with a faint, wet clack.
Without taking his eyes off you, Tommy reached back and handed them to Arthur, who stepped forward silently and took them without a word.
And then your body collapsed.
You pitched forward into his chest, sobs breaking loose from your throat in jagged waves. You didn’t hold back. Your arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, your fingers fisting in the back of his coat as you clung to him like gravity itself had given out.
Tommy caught you instantly, one arm strong around your back, the other at the back of your head, pulling you in close.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”
Your entire body shook in his arms. Sobs tore through you with no rhythm or control. The weight of it all came crashing down at once: the fear, the blood, the way it could’ve gone so much worse.
Tommy’s hand moved gently, sliding up the back of your head to cradle it. He leaned in, forehead pressing against the side of yours.
You clenched your fists tighter in his coat, fingers aching, nails pressing into wool. The scent of him was thick in your nose.
“He—” you choked. “I thought he was going to—”
Tommy pulled you closer, as if he could shield you from the memory itself.
“I know,” he said.
During the war, you’d grown accustomed to death. You’d seen bullet wounds tear through men, grenades blow off limbs, and life slip away more times than you could count.
But you’d never been the one to take it. Until now.
And even though it had been his life or Finn’s, it still clung to you. In your clothes. In your hair. Under your nails. You could feel it in your bones, humming like something you couldn’t scrub off.
Tommy held you for another moment, then slowly shifted, rising to his feet and taking you with him. His arm stayed locked around your waist, steadying you as your knees threatened to buckle.
“Arthur,” he said, voice suddenly cold and clear. “Call John, he can help get the body out of here quietly. Have Polly come stay with Finn. I don’t want him alone.”
Arthur blinked, then gave a sharp nod. “Right.”
He moved fast, stepping around the blood, grabbing a sheet from the cabinet and crouching by the still form on the floor. You couldn’t even look at what you’d done.
Tommy’s hand came up to cradle the back of your head again, guiding you gently to his chest. “There we go,” he murmured.
You didn’t argue.
You just let him hold you while the weight of what you’d done sank in, and the mess of it all began to be swept away.
“Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s get you out of here.”
You didn’t resist.
Your feet moved clumsily beneath you, barely aware of the sticky warmth of blood drying on your skin, or the dull ache in your knees and shoulders. You just followed the pressure of his hand at your back, leaning into him like he was the only thing keeping you upright.
Behind you, Arthur was already moving. The sound of fabric dragging across tile echoed faintly behind you as Tommy opened the door and guided you out into the hallway.
You blinked against the overhead lights, everything feeling too sharp, too clinical after the chaos of the room.
There were no footsteps. No voices. No nurses with clipboards, no doctors making their rounds. The station at the end of the corridor sat empty. Even the usual low hum of activity had vanished.
You slowed, just slightly, scanning the space.
Nothing.
Just white tile. Pale walls. Abandoned chairs pushed crooked beneath tables. Machines left idle. A silence that stretched too long.
You didn’t ask.
Tommy said nothing either. Just adjusted his grip on you and kept walking. His pace was steady, purposeful. Like he already knew this floor was clear. Like it had been expected.
Like this, too, was part of the war.
He guided you through the back stairwell, down the side corridor, and out into the night. The cold hit your skin instantly, sobering and sharp. Tommy’s car waited at the curb.
Tommy helped you in gently. But you didn’t remember buckling in, and you barely even noticed the drive.
When you pulled up in front of the house, you didn’t move right away. You stared out the window at the familiar shape of the doorway, the stone steps, the light flickering just inside the hall.
Tommy came around and opened your door. He didn’t speak. Just reached for your hand.
You let him help you out of the car, your body still trembling. Inside, the house was quiet. Warmer than the hospital. But even that couldn’t touch the chill that had settled into your skin.
Tommy gently guided you up the stairs, his hand steady at your back, and down the hall to your shared bedroom. The room was dim, untouched. He walked you straight to the adjoining bathroom.
