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dogmetaph0r · 1 month

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SIC ‘EM

Chapter 3: Sit...

A/N: FIIIINALLY it's Fia time!!! Emetophobia warning in this one, sorryyyy they are so frail like baby birds 2 me....this one kinda sucked to write, not because of the content but because I had to get so many timelines straight (side note, the individual sections of these chapters kinda jump around a bit timeline-wise since we're in multiple different POVs). Apologies if there are inconsistencies because I (hopefully) won't force that kind of lore accuracy on myself ever again yayyy <3 this one has more Shelby brother humor and hijinks, so enjoy a lot of sass and questionable medical practices. Fun fact, the use of De Selby pt 1 and 2 actually provided most of the inspiration for Sam's backstory. Of course listen however you please, but for the best author-endorsed experience, I recommend listening to De Selby Pt. 1 during the beginning of the second part of the chapter.

Pairings: M!OC x F!OC, M!OC x Tommy Shelby

Warnings: descriptions of violence, PTSD episode (and poor handling thereof), hospitalization, blood and injury, vomiting, mild suicidality, narcotic misuse

Soundtrack: De Selby (Part 1) - Hozier // Army Dreamers - Kate Bush

Summary: With Sam injured, Fia journeys alone to Birmingham General Hospital with the help of a few friendly faces along the way. Meanwhile, Sam struggles with long-buried memories and Tommy grapples with the idea that he might've been had. Reunions and truces abound, some less expected than others.

It took two long days by horse and caravan to reach the stain on the map known as Birmingham. The skin of Fia’s lips and fingers were bitten raw in that time, dotted with pinprick-small scabs. What she’d heard on Saturday was so vague– Sam was injured, he fell unconscious on the way back, and they had rushed him to the hospital in Birmingham –that her rabbit-quick thoughts had no choice but to conjure new scenarios, each more horrific than the last. She couldn’t sleep. She could hardly even sit still long enough for it to be a possibility. Better this than overworking the horses, she told herself until the words hardly meant anything. Despite the sourness of guilt that sat in her mouth at the thought, she cursed the fact that Fleet Ypres and Queen Bathsheba couldn’t just go faster, trot on longer, need less.

But Fia was kind, and Ypres and Queenie were good girls. Every break took exactly as long as it needed to take, and every step was chosen for comfort over speed. Queenie had been hers as a child, bottle raised and babied through her clumsy, long-legged filly years. As such, she was more than happy to share the weight where Fia needed her, be it hitched to the head of the vardo or trailing alongside with a light pack of provisions. It soothed her fears to know that no matter what, Ypres would be taken care of in her rider’s absence.

Word had spread like lightning from one Pollyanna Gray to Fia’s employer through the telephone lines (bless the telephone for such a service), and Mrs. Davies had kindly allowed her to leave the mending until she returned. After losing her husband to the war, the old woman had grown a soft spot for Fia and her man that, in her own words, would be the absolute death of her. With only just enough breath left to thank her as she dashed out the door, Fia bundled up her and Sam’s few belongings and bid Fleet Ypres onward as quickly as she could manage that very afternoon.

After miles and miles of fresh spring air and fragrant grass, Birmingham’s stench of coal, garbage water, and drunkards was an assault on her already sensitive nose. She was glad for the fact that Danny had returned for Meska just days before, as she was sure that the grating industrial noise alone would have spooked him and his delicate sensibilities, never mind the sound of her dry heaving by the side of the canal. The horses stood idly by, shifting their weight as they grumbled nervously at the barrage of new stimuli. Now and then, she felt Queenie’s broad head nudge between her shoulder blades between shuddering breaths and uncontrolled cramps of her stomach. A small comfort, but a noble and appreciated attempt nonetheless.

A shuffling noise from a few yards away startled Fia from nitpicking her reflection in the oil-slick canal. Her heart dropped as she spun, expecting trouble, but her fears were quickly quelled when she was met with a quartet of dirt-smudged children. They clustered together around the tallest, a boy who couldn’t have been older than seven holding a tattered ball in his hands. The tiniest, a little girl, was beaming with all her might.

“That’s pretty,” she said, pointing a pudgy little finger at her vardo.

Now that the girl mentioned it, the vardo was probably the brightest splash of color Fia had seen since she’d arrived. It seemed that the very walls of the city were blanketed with grime and soot, long obscuring any indication of art and life that once belonged to the working people of Small Heath.

“Thank you,” Fia said, kneeling in front of the girl. “Have you ever seen one of these? It’s called a vardo.”

The girl shook her head, blonde braids whipping about her shoulders, and a skinny, freckled boy grasped her by the shoulders and pulled her back to the safety of their little group.

“Who’re you?” The boy asked, nose screwed up in suspicion.

“Are you a princess?” An older girl stepped forward. “With a carriage?”

“Your hair is big.”

“May I pat the dark horsie?”

“Are you gonna have a baby?”

Fia blinked at the bombardment of questions, unable to contain the laugh that sneaked out of her. Sweet Mary, if her little one was even half as curious, she had her work cut out for her. “You can pat her, if you’re gentle,” she told the girl already stretching her hand out to press her palm against Ypres’s curious nose. “And yes,” she turned to the boy with the ball, who was pointing at her belly, “I am having a baby, in a few months’ time.”

“Well– well I saw a vaw-dy one time,” the freckled boy shouted over the delighted squeals of his friends as Ypres took deep, inquisitive huffs of the tops of their heads. “In Mr. Charlie’s yard.”

Mr. Charlie, she thought. As in Charlie Strong? His stables were the ideal place to leave her horses and the vardo where she knew they would be safe from thieves and vandals. Perhaps Charlie would even be able to give her more information on what the hell was going on. She smiled at the little one, standing and smoothing her hands over her skirt. “Would you take me to see Mr. Charlie?”

It didn’t take long to find the scrapyard belonging to John Shelby’s uncle after that. The children ran alongside and in front of the vardo (thank god for Ypres being so well-broken, with the number of times she had to remind them to be careful), beckoning her along with excited hoots and hollers. Their five-person crusade stopped just at the perimeter of the yard, the children falling quiet and shy as Charlie Strong squinted through the glare of scrap metal in the sun. He was an unassuming man, skinny and wiry with the lean muscles of hard labor. The edge of his peaky cap, however, glinted silver in the sun, and she could see the long-healed trophies of past fights littering his bare forearms.

