Chapter Text
Childhood – “The Little Nursemaid”
The rain had let up just enough for the clouds to let in a bruised sort of light, casting the puddled street in silver and soot.
Ten-year-old Darcy clutched his quilting book to his chest like it might shield him from the world, school bag hanging off one slim shoulder, shoes polished to a shine he was desperately trying to preserve.
“Watch it now,” thirteen-year-old John Shelby said, grinning as he held out his hand. “Big one there—don’t want your fancy shoes getting ruined, do you?”
Darcy hesitated, peeking over his book. Then nodded. Carefully, with John’s help, he jumped over the puddle and landed with both feet safely dry. He gave a small, shy smile.
“Thanks…”
John shrugged. “Don’t mention it. You’re alright, Darcy. Bit quiet, but you’ll toughen up.”
At the end of the street, two older boys were leaning against a brick wall beneath the black iron of a lamppost, lit cigarettes glowing like slow embers. One had that wiry, unhinged energy—Arthur Shelby, nineteen, with wild eyes and a looseness in his stance like he was always half-ready for a fight. The other—sixteen and already too serious for someone that young—stood silent, watching the road. Thomas Shelby. Tommy.
“That’s my brother,” John said, nodding toward them. “Well—two of ‘em. Arthur and Tommy.”
Darcy’s eyes were wide as saucers as they neared. His heart thudded in his ears. He didn’t know why he was nervous. Maybe because Tommy looked like he belonged on a poster for something dangerous. Maybe because Arthur grinned like he could eat lightning.
“Oi! Who’s the girl?” Arthur barked with a crooked smile, standing up straighter.
Darcy shrunk back half a step behind John, face flushing. “I—I’m not a girl.”
John rolled his eyes. “He’s not a girl, you pillock. This is Darcy. I walk him home sometimes. He’s in my class. Don’t be a twat.”
Darcy peeked around John’s shoulder at Tommy, who hadn’t spoken. Just watched him, unreadable.
“You look like a Tom cat,” Darcy said suddenly—then froze.
Arthur blinked. Tommy’s brow arched.
Darcy ducked his head in horror, blurting out, “I didn’t mean—I mean—you’re quiet. And—and your eyes. And the way you move.”
Arthur burst into laughter. “Tommy the cat, is it? Oh, I like him already.”
“Tom Cat,” Darcy said again, softer this time. Like it fit in his mouth.
Tommy didn’t smile. Not exactly. But his gaze lingered. A flicker of amusement, maybe. Curiosity.
Darcy hid behind his quilting book again, cheeks pink.
“And you,” Darcy added shyly, eyes flicking to Arthur. “You look like a puppy. All bark.”
John howled. “You hear that, Arthur? A bloody puppy!”
Arthur groaned. “Fuckin’ hell.”
But even he was grinning.
That was the first day. The first name. The first thread in the tapestry.
And for Tommy Shelby—Tom Cat—it was the first time anyone had ever looked at him like that. Like something fierce, sure. But also something soft.
Tommy remembers Darcy with bandages tucked in his pockets and a disapproving frown sharper than any teacher’s. A boy with soft hands and a softer voice, always dragging Arthur away from fights by the collar, smoothing over scabs with salves and kisses to the cheek. A boy who giggled instead of laughed and hugged like he thought everyone needed saving.
Darcy was different—but he was theirs.
The neighborhood boys would sometimes mutter things. Darcy’s voice was “too high,” his hips “too wide,” and his way of fussing over Tommy like a mother hen—“too much.” But the second someone raised a hand to mock him, it was John who threw the first punch and Arthur who finished it. Tommy didn’t say much, but he’d stand behind Darcy, watching with those cold eyes, and suddenly people thought twice.
Darcy kept their cuts clean and their secrets cleaner.
The War – “Our Angel in Hell”
Tommy doesn’t remember much from the war that doesn’t come in flashes: mud, rats, blood, the sound of bombs that never seem to stop. But there, between the screaming and the dying, was Darcy.
He was a medic for the sappers, assigned nearby. Word spread about him—“the red-haired angel.” He had gentle hands, even when the pain was unbearable. Tommy never said it out loud, but there were nights when he thought it was Darcy’s voice that kept him from going mad. Whispered prayers, lullabies, something soft in a world that had become so loud.
Tommy saw the cracks in Darcy even then—the way he flinched at loud sounds, how he’d stare at his blood-soaked hands too long. But Tommy never pushed. He just… made sure he was nearby.
