So, this one is all Tommy/Mercy and, of course, little Charlie! I hope you like it!

Also, just as a heads up, this story might change to 'M' rating in the future – I haven't decided yet, but I will put it in the author's note to let you know if/when it does.

Thank you to everyone that has reviewed this story, I really appreciate it! And to those that have favourited/followed it!

Enjoy!

Mr. Shelby was amused, she could tell.

When she had collected herself and finally caught up to the handsome father and son they were already at the car, Mr. Shelby waiting with the passenger side door open, free arm leaning on the top of it and an expectant look on his sharp, knowing face.

"After you, Miss Hale." There was something in his tone that hinted at teasing mockery, but his face gave nothing of the sort away. Mercy felt scrutinised, under inspection by those piercing eyes but would not have been able to point to anything about the man that said why. She smiled at him – though Tommy noted it was tight and forced – and somewhat clumsily clambered up onto the leather seat. Had Mercy been in a more comfortable situation she would have laughed at herself. As it was, she was pleased Mr. Shelby declined to comment on her fumbling. "There we go." He passed Charlie to her, and she tucked him tightly in her arms, pinning him to her body as Tommy made his way round to the driver's seat.

Mercy swallowed thickly, and Tommy noted that she was worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. He tried not to think about that – her lips full and inviting – as he turned the engine of his car on, and instead allowed his thoughts to perish in the face of his inward laughter, amused by dainty shoulders tensing at the growling of the car.

It did not take Tommy long to figure out that Mercy had not travelled by car before. Any bump in the road made her arms tighten around a sleepy Charlie: where the rumble of the engine made Mercy flinch and draw herself inward, it soothed the little boy into a light slumber. Mercy tried desperately not to disturb him with her wincing, something made more difficult by the speedy way Mr. Shelby rounded the windy country bends.

That was how she knew he was amused. He did not laugh, though there was certainly something akin to a smirk dancing at the corners of his lips. He did not overtly look toward her to observe her somewhat childish behaviour. But she was convinced he was glancing at her in his peripheral vision, and as he accelerated down the narrow lane she was sure he did so just to watch her squirm.

Mercy didn't know how she felt about being a source of hilarity for her employer. She wasn't an overly proud person, but there was something disconcerting about seeming so juvenile and inexperienced in the presence of someone that had seen more violence and terror than any other she knew. Thomas Shelby was a war hero first and foremost, and ran a criminal organisation second. And here she was, a 21-year-old cowed by a luxury car. How pathetic of her.

She straightened her back and gritted her teeth, and attempted to remain stoic as Mr. Shelby raced around the village road corner.

Tommy thought it an admirable attempt at seeming unfazed, but there was something far too open about the woman beside him for her to create a convincing pretence. He couldn't deny that he took pleasure in her nervousness, in watching her body tighten and face contort. It was such a trivial, frivolous moment that he couldn't help but enjoy the innocence of it all. Grace had been like him: closed-off and difficult to read. A spy through-and-through. This was a new experience for him, too.

It was a short drive but a silent one. Neither Mercy nor Tommy noticed that they hadn't spoken throughout their journey, and actually the first word passed between them when Tommy had pulled over, jumped from the car and round to her door, took Charlie from her arms into his, and held out a hand to help her down.

There was a slight olive branch in the proffering of that hand, given Tommy's deliberately heavy foot at sharp corners.

Mercy wasn't surprised by the gesture – she was far too busy being relieved that the beast she rode within was now asleep and silent – and so sighed happily as she placed her hand in his and stepped thankfully from the car. Warmer than she thought, his large hand was calloused and dry as she took it, and the masculine feel of it made her insides flutter.

She didn't know much of the touch of men, but now knew that she liked the feel of hands like Thomas Shelby's.

"Thank you."

The relief in her voice was palpable and made Tommy grin slightly. "We made good time." He indicated to the clock on the small, worn church tower, which read 1:45. The walk that normally took her and Charlie half an hour had taken them no more than five minutes in the car.