“I know you,” Charlie called out as she hopped down to lead her horses forward. “You’re one of the Lee girls.” He unlatched the front gate, pulling it aside and beckoning her through. “Must be. You look like your pop. Got your mother’s nose, though.”

Fia smiled, unhitching the horses when they were far enough into the yard. “Does that get me a discount on stabling?”

Charlie laughed. “Good try. Nah, I’ll be reimbursed by Tom, I’m sure. Here for your sister?”

“Actually,” she said, assisting Charlie in untacking the horses and putting them in stalls fragrant with fresh barley straw, “I’m looking for Sam Lovell. Henry Lovell’s son? He was brought to the hospital a few days ago.”

Charlie frowned, grunting. “Haven’t seen him here. But the hospital is too far into the city to walk. You’d be better off finding your sister and waiting with her.”

Fia deflated, anxiety prickling her brow. She certainly would not be better off waiting. Esme had, presumably, no clue that she was even here. While she was sure Esme would never turn her away, it had been so long… who’s to say she wasn’t cross with her for running off? For turning her back on the Lees over a boy? “He’s hurt, Mr. Strong. Badly.” Charlie tracked the motion of her hand to her lower belly, eyes widening minutely.

The older man huffed a labored sigh, rubbing his chin as his eyes drifted over an incomprehensible mess of scrap metals and old, rotting wood. His eyes settled over a tarp on the gray water. “Tell you what, lass,” he strode over and yanked the canvas from the top of an engine-powered longboat, hopping aboard in a well-practiced motion. “I can get you as far as Digbeth through The Cut.”

Relief flooded her as she stepped onto the boat, Charlie’s hand firm on her arm to keep her steady on the rocking boat. She’d never been on a longboat, though in her life she had seen quite a few being led by canalside horses up through the waterways of England. It was smaller than she remembered as a child, though it could’ve been that the engine took up far more space and she had been far smaller many years ago. The whole of it was sooty despite having been covered, but Charlie laid out the clean side of the canvas tarp for her to sit on a sagging bag of horse feed.

“Right, if we’re all situated…” A clank came from the engine somewhere behind her, and the boat jolted to a start in the water. She looked back to see Charlie standing as tall and proud as a captain next to the smoke stack as it began to spit up clumps of charred black soot. “If you tend to get boatsick… just try and aim away from the deck.”

Fia cringed.

Whistle-whine roar of rockets. Shrieks like dying animals. Skull-rattling impact. Rain of dirt, shower of rocks.

Bomb after bomb, mud, blood, gunpowder in his nose. Mud, blood gunpowder. There were hands at his back, foreheads pressed to his shoulders, fingers gripping and pulling and scrabbling at his drabs. Get down, Lovell! Get the fuck down, you fucking idiot!

But for what? There was nothing to fear, nothing at all. How different was this from the blaze of fireworks? How much colder could the cold of a grave be, compared to the cold of the trench? How much darker could the dark get, when night already smothered the smoke-choked skies of Belgium? Who would miss him that didn’t already?

The skies settled to silence, a violent quiet ringing in the ears and vibrating the skin. Had it ended already? The war? The fight? Or just his fight? Sizzling earth like the scorched soils of hell, glittering-glistening-glowing fragments of mortar metal, hunks of meat shining in the light of the moon. Pieces of soldiers who once were. In a deep dark like this, which way was up and which was down? Were these gleaming surfaces the remains of metal and flesh, or were they stars? Was that inky black above the open air, or was it the bile-piss-gore-soaked earth? Who could say that these weren’t angels of death surrounding him, opposing him, pulling him up to heaven or down to hell. Whichever fucking way they were dragging him.

Lance Corporal, stand down!

It was so peaceful. Trembling-soft was his fellow-in-arms, clinging like hope to the leg of his pants.

Don’t, Sam, don��t. Stay here, Sam.

Sit down. Sit down, Sam, we’ve got you, that’s it.

How different could it be to climb out of the trench?

Oh my god! Oh my god!

Not so different. But here, away from the heat of a dozen hot mouths panting like dogs, he could feel the snow. Oh, the snow. It kissed the bridge of his nose, ran down the sides of his cheeks, dusted his eyelashes. Was that death, embracing him there? Did it reach out with ice-cold fingers, melt against the heat of his skin only to pool again in the hollow of his throat? Did it not caress him like a lover? Did it not whisper promises of peace, of freedom, of numbness?

Thud. Crushing, collapsing. Fire. Fire. Burning, sticky ribs, fingers grasping at frayed flesh and shredded wool. Some raw new cavity in his side blooming open like a flower, wet boiling globs of something flowing like rivers down his shirt, down his fingers.

Enemy fire! Oh god, oh fuck! Fuck, he’s down!

Down, down, down. Slower than snowfall, hotter than flame. Can’t breathe, can’t breathe. Thud. Mud, blood, gunpowder. Can’t breathe.

Can’t breathe.

CAN’T BREATHE–

Sam! Sam!

Wake the–

“ –fuck up!” John batted open-handed at the side of his face, Sam’s forehead damp with nightmare sweat and tense with fear.

“Fuck!” Arthur shouted, fumbling with something to the sides of him, and before long his hands were tied fast to the rickety metal frame of the cot.

“Hold ‘is head, he’s thrashing.”

“Someone get his legs! Sam, breathe! Breathe!”

“Can’t,” Sam gasped, ribs pressing and pulling, rising and falling with no relief, a fish on a line dragged to dry land. He coughed, body wracked by pain. “Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.”

“You’re breathing.” Tommy’s hands were on either side of his face, thumbs at the tender hinges of his jaw. “Shh. You can breathe if you pull it together. You hear me? Calm down. Good, see? You’re doing it.”

“Do something, mate, he’s going to go full Barney any second!”

“He’s already gone, listen to him!”

Sam was shouting something between burning wheezes, the words bursting from him like steam through the cracks in his armor. Arthur and John shared a look, shock and realization steeling their faces.