After the War – “The Secrets We Bury”
When they all came back, they came back broken. Tommy drowned in whisky and ambition. Arthur tried to beat the demons out of himself. John busied his hands with family.
Darcy… changed.
He wore dresses at night. Not as play anymore—but as something essential, something he needed to feel whole. But he didn’t tell them. Not until the night Tommy found him curled over his dead mother, bruised and bloodied, in a dress torn at the hem. Tommy remembers dropping to his knees in the blood, pulling Darcy into his arms, whispering that he was safe now. That he was home.
After that, they never spoke of it directly. They didn’t need to. The Shelbys knew. They didn’t question the dresses or the silences. When Darcy disappeared for days, one of the boys would show up at his flat with food and warmth, by order of Tommy Shelby.
Because Darcy kept them together . And Tommy knew, even if he never said it, that without Darcy—without his warmth, his care, his stupid little teacups and threadbare hugs—they would’ve all shattered long ago.
[Birmingham, 1919. Late night. The rain hasn’t started yet, but the clouds are thick and low. The air tastes like metal. There’s a stillness in the air—a warning.]
The front door had been left open. Just barely. Like it had been caught by the wind but didn’t shut all the way. Tommy knew something was wrong the moment his boots touched the walkway. No lights. No sound. Not even the hum of Darcy’s little tea kettle left forgotten on the stove like always.
He stepped inside slowly, hand brushing the holster at his side. But it wasn’t danger that struck him first—it was the smell.
Copper. Blood. A lot of it.
“Darcy?” His voice was low, tight. Controlled.
He moved through the sitting room, past the knitting basket spilled across the rug. A broken teacup crunched beneath his shoe.
Then he saw it—just inside the hallway. Half in the kitchen, half in the narrow corridor.
Darcy.
Lying in a pool of red, curled on his side in a torn, once-beautiful lilac dress. His curls were matted with blood, his pale skin covered in bruises so dark they looked painted on. His eye was swollen shut. One arm was twisted beneath him awkwardly.
And draped across his chest—
His mother. Her eyes open and glassy, one hand outstretched over him, as if shielding him even now.
“Fuck…”
Tommy dropped to his knees, hands shaking as he reached out, checking Darcy’s pulse with fingers that knew too well how to tell life from death. Still there. Barely. But there.
“Darcy,” he whispered, brushing blood-matted curls from his friend’s face, his voice catching in his throat. “Darcy, it’s me. It’s Tommy. You’re alright now, yeah? You’re safe.”
His hands were already working—jacket off, pressing against the worst of the bleeding. He didn’t care that it ruined the fabric. He didn’t care about anything except—
“You hold on for me. You hear me, love? You don’t get to go yet.”
Not you. Not you too.
Tommy didn’t hesitate.
He draped his coat gently over Darcy’s body, tucking it tight around his shoulders, shielding the torn dress, the bruises, everything that the world had no right to see. He didn’t care that it soaked up the blood. The coat could be burned, but not Darcy. Darcy had to live.
The whimper—soft, broken—hit him like a bullet.
“I know, love,” Tommy murmured, kneeling beside him again. “I know it hurts. Just hold on.”
He cast a glance at the woman lying beside him, at the blood on the floor, the story scrawled out in crimson. He’d come back for her—he’d see she was buried properly, with grace. But first…
He slipped one arm under Darcy’s back and the other beneath his knees. He’d carried bodies before—men heavier, limp with death. But this? This was Darcy. His oldest friend. Their mother hen. And he was as light as a ragdoll in Tommy’s arms.
As he stood, Darcy let out a breathless sound—somewhere between a sob and a wheeze. His head fell against Tommy’s chest, curls sticky against wool.
“You’re alright. You’re alright, yeah? I’ve got you.”
Tommy’s voice was soft but firm, like he was daring the night to challenge him.
He moved fast, boots striking wet pavement as the first drops of rain began to fall. Three blocks to the betting shop. Just three blocks. He could do that. No cars—he didn’t want eyes. Didn’t want whispers.
He pulled Darcy tighter, shielding him from the rain with the coat and his own body. The city would not see him like this. Not his Darcy.
“Stay with me, sweetheart,” he whispered near his ear as they passed the corner. “Don’t you drift off, you stubborn thing. I’ve got you.”
