#undisclosed

When he hears the tissue box and the loud meow from Alpine—the closest thing to concern he’d ever heard from a cat—Bucky doesn’t even take his coat off before he’s barreling into your bedroom. 

You startle, puffy eyes darting up to him as he takes up space in the small room. 

And he’s devastated. You hadn’t looked like that in a long time, all tear-stained cheeks and frazzled hair. Bucky considers the multitude of reasons you could be so upset, but then decides it doesn't matter. Not when you’re looking at him like that. 

“Oh, honey,” he coos. His socks make soft sounds on the carpet as he walks over to you, but the action only sends more tears down your face. Bucky could collapse. “Sweetheart, what happened?” 

You don’t say much at first, opting to bury your face into his chest the second he makes contact with the bed. It’s too warm in here for the amount of clothes he’s wearing. Bucky doesn’t really care. You keep crying—Bucky keeps running his fingers through your hair. 

Each sob that leaves your lips sounds more broken than the last, breaking Bucky down bit by bit. He wants to fix this, make it better, but Bucky has never been good with words. He’d been trying, for you. He will try now. 

“Tell me what happened, sweet girl?” he mumbles into the skin of your temple, lips hesitant to leave your skin. He was always better with physical communication. He was also the best at loving you like this. 

Your breathing gets choppy as you try to calm down. Shallow puffs of air meet the stitching of his sweater, and he rocks you as a way to coax a more steady pattern into your lungs. Even though he was wrought with panic, you were okay. Bucky had you, so you were okay. 

“He—he died, Buck,” you eventually choke out. “He died and then there was no—there was nothing—” your words cut off again as more tears soak his chest. 

“Who?” he stresses, although his tone doesn’t give that away. “Who, honey? Someone you know?” 

“No,” you sob. The sound knocks the air from Bucky’s lungs. 

Taking inventory in his head, that means all of his friends are safe, all of your friends. It means your awful family is alive as well, and while that doesn't matter much to him, at least he knows it isn’t the source of your strife. But the pain in your voice, the way you were limp against him and fighting for air. 

Bucky couldn’t understand. 

“Tell me who. What has you so sad, hm?” he tries, voice dropping into an even gentler tone. 

You dig your fingers into Bucky’s jacket, pulling away after a moment. Bucky reaches for you, trying to chase your figure because he wasn’t done trying to make this better, he needs to make you better. But then you slap something into his lap and he’s confused again. 

“Them,” you all but sob, turning back into the material of his jacket. 

Bucky wraps an arm around your shoulders as he inspects the book on his thighs. He’s still lost, but your crying has morphed into sniffles so he asks, “What was that, sweet girl?” 

He’s packing it on with the endearments, but seeing you like this is brutal. 

“In the book,” you explain. “They were so in love. And then he died. And afterwards—Bucky it was awful.” 

Oh. 

A book. 

This is manageable, to Bucky. You’re not in pain and he can handle this. 

He hauls you closer into his chest. You shuffle until your frame is enclosed by his. Bucky’s size had always been something he found inconvenient until you came into his life. Because after that, he found it was good at making you feel safe. A way to protect you from anything. 

Even… a book? 

Surely a book. 

“Hey, it’s alright, I got you,” he hums.

“Never die,” you whisper, and Bucky's mouth twists uncomfortably. 

Shelby company was only just starting to recover from the Wall Street crash, they'd recently acquired new factories and there was an election coming up in just months. Most times, Thomas was barely home, and even when he was, his mood had already been soured by something, or a series of things, that had happened throughout the day, making him exceptionally difficult to have a conversation with. She was never cross with him over it though, Y/n had understood that it was never his intention to weigh her, or either of his children, down with the frustration of his professional life. But she did feel like it was her responsibility to not add any more stressors to his plate, and because of this self-assumed task, Y/n had opted to keep the information to herself, just for a little while.

That didn't mean she was planning to keep the pregnancy a secret forever though, nor did she have any intention of getting rid of the baby. In fact, every day, Y/n promised herself that as soon as some of Thomas' time had freed up, she'd break the news. After this meeting. After the next rally. Right after this acquisition. Just after the very last vote had been counted;

Well maybe that would be a little too late.