“Lance Corporal, you need to breathe. Now!”

Like someone had snapped their fingers and lifted a spell, Sam’s lungs could expand and draw gulps of blessed cold air along the roof of his mouth, the back of his dry throat. It hurt like hell. It burned like fire. But fuck, he could breathe. He tried to sit up.

“Who–”

Tommy hushed him, one hand on his shoulder and the other on his forehead, ice-cold and steady. “That was just Arthur, Sam. The war’s over. Rein it in, eh? You don’t need to report to anyone. We’re in Birmingham, in the hospital. It’s Sunday. Do you remember?”

Sam shook his head instinctively within the limited space offered by Tommy’s broad hands. Too many words. His head felt like wet wool and his stomach like a bag of acid, roiling and frothing and threatening to spill over. His mouth flooded with saliva, the room spun, and–

Sam gagged and shuddered as rust-colored bile spilled from his mouth, just barely making it to the floor beside his bed. God, it hurt. His body cramped from the bottom of his stomach up to the top of his chest, white-hot needles pricking the twist of his abdomen as he leaned precariously over the side of the cot with one arm pulled uncomfortably back by the leather cuff around his wrist. Tommy’s right hand didn’t leave his forehead, pushing his greasy hair out of his eyes as Arthur patted his back hesitantly.

Rolling back into place was its own agony, bandages tight around his empty stomach and head still swimming. “The fuck–?”

“John, get the doctor?” Tommy replaced his hand with a cool, damp cloth, rising to draw the curtains away from the warped window panes. Pale beams of morning sunlight struck the wooden floorboards and clean tiled walls, illuminating spartan rows of empty hospital beds and a side table with piles of blood-dotted rags. The metallic, chemical smell of antiseptic singed his nostrils, but it was preferable to what was before. Mud, blood, gunpowder.

“We’re going to let your wrists out of the restraints. Will you sit still? If you can sit still, we won’t need any medicine because it won’t hurt. Got it?” Tommy’s voice was gentle and light as he knelt at the side of his bed, like Sam was a landmine he feared would go off if he stepped too heavily. The leather manacles fell away, and Sam’s hands came up slowly to rub the raw, red lines marking the bones of his wrists.

Tommy nearly smiled. Nearly. Relief softened his gaze, even as Arthur cringed at his other side and threw a small hand rag down onto the splatter of acidic bile. “Very good, Sam,” Tommy hushed. “That’s much better.”

Sam blamed his ears pinking on the disgruntled expression on the doctor’s face as he entered, taking in the poor attempt at mopping up the contents of Sam’s empty stomach.

“Concussion,” the bearded man proclaimed as he set a large leather bag on the bedside table, “has a tendency of upsetting the stomach. As does your medication, but there’s little to be done about that.” He threw a knowing glance at the leather cuffs dangling from the sides of the bed. Sam had the distinct impression that this wasn’t the first time he needed to be restrained.

The doctor withdrew several tools one by one– stethoscope, hypodermic needle, medicine vial, magnifying glass. Tommy and Arthur were employed in propping Sam upright, setting thin pillows behind his back. After a quick check of his lungs (Sam scowled at the diagnosis that his earlier inability to breathe was, essentially, all in his head), the doctor took the microscope to his pupils, scrutinizing the way he flinched and blinked at the bright bedside lamp thrust in his face.

“All looks well,” the doctor announced, speaking more to the Shelbys than to Sam as they adjusted him to a lying position once more. “If we can go a day without coughing anything up, I believe the rest of the recovery may be done at home.”

Arthur frowned. “But the, ah… the vomming, Doc?” He gestured crudely to the now-soaked rag on the floor, the unmopped fluid now tinged a light brown.

“Likely an aftereffect of last night’s fit,” the old man dismissed. “In his panic, he may have tried to swallow it down with the remains of the nosebleed.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “S-swallowed what?”

All three of the men turned to look at him as though they forgot the subject of the exam was still lying there.

Tommy stood by his bedside, leaning down with a warning look at Arthur. “You’ve coughed up some blood,” he elaborated. “From your lungs.”

Sam’s jaw dropped. “Pardon the fuck–” he coughed (blissfully dry this time, though something in his chest grated uncomfortably) “–the fuck out of me?”

“Only a little!” Arthur said, hands out as though Sam were ready to lunge at him. “Only a little. Just a few times last night, just after you got in.”

“Nothing too terrible,” the doctor said, demeanor blasé as he drew a portion of the liquid medicine into a syringe. “It’s not uncommon with the type of injury you sustained.” Memories trickled in through the spaces between words. There had been a fight at the race. Aintree? Yes, Aintree, where he’d been hired as a spy for the Peaky Blinders. The fight wasn’t real, until… oh, yes, it became real. Real enough to be thrown against a tentpole, slammed to the ground, socked in the face. But who…?

John Shelby sauntered into the room with a pack of cigarettes in hand and a scabby split down his lower lip, but when he caught the fury boiling in Sam’s eyes, he turned heel and sauntered right back out.

That bastard. “I’ll fucking beat your ugly face in! Again!” Sam pointed at John’s back as he left.

Tommy sighed, putting his hands in his pockets as Arthur closed the door behind the doctor. “I’d rather you didn’t,” Tommy said. “Wouldn’t fix anything.”

The doctor cleared his throat. “Alright, this is just a little painkiller. Something to help you sleep a few more hours without incident.” The tip of a needle was pressed into a vein in his arm, pinching as it entered. Sam’s face screwed up in discomfort at the warmth under his skin.

“See, we could’ve gone with an intravenous drip and saved the trouble, but you were… resistant to that option last night.” He looked meaningfully at the bruises on Sam’s arm, standing out in stark contrast to the pale skin of his inner elbow and the circumference of his wrists.

Sam pouted, the aches of the previous day throbbing in his bones and muscles before they began to melt away. This was something he did remember a portion of, when he concentrated: wriggling out of his restraints and ripping the needle-tipped tube out of his arm in an attempt to escape before being cuffed again. The doctor packed his belongings into a neat leather bag, taking the bribe Tommy passed him on his way out the door.

