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Jul 18

"The Weight of Small Hands" - Tommy Shelby x reader

Summary: A shy single mother brings her young son to work at the Shelby betting shop, expecting judgment. Instead, Thomas Shelby offers patience. Through quiet consistency, he earns a child’s trust—and, slowly, hers too.

The bell above the betting shop door rang once before you could stop it.

You froze just inside the threshold, your hand tightening instinctively around your son’s. He startled at the sound too, his small fingers curling into yours, body turning inward as if he could disappear behind your skirts if he tried hard enough.

The shop smelled of ink and smoke and damp wool. Men’s voices filled it—low, rough, overlapping. You were used to this place, used to the noise and the looks and the way the air always felt heavy, but today every step felt louder.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured automatically, though no one had said anything yet.

Your son peeked out from behind your leg, dark eyes wide. He didn’t speak. He rarely did with strangers. Instead, he watched, quiet and careful, his thumb finding the hem of your sleeve.

At the far desk, Thomas Shelby looked up.

He didn’t frown. Didn’t smile either. His eyes flicked from you to the child and back again, sharp and assessing in a way that usually made your spine tighten.

You braced yourself.

Before anyone else could comment, before you could rush out an explanation or an apology, he said simply, “He can stay.”

Not loud. Not soft. Just… settled. Like a decision already made.

You nodded quickly, relief and embarrassment tangling in your chest. “Thank you, sir.”

You guided your son further inside, keeping him close, settling him on the stool near your desk. He perched there obediently, legs dangling, still silent. You set a scrap of paper and a pencil stub in front of him, murmuring encouragement. He nodded, already focused, tongue peeking out as he made careful marks.

Behind you, the shop continued as if nothing had changed.

That was the first thing you noticed.

No one complained. No one stared too long. And Thomas Shelby went back to his papers without another word, as though the presence of a small child in his betting shop was the most ordinary thing in the world.

When you glanced at him—just once—he wasn’t looking at you.

And somehow, that made it easier to breathe.

The next few days passed much the same.

You came in with your son when you had no other choice, always tense at the door, always ready to be told it wasn’t acceptable. You kept him quiet. Too quiet, maybe. You corrected him with soft murmurs when he shifted or fidgeted, apologizing under your breath for things that hadn’t happened yet.

Thomas never commented.

What he did do—though you only noticed it gradually—was adjust.

Meetings that usually happened near the front moved to the back room. His voice, which could cut through the shop like a blade, stayed low when your son was near. When men grew too loud, Thomas silenced them with a look before you even realized your shoulders had tensed.

Your son noticed before you did.

On the third day, while you were counting slips, you felt a slight tug at your skirt. You looked down. He was staring—not at you, but past you, toward Thomas’s desk.

“What is it?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer. Just watched.

Thomas didn’t look back. Not yet.

A few minutes later, you heard his voice, calm and measured.

“What’s his name?”

You startled. “Oh—um. It’s—” You cleared your throat. “It’s Eli.”

Thomas nodded once, as if committing it to memory. He didn’t look over when he said it. Didn’t push for more.

Eli shrank a little at the sound of his name spoken by someone else, but he didn’t hide this time. He stayed where he was, fingers tight around the pencil, eyes fixed.

Later—much later—Thomas slid a coin across his desk. Not toward you. Toward the empty space between them.

He didn’t announce it. Didn’t gesture. Just let it roll to a stop.

Eli looked at it. Looked at Thomas. Then looked at you.

You hesitated, heart in your throat. Then, slowly, you nodded.

Eli slid off the stool, small steps careful on the worn floor. He picked up the coin, turning it over in his hands like it was something precious.

Thomas watched him then. Quiet. Still.

“Good lad,” he said, softly enough that it almost didn’t count as sound.

Eli didn’t answer.

But he didn’t run back to you either.

Time moved the way it always did in the shop—measured in days, in ledgers filled and emptied, in the steady rhythm of work.