But Y/n did have every intention of telling him, preferably before it got hard to hide. She had to tell him, Thomas was her husband and that baby growing inside her was his child too. He deserved to know and she couldn't possibly fathom never telling him. It was just a matter of when.

“You’re unusually quiet tonight,” Thomas noted as he straightened the knot of his tie as Y/n sat in a chair in the dressing room of the small auditorium that had been rented out for the night.

She’d been picking at the emerald cut diamond of her art deco engagement ring, so deep in thought that she'd been removed from its usual weight on her finger. Y/n rarely wore her engagement ring since they’d wedded, it was truly stunning but a tad impractical for day to day life; even if the maids did most of the work, the last thing she needed was her ring getting caught up in the button of Charles' or Ruby's uniform when she was getting them ready for school. Bourgeois problems, was the phrase Ada often used to tease her, but Y/n hardly minded, she much preferred to use her simple, pavé wedding band at home, saving her glamorous ring for big events, like Thomas' rally that night.

Though, that evening, her problem was much bigger than the diamond adorning her hand.

"Are you trying to say that I usually talk too much?" Y/n taunted lightly, glancing in his direction, admiring his reflection in the mirror. Strong jaw, perfect cheekbones and the most hypnotizing blue eyes, if the baby she was carrying looked anything like him, then they'd be absolutely gorgeous. She always wanted a child with his eyes.

"I'm not," Thomas smirked, "Even if you did though, I wouldn't care, I like your voice," he noted before returning to the original issue, "You just seem like something's bothering you."

He knew her so well, just as well as she knew him and Y/n had figured that he was bound to notice sooner or later- she would have just rather it be later. At least she wouldn’t have had to lie and say she was fine, or keep such a huge secret from him. “Nothing’s bothering me,” she smiled tightly, rising from the chair and approaching Thomas as she painted on the practiced grin of a socialite. “I’m just…..tired,” she dismissed, reaching forward when he turned to face her, adjusting the knot of his tie until it was perfectly straight.

“Then maybe you should stay back here,” he offered, rough fingers grazing her cheek in a feather-light caress, “Get some rest.”

“And miss everything?” Y/n scoffed incredulously, “Never. Besides,” she leaned up, capturing his lips in a doting peck, “I like seeing you out there. When you talk the air gets all electric and I feel like I’m married to one of the greatest men in history.”

Thomas smiled softly, hands sliding down her silk clad shoulders, past the crook of her elbows before finally taking hold of the tips of her fingers, maintaining their proximity, “You have too much faith in me.”

Y/n hummed, “On the contrary, everyone else doesn’t have enough. You’re going to go out there tonight and say something great, and I want to be there for it.”

A kiss acted as his initial response just before Thomas softly disclosed, “I just want you to go out there if you don’t want to.”

Pulling her fingers away from him, Y/n cupped Thomas’ face, thumbs rubbing gentle circles into his cheekbones. She adored touching him like that, knowing that there wasn’t anyone else in the world that was privy to moments like that one, with him. No one else could have him the way she did. No one else would be privileged with the opportunity to carry his children.

Which is why she should tell him.

Not yet.

Shaking her head slightly, Y/n attempted to brush off the voice in the back of her head that was urging her to tell Thomas exactly what was going on. “What?” He knitted his brows, gently gripping her waist.

A shuddering breath percolated off her ruby stained lips, “Tommy, I have something to-”

“Tommy, Y/n,” Arthur barked as he pushed the door open, sticking his head inside of the dressing room, beckoning their attention and stampeding all over their very private moment, “It’s time.”

Y/n’s breath hitched as Thomas pulled away, re-assuming his politician persona. “We’ll talk later, yeah?” He inquired, searching her eyes as he protectively took her hand in his.

“Um….” Stunned that she’d let the moment slip away so easily, Y/n simply nodded; she’d kept it to herself for weeks, a few more hours wouldn’t kill anyone, right?

With her hand still clasped in his, Y/n followed Thomas out of the room, joining Arthur and Polly in the hallway and beginning the trek towards the stage. The program had stipulated that she’d join him on stage for a few minutes, so the press could have their perfect shot of the MP and his doting wife, and so Thomas could maintain his image of a family man trying to make Birmingham a better place, not just for the larger community, but also for his wife and children. As they walked, suddenly joined by his entourage, Polly stepped into pace alongside her, a soft breath escaping her lips before she said softly, “Something ain’t right tonight, something bad’s gonna happen,” she murmured, drawing in a sharp breath, “I can feel it.”