“When’s Florence getting here?”

Arthur sat on the windowsill on his left. “Soon, mate. Real soon.”

“Tomorrow, hopefully,” Tommy added.

Sam was quiet, picking at the lint on his blanket as his eyelids grew leaden and low. He’d never been to Birmingham. Never even been in a hospital, a real one, the provisional war hospital notwithstanding. How would Fia know where to look? If something went wrong, how would he find her? The patrin signs would come down from Haydock; he’d have to retrace their steps all the way up north to find her trail. It all frightened him so badly, the idea of her traveling unprotected out in the West Midlands where muggings and murders abounded. Where gangs just like the Peaky Blinders vied for control over every square inch like mutts fighting over bones in the street.

“It’s… Sunday, right?” His voice was just a quiet mutter, pensive and somber. “Can I… can I have a Bible? Just to have it. I’d… I think I need it.”

Tommy and Arthur looked at each other, both men shifting uncomfortably. “We can do that, yes,” Tommy said. “Arthur?”

Arthur nodded and took it as his cue to leave, mentioning something about tracking John down to guard the door.

Tommy leaned against the windowsill within Sam’s periphery. “I want to apologize.”

Sam frowned. “For what?” There could have been a billion reasons, he knew, but none that came to mind as immediately relevant. Everything that could’ve been said already had been, he thought drowsily.

“I couldn’t find whoever had lamed the horse.”

If it weren’t for the subject matter, Sam would’ve laughed. It felt like so long ago, seeing to Little Tsarina’s hoof and feeling the pain of what had been done to her. “Oh my,” Sam said instead, the corner of his mouth twitching as he resisted a smile. Everything felt honey-slow, thoughts trickling through his mind too fleetingly to follow. “What made you think of that?”

Tommy couldn’t meet his eyes. Instead he rubbed a cigarette around his lips, cracking the window behind him for the smoke to dissipate as he lit the end. “No reason. Never mind.”

Sam wanted to demand more information, but the bed was so comfortable, and the pillow so soft, that he had no choice but to sink into a blissful, dreamless sleep.

After twenty minutes on the water (and only one retch over the side of the longboat), Charlie docked at Digbeth Branch Canal and pointed her in the direction of the red bricked and gray spired building in the distance. The cobbled roads were slick with a mess of garbage and petrol, and the sidewalks weren’t much better. Her riding boots were a poor match for the smooth stonework, and by the time she slid around the corner to Birmingham General Hospital, she was panting and overwhelmed, hands on her knees as her stomach flipped unpleasantly. She idly wondered, curls thrown around her neck and face haphazardly, whether or not the hospital staff would mistake her for a patient with the way she stumbled through the door. Fia didn’t have much time to ponder her concerns when her march through the sterile hallways of the hospital was abruptly stopped by something solid and suit-clad, gripping her upper arms and gentling her–

“Florence, hey, it’s alright,” John said. He looked a bit ridiculous once Fia had the wherewithal to take him in, lower lip scabbed and swollen and cheek bruised plum purple.

“John Shelby?” She backed up, brows furrowed. “What happened? Is…”

“Sam’s alright,” John reassured her, hands on her shoulders. “It was… there were some mistakes made.” He averted his eyes, embarrassed. Fia made a mental note to interrogate him about that, but she had no time to waste on arguing with him. She had to see Sam.

Pushing through John’s half-hearted attempt at slowing her down, Fia kept moving until she reached the large oak door– Room 26, John had shouted to her as she left –and, hands trembling, turned the handle to let herself in.

Dust motes floated gently through the golden beams of sunlight cutting in from the windows, an unnerving peace disturbed by the door slamming against the wall. Sam sat propped upright in the hospital bed, looking thoroughly displeased and uncomfortable as a spectacled doctor pressed a stethoscope to the right side of his chest. His glazed eyes lit up when he saw her, and only the quick reflexes of the man standing guard by him– Arthur, judging by the mustache and peaky hat –kept him from jolting up from the bed.

“Fi,” he gasped, interrupted by a rattling cough that doubled him over in pain.

“Sam,” she sighed, the fight draining from her body when she saw him– alive and in roughly one piece, thank God.

“Florence-Maria? Hang on, are you p–? ”

“Arthur, relax. Good afternoon, Florence.”

“Hello, Tommy. Arthur.”

“Tom, she’s–”

“I am, Arthur. He knows.”

“But Tom, is–?”

“Arthur, relax or go outside.”

“How about we all relax,” the doctor shot an accusatory look around the room, hand on Sam’s shoulder to guide him back into a reclined position against the pillow bolstering his back. Sam obeyed, sweet gray eyes never leaving Fia’s.

She approached his bedside carefully, heart still pounding from her mad dash. This wasn’t in the plan Sam had told her. He said that they would keep him away from the fighting, offering plausible deniability when the raid started. As things always had when the Shelbys were involved, things had evidently not gone to plan. The everpresent dark rings under Sam’s eyes were somehow even darker with mottled purple-green bruising, shades of shadow flooding across the bridge of his nose where a splint obscured the apex of the damage. Fia’s eyes followed as the doctor brought the stethoscope back in place, shaking his head in frustration at the commotion. Sam was bandaged around the ribs, more of the same colorful bruising peeking out from the edges in watercolor splotches.

“Hi, love,” she said, sitting in the seat that Arthur had left behind as Tommy told him off in the background.

“Hi,” he responded, smiling, voice quiet and clipped from the limited breath he was able to draw between the bandages and the pain.

“No talking, please,” the doctor grumbled.

Sam put a finger in front of his lips and playfully shushed her, which made her laugh in spite of herself. The doctor packed up his kit, explaining that his lungs were fine, ribs in the same state as the day before (and what the hell could that have meant? Fia’s jaw tightened with anger) and that after today, Sam just needed a few weeks’ rest at home with a very short daily walk to prevent pneumonic buildup. No ‘dirty money jobs’, he emphasized, darting a sharp look between both Sam and Tommy. Presumptuous, she thought. Sam’s scared of dirty money jobs and Tommy’s scared of me. No lifting, no running, and no strenuous exercise. The doctor drew a small amount of clear liquid from a little bottle into a syringe, pressing the tip of the needle into Sam’s vein as he winced. No smoking (not an issue), no drinking (somewhat an issue, if Sam’s expression was anything to go by), and absolutely no fighting (doubly not an issue, if she had anything to do with it). Sam took these orders gladly, nodding along with the doctor’s words even as his eyelids started to droop.