Eli began to sit closer to Thomas’s desk. Not on it. Never on it. Just near enough to feel… included. He lined coins up carefully, mimicking the neatness you’d drilled into him, the seriousness with which he approached everything.

Thomas spoke to him once a day.

Never more than that.

“How old are you?” “What’s that you’re drawing?” “Do you like numbers?”

Sometimes Eli answered. Sometimes he didn’t. Thomas accepted both with the same calm nod, as if silence were simply another form of conversation.

You watched all of this from the corner of your eye, your chest tight with something you didn’t want to name. Gratitude, maybe. Fear, too.

You kept your distance from Thomas. Polite. Efficient. Quiet. You answered when spoken to and not much more. Trust was not something you gave easily. You’d learned that early.

Thomas seemed to understand.

He never stood too close. Never touched you without warning. When he needed you to stay late, he told you early in the day and added, without hesitation, “Bring the boy. I’ll have food sent in.”

Not a request. Not an order. A fact.

The first time he did it, you nodded and said thank you and spent the rest of the day waiting for the catch.

It never came.

The day everything shifted was unremarkable in every way that mattered.

Rain streaked the windows. The shop was busy. A man near the counter grew agitated, his voice rising sharp and sudden.

Eli flinched.

It was small—just a stiffening, a breath caught too fast—but you saw it. Panic bloomed instantly. You were already moving, already reaching for him, already forming an apology—

Thomas was faster.

“That’s enough,” he said.

Not loud. Not angry. Final.

The shop fell quiet in a way that felt almost reverent. The man muttered something and backed down.

Thomas turned his attention back to his desk like nothing had happened.

You stood there, hand hovering uselessly in the air, heart pounding. Eli looked at Thomas, eyes wide, something like wonder flickering across his face.

“He’s all right here,” Thomas said, not looking at you.

You swallowed and nodded.

For the first time, you believed him.

That night, when the shop finally emptied and Eli fell asleep against your side, head heavy on your arm, Thomas paused by your desk.

“You can take tomorrow morning off,” he said. “He looks done in.”

You hesitated. “I—I can manage—”

“I know,” he replied evenly. “Still.”

He left it at that.

You watched him go, something unfamiliar settling in your chest—not hope. Not yet.

But the quiet understanding that maybe, slowly, without force or demand, Thomas Shelby was making room for both of you.

----------

Eli started talking more after that.

Not all at once. Not loudly. Just… more.

It showed first in the way he narrated things to himself while he worked—soft, half-formed words under his breath as he lined coins or counted slips. You’d catch fragments when you leaned close enough. Numbers. Colors. Names you didn’t recognize.

Thomas noticed too.

One afternoon, as the rain cleared and light crept back into the shop, Thomas paused beside Eli’s makeshift corner. The boy had spread coins in a careful line, smallest to largest, tongue caught between his teeth.

“What’s that?” Thomas asked.

Eli startled, just a little. He glanced up, then sideways—to you.

You met his eyes and nodded, a quiet encouragement. It was the same nod you’d given him every day of his life when he’d needed to be brave.

“Coins,” he said. The word came out soft, almost shy.

Thomas crouched—not all the way down, just enough to bring himself closer to Eli’s level without crowding him.

“Good sorting,” he said. “You do that often?”

Eli nodded solemnly.

Thomas straightened again, the interaction complete. No praise heaped on. No demand for more.

But later, when Eli tugged gently on your sleeve and pointed toward Thomas’s desk, you felt something in your chest loosen.

Weeks passed.

Spring edged toward summer, the days stretching longer, the shop growing warmer and louder in the afternoons. Eli learned the rhythms of the place—the busy hours, the quiet ones, the way Thomas’s footsteps meant something different depending on how heavy they sounded.

He stopped hiding behind you.

Not completely. He still leaned into your leg when strangers came too close. Still reached for your hand when voices rose unexpectedly. But he no longer flinched at Thomas’s presence. Sometimes, when you were distracted, you’d look up to find Eli sitting near Thomas’s desk, legs folded beneath him, watching the steady scratch of pen against paper like it was a kind of magic.