At her words, Y/n’s breath caught and she felt Thomas offer her hand a reassuring squeeze as he admonished exasperatedly, “Don’t start with that Pol,” he words weighed down with tire, “You know that stuff scares her.”

But it was too late, Y/n was already scared, and Polly was never wrong. “What kind of bad thing?” She glanced at the family’s revered matriarch, worry brimming in her wide eyes.

“Nothing,” Thomas pressed, just as they were climbing the steps of the stage, leaving Polly, Arthur and everyone else backstage, “Everything’s fine sweetheart,” he slowed down to kiss the crown of her head in hopes of quelling her worry, just as they were stepping into the spotlight. His adoring public caught the gesture and as collective cheers, coos and applause ran through the crowd, the shutters of cameras went off.

“Presenting Thomas Shelby, OBE, MP for South Birmingham and Mrs. Y/n Shelby!”

The voice rang through the speakers mounted to the corners of the room just as they settled on the center of the stage. Swallowing her nerves, Y/n glanced up at Thomas, who’d been looking out to the audience as he raised his hand in a casual wave. That was what the papers needed to see; an MP who cared deeply for his constituency while still having time to maintain what they perceived to be the perfect family. A man who’d lost his wife and had found love again. A woman who’d cared for other women's children as if they were her on while promising to offer the same kind of consideration to the community outreach. That was the image that would get Thomas another term at Westminster.

Everything was going just as planned and so exceptionally well that Y/n had completely forgotten Polly’s earlier prediction. At least, until anguished yells erupted somewhere among the sea of people. There was spell of confusion at first, and Y/n felt Thomas’ grip on her waist tighten as he scrutinized the frenzy, his eyes going wide as one word in particular achieved bone chilling clarity in the chaos;

“Gun!”

Y/n was used to guns, she’d held them, she’d fired one once. There was usually one hidden under her husband’s coat and the bedroom they shared housed one in the cupboard near the window. Being the wife of a man like Thomas meant being familiar with arms, though, Y/n had never been on the wrong side of one, she prayed to God that she’d never have to be. Though, being married to Thomas had also meant that some risks were assumed.

“Fuck you, Shelbys!” Were the last words she’d heard before the resounding bang, and Thomas trying to shield her with his own body was the last bit of comfort she’d been afforded before the bullet somehow slipped through his protection and ripped through her abdomen.

The pain, she assumed, was on par with the sear of acid burning through her skin and flesh, boring a hole into her body. Nothing had ever hurt that much or that fast and the paralyzing sensation reduced Y/n to not much more than dead weight in her husband’s arms.

“Y/n,” he gasped, raw fear laced in his tone as Thomas’ hand joined hers on the spot, blood rushing through their fingers and pooling at their feet as they succumbed to crumpling to the floor, “Y/n,” he called her name again, when his image had already been turned to a blur of color, piercing blue shining brightly amongst every other.

“The….the….” Y/n’s fingers curled in over the wound, a few inches below her stomach, just over her left hip bone.

“Keep talking, eh,” Thomas encouraged, lifting one hand to cup her cheek, “Y/n,” he shook her gently when she lapsed into breathy silence, “Say anything, sweetheart,” despite her waning consciousness, Y/n caught the break in his voice and could feel the urgency in Thomas’ embrace when he leaned lower and hugged her closer.

“The….the b…..”

“The what?” Thomas put his ear close to her mouth and Y/n could have sworn she felt warm moisture leak onto her face from his, “Just stay with me,” he sounded hoarse and distant, “Y/n?”

“.......Y/n?”

He’d never been one to quiver at blood, Thomas had broken faces with his fists and shot through ribs without batting a lash. He’d had blood on his clothes, on his hands and on his face without even feeling the slightest thing towards it. But holding Y/n in his arms that night, crimson moisture oozing out of a wound in her stomach, drenching his hands and saturating their clothes, his suit and her fancy dress, Thomas couldn’t have helped but feel like his heart had been grabbed by an iron fist.