“Right, I’ll let Mr. Lovell rest. I suggest everyone do the same, if he’s to be discharged.” The doctor gathered his kit, shaking hands with Tommy on his way out as the gangster slipped what appeared to be a wad of cash into his palm.

Fia let the latch click shut on the door before casting a fierce glare at the men remaining in the room. “What happened?”

Sam snapped back into consciousness with a sharp inhale and gave her a wide, sleepy grin while the brothers did their best to avoid making eye contact. Arthur shoved his hands in his pockets as though the temperature in the room had dropped, and Tommy coughed awkwardly before scratching his nose with his thumb.

“There was… a disagreement,” Tommy started, choosing his words carefully, “between Samuel and John.”

Arthur nodded, staring at his shoes. “And the plan was for there to be a fight– not a real one, just makin’ a show of it –and they. Well.”

“I coughed blood out me lungs,” Sam slurred, still smiling as the scouse accent grew thicker than she’d ever heard it. The other two men shot an admonishing look at him.

Fia’s brows arched up towards her hairline at that. She blinked, casting a knife-sharp sidelong glare at the Shelbys as they did their best impressions of invisible men. “You what, love?”

“Only a little,” Arthur added quickly before Sam could elaborate, which Tommy echoed. Sam laughed, which, for lack of a better word, sounded crunchy before a spike of pain forced him to trail off into a hiccuping grunt.

She had to clench her eyes tight and count to ten before the impulse to wallop them each about the head subsided. Sam whined in pain, throwing a hand out to the side to grope at the side table. Tommy quickly intercepted him before he could get at the tiny vial of liquid medicine, tucking the bottle into a drawer and keeping the man’s hand restrained. Sam settled for holding onto his thumb as the first dose took effect, leaving Tommy standing awkwardly half-bent at the waist as Sam quickly forgot what, exactly, he was doing in favor of watching the dust dance circles above his head.

“The doctor says he’s got a concussion and a cracked rib,” Tommy explained, trying and failing to reclaim his hand. “Pleurisy and a small contusion. Meaning he’s–”

“I know what a contusion is, thank you,” she interrupted, voice even and assertive despite the rage boiling in her veins. “Do I even want to know what he’s on right now?”

Tommy muttered a quick “probably not” under his breath, taking Sam’s answering giggle as an opportunity to slip away. Fia gave Arthur a look instead, raising one eyebrow in a bid for him to elaborate.

Arthur shifted uncomfortably and toyed with the vines of a choked little philodendron sitting in the window, wincing when a leaf broke off and crumbled between his clumsy fingers. “Only a little morphine,” he said, voice tight and hesitant. “Morphine,” Fia huffed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“...Only a little.”

“A little,” Sam confirmed sloppily, pinching his fingers close together as if to demonstrate how little. Without the coordination granted by a clear and sober mind, he seemed unable to focus enough to make his fingers cooperate fully, frowning as he flexed his hand before letting it drop heavily to the bed. Fia stewed at the added context and held his hand as he sank into drug-saturated unconsciousness once again.

Tommy paced aimlessly around the room, lost in his head as Fia’d grown to know was common for him. He didn’t speak until it was clear that Sam had fallen asleep, halting little gasps of breath evening into a more gentle rise and fall of his chest within the bounds of the tight bandaging. “He didn’t want it, but it became necessary overnight.”

For any other person, she would’ve taken it as confirmation of the agonizing pain a rib fracture could induce. But this was Sam, her Sam, and he was a stubborn git. He didn’t like to show weakness– something to do with the early childhood he hardly spoke of. Fia remembered the time when he had been bitten by a client’s horse and had neglected to tell her until he undressed that night, the skin around his shoulder blade grazed raw and bleeding around a perfect ring of bruise-mottled tooth marks. Even when she’d fussed over him, he refused anything stronger than whiskey to dull the pain. It was his fault, he’d claimed, that he lost focus. If it didn’t get infected, it wasn’t worth spending the money on. Something like a broken rib, while excruciating, wouldn’t be fixed by expensive pain medication. So if it wasn’t pain that forced the doctor’s hand first…

“He was reporting for duty again, wasn’t he?” Fia’s shoulders drooped as the realization set in. “Wasn’t himself. Is that it?”

Tommy’s face went still and contemplative as he paused at the foot of Sam’s bed. “He was terrified,” he said, one hand tracing the tarnished metal bars of the footboard. “When the blood came up, he just screamed and screamed. It was hurting him to do it, but he just kept screaming.” Tommy’s expression was drawn, the angles of his face gaunt in the dramatic shadows of the sun-soaked room.

“They had to dope him up,” Arthur added somberly. “Said he’d puncture a lung the way he was struggling. The nurses tied him down when he came to, and from there… well, it was just easier to keep him calm.”

“Fought us all like a cornered animal.” Tommy rubbed the back of his hand, the movement catching Fia’s eye long enough for her to notice the tender-looking scratches gouged into the thin top layer of his skin, red and stark against the paleness of his wrist. Had Sam done that to him? Fia had never seen him get violent. Frightened, sure, when the phantom bullet between his ribs flooded his lungs with fire and kept him sunken in a dream. Confused when he woke up with the illusion of cold mud between his fingers, and frustrated when his attempt at smoking a cigarette ended in him lurching up the contents of his stomach into the wild grass at the side of the road. But violent? It was difficult to picture. Impossible, even, with the lengths he went to shield Fia from the horrors of the Great War. It wasn’t in his nature.

Then again, she had never seen Sam injured in such a way before. They hadn’t sent him home to recover from being shot, the bullet having avoided vital organs on its way out of his body and the battlefield of Ypres in dire need of every soldier they could keep. His fate stalled and uncertain in the base hospital, Fia hadn’t even heard of this injury until he came home freshly discharged and stitched together again when the bloodshed ended. Sam never liked the feeling of his breathing constricted after the war, always tugging the collars of his shirts open after too long buttoned up. His ribs were a particularly tender point, something he always shielded when Fia’s hand brushed a little too close to the shining scar of his bullet wound. It hurt her heart to think of how Sam must’ve been suffering before someone had made the executive decision to flood him with morphine.