Tommy felt it—Darcy pressing closer, trembling like a bird in a storm, trying to vanish inside his coat. That soft whine, that awful sound—it broke something in Tommy that didn’t often get touched anymore.
His grip shifted instinctively, hand cradling the back of Darcy’s head, careful not to touch the gash above his brow. “I’ve got you,” he said again, low and steady. “You’re home now, love. Just a bit more.”
He took the back alley to the betting shop, avoiding the main road, every step pounding with urgency. As he neared the side entrance, he saw the familiar flicker of light through the kitchen window— they were in there. All of them. Laughing maybe. Drinking.
The moment he stepped through the door, the laughter died.
“Jesus Christ—!” Ada’s voice cracked. Polly was up before anyone, her eyes widening at the sight of the blood-soaked coat and the limp, broken figure in Tommy’s arms.
Arthur knocked over his chair. “Darcy?”
Tommy didn’t answer. He carried Darcy through the kitchen like he weighed nothing and barked, “Pol! Upstairs. Now. Hot water, clean cloths. Ada—find something soft, warm. John, lock the doors. No one in, no one out.”
They moved.
Finn, frozen, could only whisper, “Is he gonna be alright?”
Tommy looked down at the pale, broken face against his chest, a thin line of blood slipping from the corner of Darcy’s mouth. “He’s gonna be alright,” he said—more like a command than a hope.
“He has to be.”
He carried him up the stairs to Polly’s room had the biggest bed, bootfalls heavy, each step another vow. He wouldn’t let Darcy slip away. Not after all the years he held them together. Not now.
Polly’s breath hitched when Tommy peeled back the coat as Darcy laid on the bed.
Ada gasped. Finn looked away. Even Arthur, battered and brutal as he was, stood still as stone.
That dress.
Delicate, floral. Torn at the hem. Blood soaked through the lilac fabric like it was trying to hide the softness, like the world couldn’t stand to see Darcy’s truth.
Polly was the first to move again, her face going hard—not cold, but protective. Fierce.
“Put a knife in my hand,” she muttered, rolling up her sleeves, “and point me in the direction of the bastard who did this.”
Tommy’s hands were already at work. Gently, so gently, he shifted Darcy further up on the bed, wincing as the wheezing hit his ears again. Too shallow. Rasping.
“Collapsed lung,” he muttered. “Cracked rib pressing against it, maybe punctured it. We need to keep him still.”
Ada was back with a bowl of warm water, cloths, a blanket. Polly knelt beside the bed, one hand on Darcy’s arm.
“Darcy, sweetheart,” she whispered, smoothing his hair back, “you’re safe now, love. You hear me? You’re home.”
Tommy sat on the edge of the bed, gloves off, sleeves rolled. He looked smaller without the sharp armor of his coat. Just a man, terrified of losing someone he loved.
He dipped the cloth in the water, starting at Darcy’s face. Wiping gently. Blood and grime and bruises underneath.
“I found him like that,” he said, voice hollow. “His mum too. Dead. Arm over him like she tried to stop it.”
There was a silence, deep and full of something ancient. Grief. Rage. Love.
Darcy stirred. Just a flicker—his fingers twitching, lips parting slightly. A breath caught sharp in his throat, a whisper of air barely there.
Tommy leaned closer.
“I’m here.”
Darcy’s mouth moved again, just enough to form a word that came out cracked, broken—barely a sound.
“Tom…Cat”
Tommy’s chest clenched tight. He reached for Darcy’s hand, held it in both of his.
“I’m here, love. I’ve got you. We all do.”
He looked at Polly. “Morphine. Small dose. Keep him breathing.”
Then back to Darcy.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
Tommy sat at the edge of the bed, still as stone, Darcy’s hand weakly grasping his fingers. That tiny pressure— God, it was barely there , but it meant everything.
“Still with me,” he murmured, thumb brushing across blood-speckled knuckles. “You’re not leaving. Not now. Not ever.”
Polly came back with the morphine and a small scalpel, eyes sharp but steady. She didn’t flinch at the blood, at the bruising, at the dress. She only saw Darcy —the boy who used to braid Ada’s hair, the man who put her boys back together when they broke.
“We need to let the air out,” she said, low and grim. “It’s pressing too hard. Could collapse the other one if we’re not quick.”
Tommy nodded once. “I’ll do it.”
Polly didn’t argue.
