Work Text:
You thought you knew heartbreak. You’d been through enough failed relationships to pin-point the moment that love turned into torment, the second butterflies staggered instead of fluttered. Heartbreak was a way to label the tears, the lack of appetite, the recklessness. It was a part of life; a necessary twist in the cycle... but it wasn’t the same as feeling your heart break.
To feel your heart break was to shudder as it crumbled; to cry out as it give a last, desperate, beat; to fall with it, as it plummeted into the dark nothing of your soul. It was the one thing that could stop time itself, because from that point, time didn’t matter. Your heart had gone, and your future had disappeared alongside it.
That, you’d never felt. Not until you’d watched him die.
It had happened fast enough that you were helpless. You couldn’t call out in warning, couldn’t grab your own gun from inside. Instead, you were left to stumble forward, knees scraping the paving stones as you fell.
You screamed his name as you scrambled to where he lay. The pounding in your ears was loud enough that you couldn’t be sure the shooting had stopped, but you didn’t care; he was shot and you would get to him. You would reach him before they took him from you.
‘John, baby.’ You were panting, your voice trembling as you looked him over. He was pale, and staring, and thick crimson poured from his lips. His body was silhouetted by the growing circle of blood.
‘Oh God, no. My John, my love, no,’ you sobbed the patchwork words, taking his head in your shaking hands. ‘Stay here, John, Johnny, stay with me, please John.’
You couldn’t bring yourself to look at the bullet-riddled body that stretched in front of you. You kept your eyes on his, folding yourself so you were almost touching, nose to nose.
‘John, John please,’ you whispered, frantic. ‘John don’t you go. Don’t you fucking go.’
You felt his neck, desperate to find a pulse, his blood sticking to you like it was yours. But he was already gone. His body was still, his lifeline silenced.
That’s when you felt your heart shatter completely. You spiralled so violently that the rest of the day became just another lost memory; how and when you were pulled from his body, you didn’t know. All you remembered was your heart breaking, and you breaking with it.
——————————————————————
‘(Y/n)?’ Ada’s voice twisted through the house. She was downstairs, looking for you, and you were upstairs, in the bathroom, hiding.
You glanced at yourself in the mirror, as if conferring silently with the reflection, before looking down. You didn’t want to be disturbed; she could wait.
You twisted the tap on again, letting it soak your palms. You weren’t sure how long you’d been stood there, washing and washing your hands, but it wasn’t long enough. Your skin was still printed with red. You reached for the soap and began scrubbing, starting with your knuckles.
It’d been two days. Two days and John’s blood still stained your hands. It seemed permanently fixed to your skin, like tar.
The water ran clear so you scrubbed harder, shifting to rub at your fingers with the quickly shrinking soap.
‘Where’s (y/n)?’ You heard Ada again from the hall by the stairs.
He’d died right in front of you, in your arms, in your hands. His blood had poured over you. You’d let it happen. You’d stood there and he’d fallen and you’d let it happen.
The soap slipped from your grip and clattered into the basin. It hadn’t stopped moving before you’d reached for it again, dragging it across you, itching its clean into your filth.
You hadn’t warned him. You’d slowed him down.
The soap dug into your nail-beds.
If you’d had gone with Michael, if you hadn’t put up a fight, he’d still be alive. Your hands wouldn’t be bloody. He’d still be alive. Your hands would be clean. Clean.
‘(Y/n)!’ Ada barked from behind you. ‘What are you doing?’
You were frozen in place, the room quiet minus the soft running of water from the tap.
She crossed the room and plucked the soap from you, twisting the tap off in the same curving motion. ‘Pol says you’ve been up here for hours.’
‘My hands,’ you started feebly. ‘The blood.’
Ada pulled a towel from beneath the sink and swaddled your hands in it. ‘(Y/n),’ she sighed, drying you gently. ‘There’s nothing there.’ She removed the towel and showed it to you. It was soft, clean, un-stained.
‘Look,’ she held your hands in her own. ‘There’s no blood.’
You looked down and saw that she was right. Your skin looked as it should have. There was no blood, no John. They were clean; the only marks left were from your own roughness.
‘I couldn’t stop seeing it,’ you admitted.
‘It’s gone now.’ She squeezed your wrists. ‘It won’t be back again.’
You wanted to believe her, and so you did.