“Wasn’t like that until the blood came up,” Arthur explained, wiping the shreds of dry plant from his hands and coming over to stand by her side. “He was in good spirits that first day, all things considered. Woke up a little confused but he was alright. Even cracked some jokes when we were tryin’ to carry him in.”

“Must’ve had a nightmare,” Fia said. She brushed the back of her hand over his sweaty temple.

Tommy hummed. “You said he’d been out of sorts when we were introduced.”

Fia nodded. The peace of early mornings, more often than not, was shattered with strangled cries of fear as Sam awoke from yet another nightmare, shouting for mercy, shouting for backup, shouting military nonsense. She would never be allowed to hear the details, but Sam would at least let her hold him and bring him down from the terror. Those were the nights that Sam could find rest in the first place. She figured he thought he was clever in trying to hide how little he slept, but the dark weariness of deprivation had long sunken into the lines and hollows of his face.

“So he leaves tomorrow?” She asked, voice smaller than she’d wanted it to be. Sam’s breathing was still shallower than was comfortable, the whispery puffs from the slight part in his lips the only indication that he was breathing at all.

“Hopefully,” replied Tommy. “So long as there’s no blood tomorrow, he can rest at home.”

Fia nodded, unable to look away from the slow rise and fall of Sam’s chest. When the sun began to sink in the sky, Tommy offered her a place to stay at Watery Lane. Fia wasn’t quite sure what she’d answered, but Tommy seemed to be satisfied with it as he ushered Arthur out, speaking in low tones with him about guards for the door and eyes on the doctors and nurses. It unnerved her, the seriousness with which they spoke. Of course she didn’t want any of their enemies to catch word of their arrival at the hospital, but Sam wasn’t a threat. He wasn’t a target for their enemies. Not even a regular associate of their gang. A guard outside the door made sense for just about anyone else, and she wasn’t about to talk them out of it, but it was frightening to think that Tommy found it necessary in his own city.

Once the sky had darkened, casting a deep inky blue over the otherwise-empty hospital room, the gangster at the door escorted in a kind-eyed older nurse.

“You ought to go home and get some rest, love.” She puttered around the room, checking Sam’s vitals and restocking all manner of bottles and boxes. “He’ll be alright overnight with so many eyes on him.”

A yawn threatened to escape her at the idea of putting her head down on a pillow of any sort, regardless of how lumpy or Birmingham-scented. The offer Tommy had made her was tempting; a lock on the door, wood in the fireplace, a tub to wash up in, a room that didn’t reek of antiseptic and sickness. She nodded drowsily, leaving Sam with a kiss on the forehead and a vice around her heart. The excitement and nerves of the day subsiding had left her weary to the bone. No sooner had the heavy double doors of the hospital shut behind her than a meek whimper reached her ears. Fia’s head whipped to the side.

Those were her eyes. Her nose. Those curls were the ones she’d learned how to braid before she learned to navigate her own, those hands the ones that had wiped the dirt from her skinned knees and the tears from her eyes. That expression on her face was the one she’d carried after their last argument, when Fia had lashed out because John Shelby was tearing her world in half and taking the portion he’d claimed miles away to Birmingham. That was the very same quiver in the very same chin.

“Flossie,” the woman breathed, voice cracking.

Fia’s throat clicked. “Esme.”

“Fuck,” Arthur hissed. “Fuck! What do we tell ‘em?” Arthur paced back and forth, fingers brushing over his mustache.

Tommy took a drag of his cigarette, the cherry glowing in the brisk night air. At the rate he was going at, he would run out shortly. The two of them watched as John drove Florence and Esme to Small Heath, the sisters pressed shoulder to shoulder. “We don’t tell them anything,” Tommy said, smoke trailing from his nostrils. “Not until we have all the details. It doesn’t leave us.”

Arthur paused. “Not even to John?”

“Especially not John. You know who he’ll point fingers at. I wouldn’t want it to drive a wedge between Esme and Florence.”

Arthur scoffed. “Since when did you care so much about things like that?”

It was a fair question, but Tommy bristled nonetheless. He cared about what he wanted to care about, and that was it. “I don’t. I care about the fallout.”

Arthur nodded, kicking a cigarette butt. “I don’t know that Florence would sabotage us.”

There was a beat. “I wouldn’t rule it out. For all we know, she’s already seen the paper.”

The night wind swept over the spires of the hospital with a ghostly howl. Arthur shivered, drawing his coat more tightly around him. “Do you want another man with eyes on the door?”

Tommy dropped the smoldering cigarette butt to the ground, making his way to the car. “Make it two.”

It was blissfully quiet in Esme and John’s house– if it could be called theirs, seeing as it shared space with an expansion of the betting shop. John had gone up to bed and to check on the kids, letting them have the parlor to themselves. Quiet was something that Esme had assured her was rarer than gold. Six beautiful little terrors, Esme had huffed, though the corner of her lip had twitched up as she said it. Four of John’s by his late first wife, two of both of them: Katie, John Jr., Annie, Albert, Daniel, and—

“Florence is two months old now,” Esme said, taking a sip of her tea as the two of them sat together in the parlor around midnight. “We’re thinking of calling her Flora around the family, to differentiate and all.”

Fia bit her lip as she smiled. She might’ve been surprised if she didn’t know her sister so well. Since they were little, a toddler and an infant, Esme would walk around with Fia on her hip despite just being barely tall enough to lift her. To everyone she’d meet, Esme would proclaim “Flossie is my baby”, and would mind her so carefully that their mother hardly even had the opportunity to do it herself. Even as a teenager, Fia had been the only one to call Esme’s bluff when she rebelliously declared that she didn’t like children. “You don’t like other families’ children,” she’d giggled. “That’s not the same thing.”