He sterilized the scalpel, breathed through the rising panic clawing at his throat. He’d seen worse in the war. Done worse. But this wasn’t a soldier. This was Darcy.
Ada turned her face away as Polly steadied Darcy’s side with practiced hands.
“One quick cut between the ribs,” Polly murmured. “Just under the third one—there.”
Tommy sliced.
Darcy jolted. Not much. But enough. A shuddered breath escaped his lips—clear, though ragged. His chest eased, just a fraction, like the worst of the pressure had been lifted.
“Good lad,” Polly whispered, smoothing his curls, now damp with sweat. “You’re alright now, stitchwitch.”
Tommy stayed close, eyes never leaving Darcy’s face. Even with the bruises and swelling, he could see him there—his best friend, the glue in all their broken bits. The dress looked like it belonged on him. He looked right , even now.
And in the soft glow of the lamplight, Tommy could swear he saw Darcy’s lips twitch—just slightly, as if trying to smile through the pain.
“You did good, love,” Tommy said quietly. “You just rest now. We’re not going anywhere.”
Tommy’s heart clenched the moment he heard Darcy’s voice—thin and wavering like the last flicker of a candle.
“Mum?… that you?”
He didn’t correct him. Didn’t dare. Instead, his voice softened, like velvet over glass.
“I’m here, love,” he whispered, brushing his knuckles down Darcy’s cheek. “You’re safe now. Just rest. We’re gonna fix you up, alright?”
Darcy’s eye fluttered again, dazed and unfocused, his head tilting slightly toward the touch like a child seeking comfort in the dark. Polly’s hand stayed on his side, applying just enough pressure to stem any further swelling, her other hand gently stroking his curls.
“Poor thing’s burning up,” she muttered. “We’ll need to keep the fever down.”
Tommy nodded, his other hand still wrapped in Darcy’s. That small grip hadn’t loosened.
Arthur hovered in the doorway, fists clenched. John had long gone pale and was pacing the hallway just outside. Finn sat quietly at the top of the stairs, knees tucked to his chest, listening to every sound.
The whole house was holding its breath.
Tommy leaned in closer, resting his forehead briefly against Darcy’s.
“You held on for us,” he murmured. “Just like always. Now it’s our turn, yeah?”
He didn’t care that Polly was watching. Or Ada. Or Arthur. In that moment, all that mattered was Darcy—and the way his heart stubbornly kept beating.
“You’re not alone,” Tommy whispered. “You’ll never be alone again.”
Tommy watched as Darcy’s eye fluttered shut again, his breathing ragged but steady. The worst of the storm had passed. For now.
Polly stroked his hair back from his brow, the way a mother would, her eyes fierce and glassy all at once. “He’s strong,” she whispered. “Always has been.”
But Darcy wasn’t there now.
⸻
In his mind, he was back at the Cut.
Sunlight bounced off the water, catching the golden glint in Arthur’s hair, the laugh lines near Tommy’s eyes that hadn’t been carved down by war yet. John had a stick, pretending it was a sword. Finn was still too small to walk properly without holding someone’s hand.
And Darcy—barefoot, legs swinging over the edge of the dock, curls bouncing in the wind. There was no bruising, no blood, no shame. Just that radiant, unguarded smile.
“I want to help people when I grow up,” he said brightly, chin lifted with the full, foolish confidence of childhood. “Like a nurse.”
Arthur had groaned. “Darce, that’s a girl’s job.”
Darcy didn’t flinch. He giggled. “Then I’ll be a girl nurse. I’ll wear a big frilly apron and kiss all your scraped knees.”
John had made a face. “Ew!”
Tommy just looked at him, thoughtful even then. “You’d be good at it,” he’d said simply.
And Darcy had smiled—so wide it made his cheeks ache.
⸻
Back in the present—
Tommy remained beside the bed, unmoving. One hand in Darcy’s, the other holding the morphine syringe, ready to use it only if the pain got too much.
He looked at Polly. “He said he wanted to help people. Even then.”
Polly’s lips quirked into the saddest smile.
“And he did. Always did.”
They sat in silence, keeping vigil over the boy in the lilac dress. The boy who never stopped trying to fix broken things—even when the world broke him, too.
Darcy’s body lay quiet under the blankets, chest rising slow and shallow, lashes fluttering against bruised skin. The fever tugged at him gently now, pulling him deeper—not into pain, but into memory.