It couldn’t be happening, not again, not to Y/n.

At some point, the man with the gun hand been subdued and dealt with, and at about the same time, Arthur had joined them on the stage, speaking words that Thomas didn’t quite hear.

“We’ve gotta to get ‘er to a hospital Tom,” he’d urged, trying to pull Thomas off her, “Come on Tommy, there’s still time.”

At the hospital, after Polly had finally managed to get him to sit in the and stop threatening the staff, Thomas had rooted himself to an uncomfortable chair in the cold waiting room, blood stained hands clasped in front of him as his foot tapped impatiently on the off-white tile. He hated that it was taking that long, he hated that even with all the authority he'd amassed, he was powerless in the situation but what Thomas hated most of all was the fact that, more than likely, it was all his fault.

Being married to him had put a hit on her back. Because despite every blanket of protection he’d throw over his family, there would always be someone out there brazen enough to try. And sometimes, that night, effort equated success.

“Shelby,” when the doctor, about twenty years his senior and gray, walked into the room with a clipboard in hand, Thomas, and the rest of his family gathered in the room, stood. Thomas stepped forward, absently toying with his wedding band as he prompted the doctor to speak. “We got the bullet out and she’s stable. We expect her to wake up by morning,” he sighed heavily, casting his head down for a moment before adding, “Unfortunately……she’s lost the baby, I’m so sorry.”

“Baby?” Thomas inquired, knitting his brows, “She's not pregnant,” unless she didn’t know yet. She’d be devastated if she found out and already, Thomas was trying to think up words to soften the blow.

The doctor stuttered for a moment, flipping through the file on his clipboard, "She was…." He determined, "Her records were brought over from an office in London, it's listed that she was…..eight weeks along three weeks ago.”

She’d known for three weeks? If there were records then she had to have known.

Y/n had known for three weeks that they were having a baby, and she’d kept that from him. And now they weren’t going to have one at all.

All at once, Thomas felt his heart drop to his stomach, and before anyone could ask him if he was okay, he slipped his stained hands into his pockets, breaking away from the group and shuffling out of the door. Thomas didn’t know where he was going, but he did know that if he was going to even attempt to wrap his head around all the information he’d just received, he’d need to be far away from the hospital.

2 weeks later The tension that plagued their every wordless interaction was quickly becoming too much for her and the guilt that had settled heavily in her chest, acted as the weight that anchored her to the confines of the bed- well, that and the doctor’s instructions to stay off her feet until their next appointment. The bed, their bed. Her bed;

Thomas had stopped sleeping next to her and she knew why.

He’d stopped speaking to her too, only ever coming into their formerly shared bedroom at most twice a day to make sure she’d taken her medication and to ensure that his children weren’t playing too roughly when they clamored into bed to spend some time with her. Every time he was in there though, Y/n could easily see that Thomas was trying to keep his distance and his unexpressed fury was lurking just beneath the surface of his stony exterior.

“I’m sorry,” her uttered apology had seeped past her dry lips on a hazy afternoon, when Charles had remained downstairs for his violin lesson, Ruby had been with her mother and Thomas had come into the room with a spoon and her medication. By then, the silence had become painfully deafening and she wasn’t sure if she could stand it if he’d left that room without having said a word to her.

Thomas had moved to stand near the window, allowing the warmth wash his face beautifully with a dim, golden hue while his hands remained in his pockets. She was propped against a mass of pillows piled against the headboard, hands loosely clasped in her lap. “Why’d you lie to me, eh?”

Y/n licked her lips, glancing down at her nails, usually perfectly manicured though that day sporting flaked, burgundy nail polish. “I didn’t lie to you,” Y/n defended weakly.

“I asked you if something was bothering you, you said no,” he easily recalled clenching his jaw as his anger built, “I have given everyone a fucking reason to not trust me!” Thomas yelled suddenly, prompting Y/n to jump, “Everyone but you!” He turned to regard her, eyes ablaze as he pointed furiously, and Y/n knew it was the truth. Thomas had never, ever, during the entirety of their relationship, given her a reason to doubt him. He was honest, always. “Is that it, eh? You don’t fucking trust me?”

“No,” her voice broke pitifully and as she blinked, emotion spilt past her lashes, drizzling down her cheeks, “Its nothing like that that.”