The house, while a modest size for a family as big as theirs, was lavishly decorated. It felt a bit like home, all these silks and paints and jewel-toned tiles. With everyone asleep, though, it lacked the warmth of a tiny caravan packed full with Lee children all trying to play in the same space. It was like a large, pricey decoration without the vibrancy of daylight. An addition onto the Shelby empire.

Esme shared the sentiment. “I keep wishing for that house in the country,” she said, pouring another cup for Fia– no milk, two sugars. “I need space. I feel cramped in this dingy city.”

Fia snorted. “I know what you mean. Been here for less than a day and the novelty’s worn off already.” She sighed deeply, settling into the brocade couch. “What’s it like?”

Esme swallowed her mouthful of tea, silently requesting elaboration.

“Being out here. Living…” like a Shelby.

“...Like a Shelby?” Esme smiled behind her teacup. Her older sister wasn’t the only one who was easy to read, it seemed. Fia rolled her eyes, but nodded. Esme thought for a moment. “It’s sort of like learning a new language. The more you speak it…”

“The easier it is to fit in?” Fia tried optimistically.

Esme sighed, less enthusiastic than she had been before. She collected their cups and saucers, loading them onto a tray with the teapot and carrying it to the kitchen. Despite Esme insisting that she stay off her feet for once, Fia trailed behind her, hands behind her back like a child in a shop instructed not to touch anything.

“The easier it is to forget what you’ve spoken your whole life.” She twisted the handle on the ceramic sink, allowing sputtering water to soak the dishware. “I don’t think you’d want it for you and your kid, if I know you. There are some things I like, though. It’s very comfortable to have everything we need, and then some. Nice to not have police breathing down my neck when I enter the shops. On top of that, I help out with the bookkeeping when needed, so I know they don’t think I’m stupid.”

There was always a caveat when her sister spoke in that tone. “But…?”

Esme whipped her head around, eyes desperate. “But it’s so bloody boring!”

The two of them giggled like little girls, doubling over into each other until their laughter gave way into silent shaking, then heaving gasps for breath.

“Christ,” Fia said, wiping her eyes. “Is it really that bad?”

“Worse,” Esme said. “I’m not joking, Flossie, I literally don’t know what I’ll do when the kids are all in school. Do I need– do I need to knit? Is that what wives do, knit scarves for the kids or whatever? Can’t bloody well have a garden in this smog. Forget chickens, they’ll go missing as soon as you hatch ‘em in this fucking neighborhood.”

“No,” Fia groaned, dragging her hands down her face. “I swear, Esme, if I ever move to the city and start knitting scarves, you’ll need to put me out of my misery.”

Their fit subsiding, they worked in companionable silence at washing and drying the dishes. Esme bumped her hip against Fia’s, jostling her as she dried the lid of the teapot.

“What’s your problem? Madwoman,” Fia laughed.

Esme just looked at her for a moment, warmth in her brown eyes. Their mother’s eyes. “I dunno. I missed you.”

Fia’s throat tightened. “I missed you too.”

Their goodbye, though temporary, was no less tearful. Fia was sent off with a little container of peppermint tea for the nausea and back pains, and Esme made sure Finn let her into the Shelby house next door, watching until the lock clicked. Three seconds later, Fia saw the beam of light from her sister’s parlor wane as she closed her own door behind her. Her heart ached something fierce the rest of the night.

“Samuel.”

Sam blinked awake, skull leaden and eyes heavy. Had he slept through the entire day? What time was it? The sky was watery blue, not yet light enough to give him much visibility through the thin slits in the curtains. He could make out the silhouette of a figure at the foot of his bed. For half a second he debated the possibility of it being some weird morphine-induced twist on his usual nightmares, but the click-snap of a lighter igniting revealed some details: broad hands, clean-shaven face, cigarette dangling from his lips. The smell of tobacco, not mud-blood-gunpowder. He relaxed a touch.

“Tommy,” he grumbled, drawing a hand up to rub at his dry eyes. “It’s early as all hell.”

“Get up.”

He froze. There was something about his voice that signaled danger, but if he moved on instinct now, he wouldn’t make it far. Between the state of him and the fact that Tommy was undoubtedly armed, he made the smart decision to stay in place.

“Dunno if I can. Tom, is everything alr–”

“What the fuck,” Tommy hissed, “do you think this is? Huh?”

The barrel of his pistol glowed blue in the dim light. Oh, hell.

“Tom, I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t think I can–”

“Get up and explain this!” A stack of paper landed on his lap. The lamp on his nightstand flicked on, and Sam’s heart nearly lept out through his throat when he saw that Arthur Shelby had been looming in the corner the whole time. The shadows cast on his face from below were something he didn’t think he would forget anytime soon, nor was the scowl he wore that twisted them into a wicked mask of fury. Sam swallowed, dry throat clicking as he turned his attention to whatever it was that Tommy had thrown at him.

From the way it had been folded, it appeared to be a newspaper, wrinkled and frayed at the corners as though it had been passed through many hands. The grayscale images were difficult to parse at first, but he recognized the shapes of the largest ones: Aintree racecourse. A gun.

“And this.” Arthur dropped another, newer one on top of it, the pages still smelling like ink. This time the main image was of an older woman’s smiling face. The sketch adjacent to it looked worryingly familiar.

Sam blinked, gritting his teeth as he pulled himself fully upright in the hospital bed. “You two are scaring me real bad now.”

“Psalms 94:1,” Tommy spat. “Sound familiar, Sam of God?”

“No, it doesn’t!” Sam huffed, exasperated. “Tommy, come on. Enough with the riddles.”

“The Lord is a God who avenges,” Arthur recited, the Bible they’d procured for Sam on Sunday open on the side table, “O God who avenges, shine forth.”

Tommy placed his hands on the footboard, looming over it to where Sam was caught in that piercing glare, no opportunity to look away. “We’ve got you found out, Samuel.”

That made Sam’s heart stop. What the fuck could they have found out? None of his silent guesses comforted him, leading him down darker and stranger paths. Did they know what the war was like for him, beyond what he’d divulged? Is that why they were reading the Bible to him? Did they know? A cold sweat broke out over his skin.

