The morning sun struggled through Birmingham's heavy grey skies, casting a faint light across the bedroom. Tommy stirred first, his body aching in places he hadn't even realized he'd bruised. But none of that mattered.
Because tucked safely in the crook of your arm was your son — his son — sleeping peacefully, blissfully unaware of the world he'd been born into.
Tommy shifted carefully, brushing a soft kiss against your temple without waking you. His hand lingered for a moment over the baby's tiny back, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing. It was strange, he thought, how something so small could make him feel so big — so full.
A soft knock at the door pulled him from the moment.
He stood, moving quietly to the door and slipping out into the hallway. Polly stood there waiting, her arms crossed, a rare, gentle smile touching her lips.
"How is she?" she asked in a low voice.
"Resting," Tommy murmured. "Both of them."
Polly glanced past him toward the room, her smile growing. "Arthur's downstairs," she said. "Keeps bangin' about, says he wants to see his nephew."
Tommy chuckled under his breath, running a hand through his hair. "Give her a minute. She'll want to be part of it."
"Course," Polly said, squeezing his arm. She paused, then added, "You did good, Tommy."
He blinked, taken aback by the rare compliment. Before he could respond, Polly was already retreating down the hall.
***
An hour later, with you sitting up in bed, pale but beaming, Tommy gathered you both up — you and the baby — and carried you downstairs.
The sitting room had been transformed. The whole family was there — Arthur, Ada, Finn, even Lizzie and Isaiah squeezed into corners. A fire crackled warmly in the grate. Bottles of whisky and champagne lined the sideboard.
The moment Tommy stepped into the room, silence fell.
You clutched the baby a little tighter, nerves fluttering through you, but Tommy's hand at your back was steady and reassuring.
Arthur was the first to break the spell. He surged forward, grinning ear to ear.
"Let's have a look at the little Shelby, eh?"
Carefully, you shifted the blanket to reveal the baby's tiny, scrunched-up face.
"Christ," Arthur breathed, dropping to a crouch to get closer. "He's bloody gorgeous, Y/N. Got his dad's scowl already, look at him."
Everyone laughed softly, the sound filling the room with something rare — real joy.
Ada elbowed Arthur aside gently. "What's his name then?" she asked, smiling at you.
You looked to Tommy, giving him the honour.
He cleared his throat, looking every bit the proud father as he announced, "Charles Michael Shelby."
There was a beat of stunned silence.
And then the room erupted.
"Charles!" Polly beamed. "A strong name. Good, strong name for a Shelby boy."
Arthur slapped Tommy on the back so hard he nearly knocked the baby out of your arms. Tommy shot him a warning glare, but couldn't suppress the small smile tugging at his mouth.
Finn leaned over, peering curiously. "Can I hold him?"
You hesitated, but Tommy nodded once, guiding Finn to sit properly before very carefully placing Charles into his arms.
"Support his head," Tommy instructed gruffly, watching like a hawk.
Finn held the baby awkwardly, wide-eyed but grinning. "He's tiny."
"Won't be for long," Polly said, a faraway look in her eye. "They grow up faster than you can blink."
Tommy crouched beside Finn, one hand still on the baby's blanket, unwilling to be too far.
For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself a glimpse of something he usually denied: a future. A future where Charles might run the streets of Birmingham one day — but maybe, just maybe, a future where the boy wouldn't have to fight quite so hard.
"You're gonna be someone, little man," Tommy whispered under his breath, so soft no one else could hear. "Someone better than me."
He felt your gaze on him and looked up. You were smiling at him — tired, but radiant. Like you could see right through him. See the man he was when he was with you.
And maybe that was the greatest gift of all.
Arthur interrupted the moment by pouring two glasses of whisky.
"Right," he said, handing one to Tommy. "To Charles Shelby — may he be as stubborn, as smart, and as lucky as his old man."
Tommy clinked his glass against Arthur's, and then against yours as you smiled wryly.
"God help us if he's anything like you," you teased under your breath.
Tommy smirked, wrapping his arm around you and pulling you close.
"He'll have the best parts of you," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your hair.
"And the best parts of you," you added softly.
For the first time in a long while, Tommy believed it.
Tonight, there were no threats, no violence lurking just outside the door. Just family, and a future cradled carefully in the arms of those who would fight the world to protect it.
And Tommy Shelby, the man who had seen and survived too much, sat there with his wife and his son and thought:
Maybe the world isn't so bad after all.
(a few months later)
***
The Garrison was quieter than usual.
It was early — far too early for the usual crowds. The floors still smelled faintly of bleach and whisky, the air cold and still. But Tommy Shelby sat alone at a corner table, a cigarette burning low between his fingers, a glass of untouched whisky in front of him.
Across from him, bundled in a soft blue blanket, was Charles.
The baby gurgled contentedly, kicking his small legs against the worn leather seat. His eyes — a bright, sharp blue — stared up at the ceiling beams like he was already plotting what to do with them.
Tommy watched him, a strange ache blooming deep in his chest. A fierce, protective love.
He stubbed the cigarette out with a grimace and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"You'll never have to earn your place," he said quietly, voice rough with sleep and smoke. "Not like I did. Not with blood. Not with fear."
Charles cooed, his tiny fingers flexing in the air, as if trying to grab Tommy's voice from the space between them.
Tommy smiled, a slow, rare thing. He reached out, letting the baby's fist wrap around one of his fingers. The grip was small but stubborn.
"You've got a fight in you already," Tommy muttered, half amused, half awed. "Good. You'll need it."
The door creaked, and he looked up to see you standing there, a soft shawl draped around your shoulders, hair still mussed from sleep.
"You left the bed cold," you teased gently, walking toward them.
Tommy sat back as you approached, watching as you scooped Charles up with practiced ease, pressing a kiss to the baby's forehead.
"Thought I'd introduce him to the Garrison early," Tommy said gruffly, scratching the back of his neck. "Figure he might take it over one day."
You gave him a look — the one you reserved especially for his more ambitious ideas.
"Maybe," you said, adjusting Charles against your hip. "Or maybe he'll be a doctor. Or a writer. Or something that doesn't involve throwing punches in back alleys."
Tommy chuckled low in his chest, standing to wrap his arms around you both. He kissed your cheek, then leaned his forehead against yours for a long moment, breathing you in.
"I'd give him the world," Tommy said roughly. "Whatever he wants. Whatever you want."
You smiled softly, reaching up to touch his cheek. The scarred, beautiful face you loved more than anything.
"You already have," you whispered.
Tommy kissed you slow, lingering, like he had all the time in the world.
For a man who had built his life on war and pain, standing here — with you and Charles — felt like standing in the eye of the storm.
Maybe the world was still broken. Maybe enemies still circled like wolves.
But for now, Tommy Shelby had everything he needed right here in his arms.
And for once, that was enough.