——————————————————————
‘Tommy’s got a car for you,’ Finn said as he entered the kitchen, not bothering to announce himself.
You nodded and stood from where you’d been sat; you hadn’t been doing anything, you’d been staring at the woodgrain and thinking about nothing. You had long accepted how increasingly difficult it had become to be anything but blank.
He led you out of the house, waiting to the side as you passed through the front door to close it behind you. It shut with a bang and you jumped out of your skin, your pulse quickening, a sharp noise escaping your lips by reflex.
Every loud bang startled you now. You jumped and flinched at anything that resembled the round punch of a gunshot. The sound had such a grasp on you, that you’d stayed inside for the past few days, unwilling to pass any of Small Heath’s industries; too afraid of embarrassing yourself with your skittishness.
You knew Finn had seen your reaction, there was no way he hadn’t, but he didn’t show it. He walked around you without so much as a glance, his hands tucked into his pockets.
You swallowed hard. It was just a door closing. If you corrected yourself enough times, perhaps you wouldn’t be so afraid.
Finn popped the door of the car and held it open for you.
You smiled as you climbed in. ‘Thank-you,’ you said, more for the mercy than the gesture.
‘It’s alright,’ he replied, with a nod that showed you he knew what he’d done. He’d spared you the embarrassment: he’d faked ignorance to your fear, he’d treated you as if everything was normal, and in doing so, he’d restored the smallest part of your heart.
——————————————————————
‘I can’t do it.’ You stared at the double doors in front of you. Behind the circular windows was John. The cold body of the man you loved. ‘I can’t see him, Pol.’
‘You can and you will,’ she answered plainly, turning to face you. ‘You’re his wife, (Y/n).’
‘Not anymore.’ It soured your mouth as you said it, but it was true. You were no more his wife than he was your husband, that title had gone down with the break of your heart.
‘It doesn’t finish here. You’ll always be his wife.’ Pol’s voice was somewhere between comforting and scolding; after the day you’d all had, you would take either.
You watched her light a thin cigarette before you asked, ’How can I look at him?’
She inhaled and exhaled. The smoke curled around her, a grey shadow to her black attire. ‘The same way you looked at him on Christmas Day.’ She took another drag. ‘The same way you looked at him on your wedding day.’
‘I can’t, Pol. He’s dead, I can’t just…’ Your words choked in your throat. Dead. It was poison to say aloud.
’He’s still John.’
Still John. He was still John. Your John.
‘You’d regret it for the rest of your life,’ she continued, ‘if you let him go without speaking to him first.’
You dropped your head. She was right. ‘Will you wait for me?’ you asked quietly, closing your eyes. ‘So when I come out, I’m not on my own.’
She squeezed your arm. ‘Of course, love. I’ll be here.’
——————————————————————
He looked like he was sleeping.
They’d cleaned his body, ready to re-dress him in something smart for the funeral, and laid a sheet over him. His face was soft, peaceful. Frozen in a colourless slumber.
You stood a yard back from him, too afraid to go closer. Too scared to disturb him. You watched him as if he were about to stir and prove this was all a dream.
Pol had told you to talk to him, Ada had encouraged it too, but standing there beside him you couldn’t imagine opening your mouth. Not when he couldn’t say something back. You’d known John for the majority of your life, and he’d never once let you talk at him without having something to say in return; you didn’t want to break that now. You couldn’t let your last conversation with him be an uneven one.
After a moment, you took the final steps toward him. You were crying quietly, your stomach sunken into queasiness, your lips trembling. He was as perfect as you remembered him. Of course he was, he was your John. But he was tainted with a sickly pallor that crumbled what was left of your mending heart.
Without thinking, you lifted the sheet and found his hand. You had to touch him, to hold him, you had to let him know you were there. He was cold enough to raise your skin into goosebumps; you couldn’t help but wrap your fingers around his in an attempt to warm them, to bring them back.
John. Your composure shattered and you let yourself sob. Your cries broke through the silence of the room, bouncing back in a way that only many you cry harder. At the sadness of it, at the pain of your own loss. At John.
You collapsed onto him, holding the body that couldn’t comfort you. His stiff form rejected your mourning and you lay atop him as if he weren’t there at all.
You couldn’t say it aloud. You couldn’t give him the words he deserved, so instead you thought them, shouting in your mind as sobs continued to shudder through you.