Thomas never told him to move.

One evening, well past Eli’s usual bedtime, you noticed Thomas pause mid-calculation.

“He should be home,” he said, glancing toward the small form slumped in a chair, eyes drooping.

You straightened, guilt rising sharp and familiar. “I’m sorry—I lost track of time.”

Thomas shook his head once. “No need.”

He went into the back room and returned with a coat—far too large for Eli, but warm. He draped it over the boy’s shoulders without waking him, movements careful, practiced in a way that surprised you.

Eli stirred but didn’t pull away.

You watched, heart in your throat, as Thomas adjusted the coat gently, then stepped back as if afraid of disturbing something fragile.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

Thomas looked at you then. Really looked at you. His gaze lingered, thoughtful, searching, before he nodded.

It was a small thing, the first real conversation you had with him.

It happened late one night, after the shop had closed and Eli slept curled against your side, breath warm and steady. You were finishing the last of the paperwork when Thomas approached, setting a cup of tea on the desk beside you.

“You didn’t eat,” he said.

You opened your mouth to deny it. Stopped.

“I wasn’t hungry,” you murmured instead.

He didn’t challenge you. Just leaned against the desk opposite, arms folded loosely.

“He’s like you,” he said, eyes flicking briefly toward Eli.

Your chest tightened. “In what way?”

“Quiet,” Thomas replied. “Watches first. Decides later.”

You swallowed. “That’s not always a good thing.”

Thomas’s gaze softened, just a fraction. “Keeps you alive.”

The words landed heavier than you expected. You didn’t reply. Didn’t need to.

The silence between you felt different after that. Less brittle. More… shared.

Eli’s confidence came in bursts.

One morning, you were distracted with a customer when you heard his small voice—clearer than usual.

“Tommy.”

The sound hit you like a dropped plate.

You turned sharply, heart hammering. Eli stood beside Thomas’s desk, looking up at him with something like determination.

Thomas froze.

Slowly, he looked down. “Yes?”

Eli held up a coin, frowning. “This one… wrong.”

Thomas crouched this time, properly, resting his elbows on his knees. “Show me.”

Eli did, pointing carefully, explaining in halting phrases why the coin didn’t belong with the others. Thomas listened as though this explanation was the most important thing he’d heard all day.

“You’re right,” he said at last. “Good catch.”

Eli beamed.

You pressed a hand to your mouth, eyes burning. You hadn’t realized how badly you’d needed to see someone take him seriously.

Thomas glanced at you then. Just once.

He didn’t smile. But something passed between you—an understanding you hadn’t agreed to, but felt all the same.

You trusted him before you realized you did.

It showed in the way you no longer hovered as closely. In the way you let Eli wander. In the way you stopped apologizing for his presence.

Thomas noticed.

He never commented.

Instead, he stayed.

Stayed consistent. Stayed patient. Stayed exactly where he’d always been.

And one night—long after you’d meant to leave, exhaustion weighing heavy on your bones—you finally faltered.

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this,” you said softly, staring at the ledger rather than at him.

Thomas didn’t answer right away.

When he did, his voice was low, steady. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

You looked up at him then, really looked, and for the first time you didn’t feel like you needed to look away.

Eli shifted in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible, and Thomas reached out—hesitant, careful—and steadied him with one gentle hand.

You watched the gesture, something warm and terrifying blooming in your chest.

And when Thomas finally met your eyes again, you didn’t pull back.

-----------

Eli reached for Thomas’s hand for the first time on a Tuesday.

It wasn’t dramatic. There was no moment of tension beforehand, no sudden burst of courage. It happened the way most important things did with him—quietly, almost accidentally, as though he hadn’t realized he was crossing a line until he was already on the other side of it.

The shop was slow that morning. Light filtered in through the front windows, dust motes floating lazily in the air. You were sorting slips, mind half elsewhere, when you felt Eli shift beside you.

“Stay here,” you murmured automatically.