Mercy would have still preferred to walk.

"Yes. That's exactly what I was thinking while we were travelling here. What good time we were making." Her tone was light but Tommy sensed the undertone of dark humour and caught her eyes as she looked up from straightening her skirt.

It was the second time Mercy saw her employer smile, but it was the first time it had been directed towards her. It made her feel timid all of a sudden, and her nerves about the afternoon came back tenfold as she noted a light in his eyes that spoke of danger and excitement.

"Aye. I'm sure you were." He turned to the boy in his arms, propping him up as Charlie blearily awoke from his short sleep. "Now where is this artist you like so much, eh? Where is he?"

Charlie only yawned in response, hands in little fists as he fussed slightly in the arms of his father. Tommy shushed him gently, bouncing him lightly in a soothing manner. They had not brought his pushchair with them, and so Charlie would have to be carried around the village, as he was only just learning to toddle.

"We'll have to take a walk through the market to find him, I'm afraid – their stalls move depending on the weekday vendors. But he's usually among the jewellers and painters, at the far end." Mercy gestured towards the row of stalls that began on the field behind the church. As she did, Veronica, a mum of two whom Mercy often exchanged pleasantries with, waved in passing. Mercy noted her eye Mr. Shelby with interest, and she wondered what the older woman was thinking. Veronica knew Mercy was Charlie's nanny, not his mother, and assumed she was putting two and two together about Mercy and Charlie's additional party member.

"By all means then, Miss Hale, you know this place better than I – after you." He noticed the interaction between the two women, and assumed that Charlie and Mercy had made friends in this village.

"Of course, Mr. Shelby. Thank you."

They fell into step beside one another, Charlie gumming on his closed fist contently as they began their walk toward the market. The weather was beautiful, and Mercy had to fight not to squint against the sun. She was almost pleased to be in a skirt, the lighter material a relief as they walked across the churchyard, though she missed the freedom her jodhpurs afforded her. "You come here regularly with Charlie then."

Again. Another stated question. Mercy briefly wondered if there was an official, grammatical word for the statements Thomas Shelby made, given how common they seemed to be.

"Yes. Once a week, perhaps, when the weather permits." And sometimes when it doesn't. The pair had been caught out a few times by a seemingly nice afternoon that soon turned stormy, and had spent the afternoon holed up in the village café, or trudging through muddy pathways to a warm bath and dry clothes at the Shelby Estate. "It's a nice walk –" she hadn't realised how nice until that day "- and Charlie enjoys the company of the village children."

"Does he now?" Mercy didn't feel she was supposed to answer, and so left the question hanging rhetorically in the air. "He must enjoy it very much for it to be a weekly occurrence."

Was he criticising her? She couldn't be sure. Thomas Shelby seemed to be comprised of every shade of grey; he blurred simple words into something ambiguous and managed to make her feel uncomfortable but determined in equal measure. It was no wonder to Mercy how her employer maintained his powerful reputation, and she shuddered to think how Mr. Shelby appeared when angered, if he was so difficult on a simple village stroll.

"That, and there aren't exactly a lot of other places to visit that a toddler might enjoy within walking distance. So we do what we can in the village, and enjoy it while it still holds its quaint charm over us." She kept her tone light and easy, and her eyes flickering between Charlie and the market stalls they approached. She was sure she would see only a blank expression should she look to her employer, and so chose not to, for her own comfort.

"Would you like me to teach you how to drive, so you can explore other charming and quaint villages?" He was teasing her, and enjoyed the way it forced her eyes to meet his, sunlit whiskey dancing with mirth and surprise.

"I don't think Charlie and I are quite that desperate for a change of pace." His smirk was wide, and she shook her head with pursed lips fighting a smile.