“Then what is it, eh? Tell me what I’ve done to you that would make you keep something like this from me?” He wasn’t shouting anymore, but Y/n could tell that he was still fuming hotly.

She shook her head, drawing in a deep breath, one hand gravitating to her healing wound while the other swiped the tears away. “You were busy,” she reasoned mournfully, “I didn’t want to add another stressor to your plate-”

“Our baby wouldn’t have been stress,” he hissed, pitching the bridge of his nose, “You getting fucking shot was stressful. Figuring out how to help you get through this when you hadn’t even told me is stressful. You could’ve said something,” he seethed.

“I tried to,” Y/n spoke through quiet, slow tears.

“Not hard enough!” Scrubbing one hand over his jaw, Thomas shook his head and turned away again, “Do you know what that was like for me? Seeing you like that, knowing that I couldn’t do a damn thing? And then I don’t find out that you’re pregnant, no, I find out that you lost a baby that you never even told me about,” Thomas paused for an extended period, and Y/n couldn’t find the words to fill the silence, so she waited for him to do it. “You wanted to get rid of it, eh? Is that what you wanted? Cause if you did that’s fine but you should have still-”

“I didn’t want to get rid of……” she couldn’t even bring herself to call their child, their baby, who she’d talked to privately in the middle of the night, when the rest of the house was asleep, ‘it’, and so she reworked her sentence, “I love our child. I wanted this child. And I already told you-”

“You should have said something,” when Thomas looked at her again, the final remnants of rage had drained from his handsome features, replaced by the dimness of mourning, and after a minute more, he moved to sink down on the edge of the bed, next to her feet. He wasn’t crying, but he had been drained of color and it was easy to see that he was just as torn up about all the recent events as she was.

Sniffling, Y/n nodded. She knew he was right, keeping something like that from Thomas, in retrospect, had been a horribly selfish decision. Even if Y/n had convinced herself that she’d kept her pregnancy private for his sake, part of her urged that she’d also kept it quiet because she was too sure of what his reaction would be; would he say that he didn’t want anymore kids? Would he ask her to terminate? “I know,” she admitted through her crying episode, “And I’m so sorry,” her hand slid over to the center of her abdomen, the gesture making her shudder, “About everything.”

“That part isn’t your fault,” Thomas rested his hand on her knee, his warmth permeating the thick fabric of the blanket draped over her legs, “I should’ve-”

“Its not your fault either,” Y/n cut Thomas off, just when he was about to list all the reasons why everything that had happened was in fact, his fault. But Y/n couldn’t let him do that, not only because she still felt a little guilty, but also because she couldn't stand the thought of him trying to shoulder more than he had to, as he always did. It wasn’t fair to either of them. Losing their baby, that didn’t seem fair either. Why should their child be gone when they were the one that had committed the misdeeds?

Breaking down, Y/n shut her eyes as she bent her head, “I feel so empty. And like I’m being punished for not telling you.”

“No,” Thomas practically leapt forward, gathering her face in his palms and swiping away the salty moisture raining down her cheeks with the rough pads of his thumbs, “You’re not…..fucked up shit happens. But this is not your fault. You listen to me,” he shuffled closer, pressing his forehead to hers, “Its not your fault.”

“I wanted us to have a baby,” she sobbed, holding onto his wrists before allowing Thomas to pull her into a hug. Her face burrowed into the crook of his neck while she felt his lips comfortingly in her hair.

She heard him sniffle softly as his hand roved up and down her back in soothing ministrations, “Me too.” She heard him sigh and Y/n hugged Thomas tighter, and after a while, she heard him say, “We’ll get through this and have a baby, eh,” he pulled away, though only retreating far enough to see her face while still maintaining their embrace, “Someday. I promise you, we’ll have a baby,” his blue eyes were wide and glassy, the sight breaking her heart.

Swallowing thickly, Y/n nodded, unable to retrain the moisture spilling from her tired, reddened eyes, “Yeah……we will,” she leaned into him again, simultaneously reeling from the ineffable heartbreak that came with losing a child, regretting that she hadn't tell Thomas sooner and feeling grateful that he was sticking with her despise that so they wouldn't grieve alone.

*****