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ɪᴛ ʜᴀᴅ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴀ ᴡᴇᴇᴋ sɪɴᴄᴇ ʟᴜᴄᴀs ʜᴀᴅ ʙᴇᴇɴ sʜᴏᴛ.

Valentine's parents hadn't mentioned a word more of the pub fight or even Lucas' condition, most likely out of shame and guilt, and while their father should have been riddled with regret, he didn't act like it. They had, of course, mentioned the gems and jewels that they had heard of.

If there was one thing that Valentine could bet on though, when it came to her father, it was his greed. His greed was enough to plant a bullet in his son's chest, but it didn't stop him. A meeting was held without Lucas, with a purpose to talk about the precious items they had overheard about. And to Valentine's dismay, the streak of weeks without a mention of the Peaky Blinders was easily broken.

"It's the gypsies, I'm sure of it," her father said, his hands gripped around an empty glass, knuckles white. Ever since the night in the pub, he had been drinking again, despite her mother's anger. He had been made to stop for a reason.

"Papa, you say that every meeting, it is the end of this one. Can you not forget it?" Valentine asked, her voice falsely soft as she took the glass from his hand. She was afraid he would throw it- he had already done it twice that week.

"No! I cannot forget it, Valentine, do you not understand?" He stood up, his fat neck purple, hands gripping the underside of the oak table. He glared straight back at her. "We could be rich if these gems were to fall into our hands! But the gypsies have them instead!"

"You've always had so much hatred towards them, Papa. And I never knew why. Is it jealousy, because I'm half sure they've forgotten about us all." Valentine's words made her father angry. Very angry.

"You ask me why I hate them! My own daughter thinks I'm jealous." He scoffed, arms flailing about around him. "To think that means to think against the family. I am ashamed, Valentine."

Her mother stood, shocked at her husband's speech, mouth agape, and yet silent still. Valentine stood, nose in the air and left the room without saying anything, instead retreating to her room and placing herself on the cushioned seat next to her desk.

What was she thinking, speaking to her father like that? She should have known that he didn't have the capacity both mentally and emotionally to understand anything she said. He also didn't have the decency to listen to anyone but himself, with respect. She knew now, that no matter what, he would always deny the truth. But what was the point in even mentioning the truth to anyone in her family? They were always going to be conceited.

She was staring again, at the gun in her drawer. It refused to allow her rest, as much as she pleaded and groaned. Deep bags under her eyes were growing by the hour, becoming heavier and darker, until they pulled her to the desk, her head resting on folded hands and eyes boring into the glistening metal.

"Valentine." Her name was called from the bottom of the stairs, her mother's voice faint from the length of the hallway. "We're going to see your brother. We will be back later tonight."

"Wish him well for me, mama," she replied, her voice muffled and quite from the desk, but the front door was slammed shut before she had even finished.

She sighed, closing her eyes. Perhaps sleep would finally come. The curtains were drawn and the candles on her bedside table, which flickered in the light draughts, were dripping and becoming smaller by the second. Her breath tickled her nose and became quieter, deeper, until she was forced upwards by the sound of a firm bang on the door. There was the sound of two more struggled knocks and a thump.

Valentine's breath lodged in her throat. She reached into the drawer of her desk, retrieving the gun with trembling fingers, before leaving the room. There was still slight banging sounds coming from outside of the door as she crept down the stairs. She prayed for it to be her parents, fumbling for a spare key. But as she stepped closer to the door, her fingers reaching for the doorknob, it became an unlikely possibility. Valentine pulled the door open wide, holding the gun in front of her with shaky hands. However, she was greeted by empty space, until she glanced around, wide eyes spotting the hunched figure of a boy.

"Michael?" She exclaimed, dropping the gun to the floor in horror and pushing it away quickly, as if it would burn her fingertips. She rushed to his place, slumped against the brick wall beside the door.

"Valentine." He managed to force out, reaching for her hand, but falling short, instead placing his hand against her waist, before retracting it hurriedly, as if remembering something. She gasped, looking down at the red now smudged on her dress.