"Very well then. I will drive." Mercy almost blanched at that: at both the idea of being the passenger of his car in future, and of another outing with Mr. Shelby. "And we will find a new adventure – perhaps at the seaside, eh?" He directed the question towards his son, who ignored him in favour of twirling the buttons of his father's waistcoat with wet and sticky hands.

Mercy noticed and pulled a small towel from her belt which she was quick to rub little fingers between, inadvertently stepping closer to Tommy as she did so. He watched her movement, fluid and well-practised, and inhaled the sweet, floral smell of what he assumed to be her soap. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed the scent of a woman, and realised sharply that he enjoyed a lot of things about this employee that he had not for a long time.

His thoughts were wading into dangerous territory.

Before he could ponder further Mercy had pulled away, tucking the towel back into the belted waistband of her skirt. Charlie had returned his fingers to the buttons of his waistcoat, and it was as though the moment had never happened.

They weaved through the crowds of market-goers in silence, Tommy having to tuck Charlie in closer to his side as he whined at the bodies pressing upon them. They made it half way before the little boy called out for 'Cee-Cee' and leaned toward her, ready to be taken in her arms.

Cooing at him, Mercy conceded and took Charlie, balancing the boy on the curve of her hip. Tommy was impressed with the ease of the movement: Mercy was petite, at least a head shorter than he was, and Charlie had grown rapidly into a strapping young boy. The muscles of Tommy's arms could attest to the fact that he was a healthy child, and he expected Mercy to falter slightly under the weight of him.

He underestimated her, as she sent him a smile over her shoulder and nodded in the direction of the stall they were searching for.

Charlie settled into her arms, the routine safe and familiar to him, and Tommy made sure to walk half a step behind them. It allowed him a view of everyone and everything approaching, and of the facial expressions of the passing villagers.

Many, he noted, greeted his son and his caretaker kindly. Older men tipped their scruffy hats, smiling through chewed toothpicks; women called to Mercy and Charlie by name, and promised to catch them next week at the church fayre.

Tommy found himself amused at the teenage boys that would follow the young nanny with their eyes, nudging each other with suggestion, grins on acne-ridden faces. Mercy seemed to notice them, and sent them a kind but motherly smile, as if pitying their silly actions. Tommy felt better knowing she was at least aware of the people around her, and the way they looked at her and his son.

He watched as a large, happy smile broke out across her features and took a moment to be stunned by the change in her disposition, before following her eyes. They had found the stall that they had obviously been searching for, and Tommy took in the numerous sketches and designs on the table, varying from aristocratic photo-like paintings of the King and castles, to simple outlines of clowns and bears. Tommy assumed these were the drawings Mercy had been in want of.

"Mercy me, there you are! I've been wondering when we would see you, my girl! I had! And Charlie! You get bigger every day, boy, I'd swear by it, I would!" The man was older – perhaps in his late fifties – and seemed to be missing many teeth. His skin was weathered and leathery, though the etches seemed to be caused by the happy grin he wore in that moment. Had he not been fair-haired (though drastically balding) Tommy might have thought him of gypsy blood, as he took in the dream-catcher and feathered pendants hanging on the wooden posts of the stall. The man seemed to notice his gaze, and explained as he eyed Tommy curiously, "My wife's work. Teresa loves nothing like she loves a good feather, not even our firstborn!"

The man chuckled at his own joke, and Tommy nodded, not unkindly. Mercy shifted Charlie down, allowing him to peer at the top of the table to peruse the work there, and find one he would like to take home. "Good afternoon, Mr. Abernathy." She smiled at him, and tossed an errant curl out of her face, both hands busy holding Charlie, "It certainly feels as though he gets bigger every day, no doubt about it. This is Mr. Shelby, Charlie's father." She introduced, "He's kindly escorting us today through this wilderness of a market! Mr. Shelby," she looked to him, and he noted the serenity in her face. This was her element, he thought – warm and busy, and filled with noise – she was happy here. "This is Mr. Abernathy. He creates the beautiful drawings Charlie loves so dearly."