John, I can’t do this without you.
I can’t have this world without you in it. You were never meant to go like that, we were never meant to say goodbye so early, it’s not fair. We weren’t supposed to…
I don’t want you to go. You can’t be gone. I need you. I need you, John.
I love you. I love you and I’m sorry.
——————————————————————
‘So we’ll take a vote,’ Tommy announced, eyes flitting over his audience.
He’d called you all to a meeting, to discuss what comes next with the Changrettas and the war they brought to Birmingham. To discuss all the things that meant nothing to you, not now, not after you’d lost it all.
You were sat next to Arthur, with Tommy stood in the gap on the other side of you, and you couldn’t help but think you’d been put there to make your presence feel important. To let you know you were included, that you were still a part of the family.
It hadn’t crossed your mind that you weren’t family. It equally hadn’t crossed your mind that you were. You’d been in an empty trance since seeing the body.
‘(Y/n)?’ Tommy questioned, having decided you would be the first to partake in the vote.
You cleared your throat. ‘If John were here.’ Your voice shrank as soon as you’d said his name; the statement had swallowed the room in grief, with eyes averting and heads dipping. You hadn’t planned what your answer would be, you’d just started and hoped your mind would take you somewhere useful.
‘Sorry,’ you muttered. You were beginning to panic. Did you really know what he’d say? Was it important?
‘Go on, love,’ Arthur said from beside you. He reached for your hand, holding it beneath the table as if the comfort was a secret. He gave it a squeeze as he nodded for you to continue. ’You can speak for him.’
You didn’t expect his touch to help, but it did, the gesture anchored you; you were John’s wife, Arthur’s friend, a Shelby by name and spirit. ‘If John were here,’ you said, ‘he’d vote whichever way got these bastards killed.’
Arthur shook your joined hands in agreement.
‘So for him, I say peace.’
Tommy nodded. ‘And for you?’
‘Peace.’ You didn’t have any doubt that the family was stronger together. ‘We need peace.’
——————————————————————
They were coming for you.
They’d get you in your home, inside, where it was supposed to be safe. They’d take you before you could cry out for help. They’d come again and they’d kill you like they killed John, with the people you loved watching you die.
You had to get out before they did; you had to leave home and go before they could find you.
You were scrambling for freedom before you’d paused to think.
You’d gotten out and into the open air in what had felt like seconds.
It was pouring with rain. Your clothes were drenched through, sticking to your body like a second skin, but you didn’t stop. You span on your heels, assessing your surroundings for the best escape route.
You had to go, you had to go before they came. You had to go.
You looked into the dark and saw movement. They were here. They were coming for you. You screamed and turned the opposite way to make a run for it.
You had to get away. You couldn’t die, you had to get away.
You ran straight into something, the impact dislodging some panic from your state. Panting, you squinted at the man, staring through the dark and the weather to read his blurred face.
‘(Y/n), it’s alright.’ He gripped you by the biceps, holding you firmly still. ‘You aren’t in any danger.’
’Get off me!’ you shrieked as you attempted to break free. ‘Get the fuck off me!’
‘(Y/n),’ he said your name again, shaking you. ‘(Y/n), you need to calm down. It’s alright.’
You were crying, from the panic, from the confusion… you were still screaming at him, shouting for him to let you go. You thrashed in his hold.
You had to get away, you had to get away from him and them and-
He slapped you. A quick, sharp pain shot across your cheek. The abruptness of it brought you crashing back to reality, as if he’d thrown you from a moving car.
It was Tommy, the man was Tommy. He stood in front of you, holding you at arms length, with his soaking hair plastered to his forehead.
It wasn’t real. None of it was real.
You looked around, your heart hammering against your chest as your awareness returned. You were in the street. It was raining, the middle of the night, and you were stood in the street in nothing but your nightdress.
In a panic, you spun your face back to him, ‘What’s happening to me Tommy?’
He panted, out of breath himself, and pulled you to his chest. He held you there, your head rising and falling with his breathing. He didn’t say anything; you didn’t think he could. Nothing he said would have answered your question.
You clung to him like you needed him. Your hands wounds into his shirt and you pressed your face tight enough to his chest that you could hear his racing heart.
You were safe with him, with them. You were safe.
——————————————————————
‘I brought you something.’ You pulled the chair closer to Michael’s bed, sitting down with your purse balanced on your lap.