"What have you done?" She asked, grazing his bruised face with soft touches. "Michael. Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," he whispered, with a loving smile and a slight chuckle. "But can I come in?"

"Yes. Yes. Come in. Of course," she said, taking him by the wrists and pulling him into the house. She pushed him lightly towards the kitchen, sitting him on the dark, oak table in the middle of it.

She couldn't take her eyes from his hands. They were caked in crimson, so thick that it still dripped from his bent fingertips. His face wasn't much better, littered with cuts and bruises and blood. But he still smiled, showing no signs of pain as he watched her busy herself, rushing to the sink with an old rag and placing it under the water.

"Tell me what happened." She placed the cloth on his cheek, wiping the muck and blood away with slow precision, taking no notice of his eyes as they roamed her face, taking in every minuscule detail. But she noticed the hesitation, through the tension that grew in his shoulders and slight twitch of the eye. "Michael. Mon amour. I'm here."

"I killed him," he blurted out, staring up at her with pleading eyes, silently begging for her to listen to him, to understand. But of course, she would, as her heart broke, looking at the peaky, bruised skin under the red and brown layers that she had wiped away.

"Who?"

"Father Hughes. The priest," he breathed out, relieved at her calmness, taking her outreached hand in his own, at placing it on the left of his chest.

"Did they make you?" She asked, holding back a sob, as he let out another deep breath.

"No." She could tell by the look in his eyes that he wasn't lying. "I was the one who told Tommy to give me the job."

"I wanted to see him dead."

"He had Charlie." Michael's voice was raised and his hands shook around hers, gripping them slightly. "The fucking freak had Charlie!"

"Michael, Michael," she soothed, pulling him towards her, legs hanging around her as he sat, both of her hands around his face and stroking his cheek lovingly.

"Something's wrong."

"I can tell." He let out a choked cry, gritting his teeth and leaning his head backwards, blinking back tears. "What did he do?"

"It was after I was taken from my mum..."

"Oh Michael, mon amour." He didn't need to finish. From the broken look on his face, Valentine could tell what had happened. She pulled him in tightly, her arms forming a rope around his torso as he pushed his face into the crease of her neck, sobbing silently.

They sat like that, arms entwined in a mess of blood and tears for as long as they needed. Their grips never loosened, fearing they would tumble to pieces, had they let go. Valentine listened to his deep breathing, calm and well needed.

She pulled away from him, looking into his bloodshot eyes as she ran a hand through his tousled hair. "Let's clean you up."

But he stopped her, catching her wrists as she turned to the sink, pulling her back towards him and snaking his arm around her waist.

"I love you."

She chuckled, placing a light kiss on his nose as she turned back to the bloodied cloth, after replying, "I love you too Michael."

But once again, he pulled her back to face him, shaking his head with an inspired grin. Placing both hands on her cheeks, Michael stared back into her green eyes, swimming in the memories of the times they could lie in bed, gazing into one another's eyes, guiltless, without worry.

"No, Valentine, I really love you," he said, eyes bright and wide. His voice was low and rough. She loved his voice, his accent, his nature, she loved every single thing about him.

"I want to get married someday," he began, eagerly, as he ran a thumb over her lips. "Tommy, he's going to pay me. We could be married."

There was nothing that Valentine could want more than to be away from the present. But she knew there was no escaping her family. When it came down to it, after all, they were her family and she loved them. "My family-"

"Fuck both of our families! We could go to America, Valentine." He said, bright and happy, showing no sign of the tears that were previously spilt.

"I've always wanted to go to America."

Michael broke out into another beam, pulling her into an eager and passionate kiss, her arms immediately wrapping around his shoulders and slithering their way to his hair like she always had. They pulled away, Michael going in for another happy peck.

"But when, how?" She asked.

"The family meeting, I go to see Tommy the day after tomorrow. I'll have the money by then and we could be gone by the next day." Valentine laughed in excitement, jumping up and wrapping her legs around his, pulling him close and hugging him with a shake, before planting a large kiss on his cheek.

"I love you." They whispered to each other, in between soft kisses, the blood on his hands and on her conscience disappearing as if they were never there in the first place, being replaced with excitement and anticipation for things to come.

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