⸻
He was thirteen.
The room smelled like lemon soap and wool. Rain tapped at the windows. His mum had tucked him in for the hundredth time that week, a cool rag pressed to his head, her voice soft like honey.
“You’ve just got the flu, darling. Don’t fret. You’ll be up and about in no time.”
But Darcy wasn’t sick—not like that. Not in his stomach, not really.
He’d stopped eating because he couldn’t swallow the fear. Couldn’t sleep because every time he closed his eyes, he saw the gallows. The men in handcuffs. The newspaper clippings his father spat at, red-faced with rage.
“Fairies,” he’d sneered. “God’ll strike ‘em down.”
Darcy had curled into himself, curled so small, shaking under the blankets. His little body couldn’t make sense of the feelings inside—how warm his face got when Tommy smiled, how his stomach fluttered when he caught John shirtless in summer.
“I’m broken,” he whispered to himself, night after night. “God made a mistake.”
He remembered lying in bed, knuckles tight in the sheets, silently begging. “Please take it away. Please make me normal. Please…”
His mum had kissed his curls and held his hand and called it a fever.
But it wasn’t a flu.
It was the first time Darcy ever thought maybe the world wouldn’t let him live.
⸻
Present day—
Tommy hadn’t moved.
Darcy’s hand was still in his, limp but warm. The same hands that had bandaged scraped knees, that had stitched war wounds shut, that had hugged him when no one else dared to.
He glanced at Polly. “He was always delicate when he was a kid,” he said suddenly. “Sick for a week once. Thought it was flu.”
Polly tilted her head. “What was it, then?”
Tommy looked down at Darcy, at the dress, at the bruises. He swallowed hard.
“Fear.”
The fever loosened the edges of time in Darcy’s mind, slipping him from one memory to the next like turning pages in a worn book. This one was sharp, vivid— burned into his bones.
Darcy was sixteen. The Cut was quiet that day, unusually so. The sky was overcast, water still as glass. They sat on the old crates near the dry docks—Tommy, Arthur, John, and Darcy, like always.
Darcy had been quiet all day. Twitchy. Nervous. Chewing the inside of his cheek until it bled. His heart beat so loud he swore the boys could hear it echo off the canal.
Then, all at once, he said it.
“I fancy men.”
It fell out of his mouth like a confession and a gunshot.
Arthur blinked first. “You what?”
Darcy didn’t look up. “I like men. Not women. Not like that.”
John, to his credit, just tilted his head. “Well, fuck, Darce. That why you always lookin’ at me when I take my shirt off?”
Darcy flushed, mortified. “No!”
John snorted, grinning. “Kiddin’. Kinda. I mean—good taste, I s’pose.” He bumped Darcy’s shoulder. “You’re still you, mate.”
Arthur was quiet longer. His jaw was tight. Not angry, just… confused.
“But why?” he finally asked. “I mean—why not birds? You’re gentle, sure, but…” He trailed off. They all knew where that question came from. From their da —with his fists and his shouting and his rules about what made a man.
Darcy shrugged, curling inward a little. “It’s not a choice, Arthur.”
Arthur grunted. “Well… s’pose long as you don’t try nothin’ on me, I don’t care.”
Tommy had been silent the whole time.
Darcy finally looked at him, wide-eyed and terrified. “Tom cat?”
Tommy had been watching the water, his face unreadable. Then, without looking at him, he said:
“You’re still family. That’s all that matters.”
And that was it. That was everything. It didn’t need to be said again.
Darcy had gone home that day lighter than he’d felt in years.
⸻
Back in the present—
Darcy shifted under the blanket, his brows twitching slightly. A soft breath escaped his lips.
Tommy looked down, noticing the flicker of movement, the way his lashes quivered.
“Darce?” he said gently, leaning in. “You’re alright. You’re home.”
Darcy didn’t speak, but his fingers tightened slightly in Tommy’s grip again.
Tommy smiled—just a little.
“Yeah. I remember too.”
The memory hit him like lightning behind his closed eyelids—sharp, loud, and vivid.
The Garrison. 1913.
Darcy was seventeen, freshly filled out with soft curves and a swish to his hips he couldn’t hide no matter how many jumpers he wore. He had laughed that night—high, bright, something like music—as John teased Finn over spilling a pint.
He remembered the man at the bar. Older. A stranger. Smelled like rotgut and hate.