He nodded—but didn’t.

Instead, he took three careful steps toward Thomas’s desk, stopped, and stood there, uncertain. Thomas was writing, brow furrowed, attention fixed on the page. He didn’t notice at first.

Eli waited.

When Thomas finally looked up, his expression stilled—not startled, not displeased. Just attentive.

“Yes?” he asked gently.

Eli hesitated, then reached out. His small hand closed around two of Thomas’s fingers, loose but sure.

You sucked in a breath before you could stop yourself.

Thomas looked down at their joined hands. He didn’t move away. Didn’t tighten his grip either. Just stayed exactly as he was, letting Eli decide.

After a moment, Thomas said, “All right,” as if this, too, had been agreed upon long ago.

Eli smiled—small, shy, triumphant—and leaned a little closer.

You watched from your desk, heart hammering, something fragile and precious settling into place. No one said a word about it. No one needed to.

From that day on, Eli gravitated toward Thomas without fear.

He sat closer. Spoke more freely. Asked questions that came out crooked and earnest and sometimes only half-formed. Thomas answered every one of them as though they mattered. Especially the ones that didn’t make much sense.

And you—slowly, carefully—began to let go of the tight hold you’d kept on the world for so long.

The first time Thomas walked you home, it felt unreal.

It was late, the streets quiet and damp, Eli half-asleep in your arms. You’d been struggling with his weight, arms aching, when Thomas stepped in without comment.

“I’ve got him,” he said.

You hesitated. Old instincts flared—protective, wary—but you were tired. So tired.

“All right,” you whispered.

Thomas lifted Eli with ease, cradling him against his chest like it was something he’d done before. Eli stirred but didn’t wake, face pressing into Thomas’s coat, breath evening out again almost instantly.

You walked beside them, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off Thomas’s body. He didn’t speak. Neither did you. The silence felt companionable, wrapped around you like a shared secret.

At your door, Thomas paused.

“You’re doing well,” he said quietly.

The words hit harder than you expected. You swallowed. “I don’t feel like I am.”

“That’s how I know you are,” he replied.

He handed Eli back to you with care, lingering just long enough for his fingers to brush your sleeve—a touch so light it might have been accidental.

It wasn’t.

After that, Thomas became a presence beyond the shop.

He checked in when Eli was sick. Sent food without explanation. Arranged your hours around nursery schedules you hadn’t told him about—but he’d noticed all the same.

He never pushed. Never demanded more than you could give.

And slowly, you found yourself speaking to him more.

Not about anything important at first. Just small things. The weather. Eli’s drawings. A story he’d told you at bedtime that made no sense at all but had made you laugh anyway.

Thomas listened.

One evening, as Eli played on the floor with coins and scraps of paper, Thomas looked at you and said, “You don’t apologize as much anymore.”

You blinked. “I didn’t realize I was.”

He nodded. “I did.”

You smiled then—just a little, but real—and Thomas felt it like a victory he hadn’t known he was fighting for.

The moment you realized you trusted him came quietly, too.

You were exhausted, the kind of tired that settled deep in your bones. Eli was asleep on the settee in Thomas’s office, curled up under a blanket that had somehow appeared there without you noticing.

You sank into the chair opposite Thomas, shoulders sagging.

“I’m scared,” you admitted softly. “Sometimes.”

Thomas leaned back, studying you—not with scrutiny, but with care.

“So am I,” he said.

You met his gaze. Something shifted then. The last wall you hadn’t even realized you were holding upright finally lowered.

Thomas didn’t reach for you. Didn’t need to.

He stayed.

And that was enough.

By the time you realized what the three of you had become, it felt less like falling and more like arriving somewhere you’d been heading all along.

Eli laughed more. You breathed easier. Thomas—quiet, steady Thomas—made space for both of you without ever asking you to change who you were.

One night, as you walked home together, Eli between you, holding both your hands, Thomas glanced down and said, almost to himself, “This works.”

You nodded, throat tight. “Yes,” you agreed. “It does.”