He turned on the tap, warm water rushing into the basin. Steam rose, fogging the mirror slightly. He found a clean towel on the shelf, poured warm water into a bowl like it was second nature, and soaked the cloth.
You stood by the door, unmoving. Watching.
“Come here,” he said quietly, holding the towel in one hand, his other extended.
You stepped toward him slowly.
He dipped the towel again, then reached for your wrist.
You flinched—not because it hurt, just because your skin still felt on fire with urgency.
His fingers were warm. The towel was even warmer. He moved slowly, wiping in steady, careful motions.
He started with your wrists. The insides, where blood had dried into fine lines like cracked paint. Then the backs of your hands, where bruises were already forming across your knuckles. He worked methodically, rinsing the towel, wringing it out, coming back again.
When he reached your forearms, you caught yourself holding your breath.
He moved to your jaw next. The cloth brushed away a faint smear there, the pressure just enough to remind you flinch.
When he got to the streak along your cheekbone, he paused.
Just a beat.
Then he lifted the towel again and wiped gently, following with his thumb, soft and deliberate, like he wanted to wipe the memory of it.
“I killed him,” you said suddenly.
The words barely left your mouth. They didn’t sound like yours.
Tommy stilled. His hand hovered just beneath your jaw, not pulling away, not pressing closer. Just there.
“I know,” he said quietly.
You looked down, your vision narrowing to the floor tile between you. There was a smear of blood on your shirt sleeve, nearly dry now, the edges gone dark.
You swallowed hard, your throat raw. “I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. He was already down and I just– I couldn’t stop.”
He lowered the towel, letting it rest on the edge of the basin. Then he reached up and gently tilted your chin, just enough to meet your eyes.
“You did what had to be done,” he said, low. “That’s it.”
You shook your head, the weight of it all pushing back up through your chest, but Tommy was already shaking his.
“Don’t,” he said quietly. “Don’t start second-guessing it now. It was him or you and Finn. And you did what you had to do.”
His voice wasn’t cold, but it was certain. Solid.
You didn’t respond. Just stood there, still trembling faintly, still feeling like you were trapped inside your own skin.
Tommy watched you for a moment longer, then set the towel down beside the sink and stepped past you.
You turned your head slightly, following his movement with your eyes as he crossed to the tub. He turned the taps, adjusted the temperature, let the water begin to fill the basin.
It was so ordinary a thing, so domestic, it made something ache behind your ribs.
Steam began to rise, curling around the edges of the porcelain. He tested the water with his hand absentmindedly.
You hesitated for a second. The thought of peeling off your bloodied clothes made your stomach twist, but the weight of them was worse, the way they clung, stiff and damp, heavy with what had happened.
Your fingers moved slowly. First the buttons of your blouse, then the skirt. You peeled each layer away with care, as if the fabric might tear you open if you weren’t gentle.
Tommy didn’t watch. He turned slightly, giving you just enough space to move without feeling exposed, but still staying close.
When you were down to your skin, you stepped into the tub. The water was hot, almost too hot, but the sting felt grounding. You sank slowly, easing your body beneath the surface until the warmth wrapped around your chest and shoulders like a weighted blanket.
Your hands hovered for a moment over your knees, trembling faintly. You weren’t sure if the shaking would stop, even here.
You heard the soft shift of fabric behind you. Tommy’s coat, his boots, his shirt hitting the floor one piece at a time.
The tub creaked as he climbed in behind you.
You didn’t turn to look, but you leaned back the second his arms opened. He pulled you against his chest, one arm looped gently around your waist, the other resting on the edge of the tub.
The water lapped gently around you both. His breath was slow against your shoulder, and his skin was warm and solid behind you.
“You shouldn’t have had to do that,” he said. Regretful in the way only he could be.
Your fingers, resting just above the surface of the water, twitched slightly. You swallowed, but still didn’t speak as you laid your head back against him.
“But I’m glad that you did,” he said finally.
You felt the shift in his chest as he spoke, the rhythm of his breath syncing with yours. The weight of the day pressed into the room like fog. Tommy tightened his arm around your waist, anchoring you against him.
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