“Oi,” the man had slurred, eyeing Darcy with something cruel behind his grin. “Bit of sugar in yer tank, eh, sweetheart?”
He mimed a sway of the hips, made a kissing noise. “Bet you scream like a girl too, yeah? Want me to find out?”
Darcy had frozen, drink in hand. His smile faltered. His stomach dropped. That cold, crawling shame crawled up his spine.
But before he could even react—
CRACK.
Arthur had smashed a glass straight against the bastard’s jaw.
Tommy didn’t say a word. Just dragged the man off the stool by the collar, drove a fist into his gut so hard he bent double.
John kicked his legs out from under him and hissed, “Say it again. Go on. I fuckin’ dare you.”
It had all happened in seconds. Brutal. Efficient. No shouting. Just steel.
The man groaned on the floor, clutching his ribs, blood leaking from his mouth.
Arthur stood over him, eyes blazing. “You don’t talk to our Darcy like that.”
Tommy straightened his coat, nodded once to the bartender. “He slipped.”
The man was thrown out the back and never came back.
Later that night, as they sat in the snug, Polly poured Darcy a cup of tea with shaking hands and said, “They’ll never let anyone hurt you. Not while they’re breathing.”
⸻
Now—
Darcy let out a soft sound in his sleep—half a sigh, half a laugh. Just a whisper.
“…he slipped…”
Tommy blinked.
Polly looked at him.
“You think he’s dreaming?” she asked quietly.
Tommy’s voice was soft. “Yeah. Think he’s remembering who he is.”
He squeezed Darcy’s hand again.
“Our Darcy, our stitchwitch.”
Mud. Rain. Blood. Screaming.
Darcy’s dream shifted, and suddenly the warm bed, the safety of the Shelbys, was gone.
He was in the trenches again. The stink of rot and death was everywhere, clinging to his skin and hair and teeth. His hands were raw, red, covered in the lives of boys too young to be here, too kind to die.
The old medic—Wilkins—had gone down with shrapnel to the neck, gargling his last breaths in the mud. They hadn’t had time to mourn. Someone had shoved a kit into Darcy’s hands, eyes wide with panic.
“You’re soft. You’re quick. You know what he knew. Do it.”
And so he had.
They came to call him angel then. Whispered it like a prayer in the dark when he sewed their skin shut and told them they’d be alright, even when they wouldn’t.
And then—
Tommy.
He’d been hauled in on a stretcher, white as chalk, blood soaking through the bandage on his side. The explosion had torn him open. Darcy had dragged him into the dugout with his bare hands, ignoring the pounding in his ears, the fear choking him.
He’d cut the shirt away. Pressed cloth to the wound. He’d whispered, “Stay with me, Tom Cat. I’ve got you. Just like always.”
Tommy had thrashed, delirious, feverish. His eyes rolled, sweat beading on his brow.
Then, soft. Barely coherent.
“Angel… fuckin’ angel… mercy…”
And then— lips , warm and trembling, pressed against the corner of Darcy’s mouth. It hadn’t been a kiss. Not really. But it had scorched Darcy all the same. Burned something deep in him that he never spoke of.
He had cried afterward. Silent. Shaking. But Tommy had lived.
⸻
Present—
Darcy gasped sharply, chest hitching under the blanket. His fingers clutched Tommy’s hand tighter.
His eye cracked open. Just one. Swollen, bruised. But open.
“…Tom Cat…”
Tommy leaned forward instantly. “I’m here, love.”
Darcy blinked slow, dazed, caught between then and now.
“Y’called me… an angel,” he whispered, voice cracked and rasping. “In France. Y’don’t remember, do you?”
Tommy froze.
Polly stepped quietly out of the room.
Tommy’s voice was low. Careful.
“I remember more than you think.”
He leaned closer, brushing a knuckle against Darcy’s cheek. “You were an angel. You are.”
And for the first time since finding him on that blood-soaked floor—
Tommy smiled.
Darcy finally started to come to his mind still foggy. Darcy’s one eye hooded as he looked around lazily but then whimpered in pain as it shot through him. “Hurts…” Darcy said his brows furrowing as his face throbbed his ribs pulled and pulsed. Tommy was at his side the second that whimper left Darcy’s lips, his chair creaking slightly as he leaned in, eyes locked on Darcy’s face like he was watching for signs of the world ending.