Michael groaned as he attempted to sit upright.
‘Pol said you were after smokes,’ you pulled the envelope from your bag, ‘so I brought you your own. Rolled them myself.’
He raised his eyebrows slightly, looking to the small package you presented without moving his head. ‘In an envelope?’
‘It’s more subtle than a tin, isn’t it?’ you quipped, rolling your eyes. ‘Want one?’
‘Please.’
You took one out and leant forward to place it between his lips. He waited as you reached for your lighter, watching down his nose as you lit it. Everything was an effort for him, you could see it in his face, even taking a drag caused his features to scrunch in pain.
‘I hate seeing you like this,’ you commented.
He took another slow, pained, smoke.
‘I wish you could be better overnight.’
‘You and me both,’ he replied, closing his eyes.
You fiddled with the fastening of your purse, watching your hands as you attempted to still the conversation that bubbled under your tongue. You’d come to see Michael. You wouldn’t burden him with your problems; he had enough on his plate.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
Your head snapped up. He was watching you through a squint. ‘What’s what?’
‘What’s bothering you?’
‘Nothing.’ You attempted to smile.
‘(Y/n).’
‘It’s nothing, Mike.’
You went to pinch the cigarette from between his fingers, but he pulled his hand up at the last minute, forcing you to look back to his face.
‘It’s the funeral tomorrow,’ he said.
He’d seen through you as he always did. He plucked the anxiety from behind your eyes and placed it between you, for the world to see.
‘I…’ you stuttered, almost ashamed of what you were about to say. ‘I don’t think I can go.’
He cleared his throat. ’And why’s that?’
‘It’s too final. After everything that’s happened since he went, I’ve finally reached a point where it’s working. Where I’m functioning.’
Michael waited for you to continue, his silence telling you that your excuses we’re as nonsensical as you feared.
‘If I go, I have to face it all over again,’ you admitted. ‘I’m not strong enough.’
He sighed. ‘You don’t believe that.’
He was right. If anything, the past week, days, however long had passed, had proved that you were. You were strong enough to carry on without him. You were strong enough to piece your heart back together again.
‘Then why don’t you want to go?’
You felt the air escape from your lungs. Your head dropped, sinking between your shoulders, your voice quiet as you spoke. ‘Because I don’t want to say goodbye. I don’t want to let him go.’ It felt selfish to admit it, to assume that the funeral was for you and you alone. To declare that he was yours to keep.
Michael stayed quiet for a moment, smoking and breathing heavily through the torment of his injuries. You waited for him to speak again, turning the envelope of cigarettes over in your hands.
’I was there too, (y/n),’ he said eventually. ‘His face was the last thing I saw.’
You said nothing. You didn't want to see the image he was speaking of.
‘I can’t go to the funeral, but I want to.’
You nodded.
‘Would you go for me?’
Your throat tightened. You couldn’t say no, you couldn’t deny his closure as you denied your own.
‘Say goodbye to the lad, from me?’
‘Alright,’ you croaked, nodding. ‘For you.’
You knew just as well as he did that it was a pretence, that you all you needed was a purpose; one that would push you into going for yourself, despite your own stubbornness. That you knew just as he did, it was time to say goodbye. It was time to let John go.
——————————————————————
They’d put him in his uniform. Posed him with his hands by his side, surrounded by his victories and achievements. You’d only stolen a moments glance at him, but you were sure the corners of his mouth sat upturned, paused in a slow smile; as if waiting, cockily, for what comes next.
You didn’t think you’d find yourself smiling at his funeral, but that image made it so. You snuffed a laugh at the thought of it and walked back to the group, merging into the sea of black with your head held high.
You’d tucked a photograph of the two of you on your wedding day, into the door of the caravan; something for him to remember you by. It used to hang in the hallway of your home, but you’d come to realise that without him by your side, you couldn’t even look at it. It would never hang on your wall again. It would never make you smile. It existed for the both of you, and so he would keep it for now, until you met again.
As Arthur lit the pyre, that’s where your eyes fell. You watched it as it turned to ash, flaking into the wind, disappearing into the smoke.
It didn’t hurt as you thought it would. It almost felt like relief.
He went and he took the photograph with him. He took you with him. It was never a case of you saying goodbye, of you letting go.
In the end, it was John who said goodbye to you. All you had to do was listen.