“I- I don’t know what you’ve heard,” Sam stammered, one placating hand up in front of him, “but I never… I wouldn’t. I’m not like that.” Who the fuck had snitched? Was it someone laying in the rat-infested, sodden trenches with him? A superior officer? Fuck, was it the American?

Tommy forcefully expelled a sigh, hovering the muzzle of the gun on top of the newest newspaper, right over the sketch. Right over my right kneecap, Sam thought, shuddering. “Tell me who that is.”

Black hair, sunken eyes, long nose… “That’s me.” Sam’s shoulders sagged a bit. Alright, so it’s probably not about that event. But Tommy was still glaring at him, vivid blue meeting dull gray.

“And what,” he tapped the headline sharply with the gun, “does this say?”

“Come on, Tommy, we don’t need to–”

“Read it.”

Sam was silent.

“Alright,” he snapped, ripping the newspaper away and pointing at the other one. “Let’s backtrack. Fucking tell me what this is about, then.”

Sam stayed silent, looking at Arthur for support and finding none behind hardened eyes. “I can’t.”

Tommy pushed himself back upright, holstering his gun and placing his hands on his hips as he paced towards the window. “Sam, you can’t play clueless all day, alright? This is the kind way, what we’re doing here. We don’t have to be kind.”

“I am clueless!” Sam shouted, even as the effort squeezed at his already-aching ribcage. “Tommy, really, I don’t know what you want from me right now.”

“Read the fucking headline! Tell me what you’ve done!”

“I can’t!” he said, hardly choking the words out. “I can’t.”

Tommy took a step toward Sam with coldness in his eyes, but Arthur put his hand out to intercept him.

“I can’t fucking read.”

Both brothers blinked before Tommy pointed the gun at his head. “You’re a fucking liar.”

“I’m not,” Sam panted. “I can’t read, mate. I– I never learned.”

“You slipped a note into Arthur’s pocket back at Aintree,” Tommy hissed. “Psalms 94:1. That’s what it said. Couldn’t help but make this about your guilty fucking conscience, could you? Did you pray about it? You were the one standing right next to him before we left. You were the one who told us to bet on that horse, and you were the last one to see her before she was taken out of the race.” Tommy cocked the gun as he stepped closer. “You asked for a Bible on Sunday, and now you’re telling me you can’t read?”

“I just hold onto it,” Sam pleaded. “I don’t read it, it’s just– it protects me, s’all. Just a comfort.”

The cold muzzle pressed against his forehead, and Sam went still. Of course it would end like this. All this time he had between Belgium and now was borrowed, anyway. It only made sense that someone would find that out eventually. He closed his eyes and expelled a shallow breath before staring Tommy down. If Tommy was going to take his life, he wouldn’t get the comfort of fear and submission.

A rattling noise across the room caught everyone’s attention just before the heavy door swung open. “You can’t go locking doors like that,” John said as he entered, slipping a lock pick back into his pocket. “That’s a fire hazard. And an… everything hazard, if you want to– hey, hang on.” The man pointed around in a triangle at Tommy, Arthur, and the gun.

Tommy didn’t look away, but he did tilt his head a bit as John announced his entrance. “John, lock the door behind you.”

“No,” he said, crossing his arms. Sam had a vision of John as a stubborn child, refusing to leave until his older brothers included him in their game. “You’re gonna have to explain this here. You two have been acting strange since last night.”

Arthur strode over to pat John on the chest. “We found our rat, Johnny-boy. Aintree’s ours once again.”

John looked confused, attention darting back and forth between Arthur and Sam. “But… how? You mean Sam?” He wrinkled his nose. “No way. Sam can’t have done it.”

“And why is that?” Tommy only pressed the muzzle harder into Sam’s head, forcing it to tip back slightly. Now his heart was racing. The chance of survival was an intoxicating feeling, now that it was a possibility. He peered down his nose at Tommy’s face, no longer cold and empty but pinched in confusion.

“Because,” John said. “Sam can’t read, and the ink on that note was fresh. Right, Arthur? It had to have been written right before you found it in your coat.”

Arthur grumbled, but nodded. He fell quiet, looking to Tommy for guidance.

Tommy’s eyes narrowed. “He can read, John. He asked for a Bible.”

John scoffed. “And Finn keeps those ratty old boxing gloves in his room. Doesn’t make him good at boxing.” John sidestepped Arthur, coming over to tug at Tommy’s shoulder. “Don’t you remember? It was big talk when his dad went insane. Sam hadn’t learned it yet, so he never did. The Lees gave me the whole story.”

“He’s not insane,” Sam said, flushing. “He was kicked by a horse.”

John shot him a look. “Hey, stupid. Don’t fight me on semantics when I’m defending you, alright?”

Sam shut his mouth with a click. Tommy took a few steps back with John’s persuasion, but he kept the gun trained on the space between Sam’s eyes. “There was chaos in that tent,” Tommy said. “How do you know it wasn’t him who pulled the trigger? He’d have every reason to shoot that woman and try to blame you.”

John barked out a laugh at that, chest puffed up with pride. “His sorry arse was too busy being dragged out of harm’s way by yours truly. And besides, I would’ve felt a gun somewhere on him while I was beating him black and blue, if he had one.”

Tommy seemed to accept this, at least temporarily. He holstered his gun, patting John on the shoulder before he paced a nervous lap around the room. Arthur stared down at his feet, embarrassment coloring his ears red.

“So,” Arthur said, clearing his throat, “if it weren’t Sam… who did it?”

“Hello,” Sam tried, voice creaky and dry. “Hi. Can someone tell me what just happened?”

All three brothers looked at him as though he were a ghost. Had he not spoken up, would they have just continued like this? It was a marvel that any of them had women in their lives, all stuck in their own bubble as they were.

Tommy picked up that morning’s newspaper he’d thrown to the ground, dusting it off and handing it to John. At the sight of it, John’s eyebrows raised. He looked at Tommy, who nodded, and then back at the headline.

“Sam, mate,” he said, voice wavering. “Forget snitching. Forget murder. Someone’s framing you for a fucking assassination.”

#fic: sic em #oc: samuel lovell #oc: florence maria lee #peaky blinders #peaky blinders oc #peaky blinders fanfic

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