“I know, sweetheart,” he said softly, hand never leaving Darcy’s. “It’s gonna hurt for a bit, but we’ve got you. You’re safe.”
Darcy’s face contorted, pain blooming sharp across his swollen features. His body tensed, ribs pulling, his breath catching in a ragged gasp. He looked so small against the pillows— too small for the sheer size of the pain he carried.
Polly reappeared, morphine ready in hand. “Small dose,” she murmured, “just enough to take the edge off.”
Tommy nodded, brushing his thumb along the back of Darcy’s hand. “Easy now. Just a pinch, then it’ll feel like floating, yeah?”
Darcy gave a barely-there nod, tears leaking from the corner of his eye—not from the morphine, not even from the pain.
From being here. From being held.
Polly administered the shot with practiced care, her other hand gently stroking Darcy’s curls. “You scared us, love,” she whispered. “But you’re back now.”
Tommy leaned in, his forehead brushing gently against Darcy’s.
“No one’s ever gonna hurt you again. Not while I’m breathing.”
Darcy let out a shaky breath, and for the first time since the nightmare began, he didn’t feel like he had to be brave.
He just felt loved.
Darcy felt like he was floating as the morphine settled inside him and he smiled sleepily he was clearly out of it. “Tom Cat…your…cheekbones…could cut marble…be in a museum that…”
Darcy was flirting with Tommy in a way Darcy never did the only time he ever did that was with John and only when John started it otherwise it was just gentle care and soft words and affectionate touches.
Tommy blinked, his brow lifting just slightly as the words hit him.
“…your cheekbones…could cut marble… be in a museum that…”
There was a breath of silence.
Then Polly, standing at the foot of the bed, stifled a laugh behind her fingers and muttered, “Oh, he’s definitely out of it.”
Tommy didn’t move at first—just stared down at Darcy, surprised. Darcy never flirted like that. Not with him. With John, sure—half-laughing, teasing, always quick to brush it off. But not Tommy. Never Tommy.
And yet here he was, high as the clouds, lying there half-broken, one swollen eye barely open, and still smiling like he was seeing something beautiful.
Tommy’s lips quirked into a rare, crooked smirk.
“Oh yeah?” he murmured, his voice dropping low as he leaned closer, cheek brushing Darcy’s curls.
“You’ve got a mouth on you for someone who got beat half to death in a dress.”
He paused, eyes flicking down to Darcy’s smiling lips.
“But if I’m going in a museum, you’re coming with me. We’ll be in the same exhibit. ‘Shelby’s Angel,’ they’ll call it. Soft hands, sharper tongue.”
Darcy gave a dreamy giggle, the sound small and warm and familiar.
Tommy’s smirk faded into something gentler—his thumb brushing again along Darcy’s temple, light as a breath.
“Get some rest, Darce,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “You’re safe now. And you’re not going anywhere.”
The room was quiet now.
Darcy’s breathing had evened out, his chest rising and falling slowly beneath the blankets. The worst of the pain was gone—at least for now—and his hand, still curled gently in Tommy’s, hadn’t loosened even in sleep.
Tommy sat there, unmoving, watching the softness return to Darcy’s face. The bruises didn’t fade, but the tension did. The pain fell away under morphine and warmth and love. He looked peaceful.
And it shook Tommy more than he cared to admit.
He leaned back slightly in the chair, dragging a hand down his face. Behind his eyes, his mind ticked like a well-wound watch.
Grace.
He’d been watching her lately. Sweet voice. Clever eyes. Safe. She smiled like she knew more than she let on—because she did. She wasn’t from their world. Not really. And that was the point. A woman like Grace was a decision, not a risk. An escape route.
But now, sitting at Darcy’s side, hand still wrapped in his, something twisted in Tommy’s chest.
Darcy.
Darcy had never lied to him. Not once. Not when he was a child, patching up Arthur’s knuckles. Not when he was sixteen, trembling with truth. Not even now, half-conscious and flirting like he didn’t realize the earth had shifted.
He was never a safe choice. Never someone Tommy let himself consider. Darcy was… essential. Constant. Home.
And that terrified him.
Tommy looked at him again—at the curve of his lashes, the slight part of his lips, the way the dress still peeked from under the blanket like it had always belonged on him.
Grace was safety. Darcy was love. Real love.
And love got you killed.
Tommy swallowed hard, his thumb still ghosting over Darcy’s knuckles.
“What the fuck am I gonna do with you?”