Mr. Abernathy waved her compliment away, "Be still my heart, love – you'll send me into shock, speaking about me like that. I'm too old for such flattery, I am. Too old!"

"I can't believe that for a second, Mr. Abernathy – you don't look a day over forty!" Tommy's eyebrows raised of their own accord as he looked at the young woman beside him with amusement, before casting a look across the rest of the marketplace. It was hard for him to feel comfortable in large crowds of people he didn't know or trust.

"You'll be the death of me, child! I swear it!"

Charlie and Mercy spent a few minutes looking over the drawings in front of them, choosing a few to take home with them. As they did, Mr. Abernathy leaned over the stall table, gesturing for Tommy to lean in. He did so, but only slightly, as if to show he was willing to listen while still keeping close to his son and caretaker.

"A golden one, you've got there, Mr. Shelby! A lucky one to have that girl in your household, you are! And a good boy you've raised too! A lovely boy! What joy they must bring you! What happiness!"

Tommy smiled tightly with a nod and a soft, 'Aye', understanding that he had no hand in raising the lovely boy or choosing the golden woman, not really. He looked towards the pairing in question, and noticed that Mercy was asking Charlie to choose between two drawings, one already decided and in her hand.

Having had enough of the claustrophobic market, Tommy sidled up next to them and said lowly, "There's no need for him to choose, Mercy." He turned to Mr. Abernathy and handed over a crisp note, more than enough to cover the cost of all of the works at the stall, never mind just the drawings they were taking.

Mercy looked at him wide-eyed as he turned back to her, Mr. Abernathy stuttering many a grateful 'thank you' as he met her gaze. She was shocked somewhat by his generosity, and the way the father seemed all too happy to spoil his infant son. More than that, though, she was surprised by the sheer forcefulness of his aura, and being caught in his personal space made her feel off-balance and overwhelmed. Further to that was the way his eyes, so light and icy in colour, were looking at her from beneath the peak of his black cap – a look she couldn't decipher for the life of her.

Mercy thanked Mr. Abernathy and promised to see him soon, saying her goodbyes as Charlie waved cheerfully. Mr. Shelby placed one of those calloused, warm hands on the base of her back and those tingles that sparked from his palm ran through her again as he guided her out of the busy crowds of the market. He didn't move his hand until they were away from the market, heading toward the park at the other side of the greenery.

Without conscious thought, Mercy headed over to the set of swings that were idly swaying in the gentle breeze. She manoeuvred herself with practised ease, sitting herself on one of the leather straps, Charlie neatly tucked in her lap, facing her with sparkling blue eyes. Lazily she began to swing backward and forward, running her feet a little in the sandpit beneath her and pulling excited faces at the little boy, causing him to laugh, exhilarated.

Mr. Shelby languidly followed, his eyes scanning the park with a wariness Mercy thought strange given the hazy idealism that the little village dwelled in. She had thought that here, in a place designed for babies and children and families, her employer would feel out of place. But no. Mr. Shelby didn't just looked as though he belonged – he looked as if he owned the village. Mercy was beginning to suspect that no matter where her employed was, he would look the one in charge.

He did not join them on the swing beside. Rather, he moved to the right of her and leaned casually against the constructed bars of the play-set, taking a packet of cigarettes from his trouser pocket and lighting it. What a dark and intimidating figure he cut, even as five-year-old girls played ring-a-rosie on the green behind him.

He held the cigarettes out to her, offering her one silently.

"No, thank you."

Tommy tucked them away again and exhaled smoke from his lips slowly. "Not a smoker?" He questioned.

Mercy smiled a little and shook her head, "It's an expensive habit to have."

He only nodded, and looked at the cigarette between his fingers before inhaling again and then asking, "Drinking?"

Tommy caught the twisting of her lips, noted the sad bitterness in her expression as she looked up at him, "No, I don't drink."

Lifting an eyebrow, Tommy mocked, "Do I not pay you well enough for that, either?"

"You pay me very generously, Mr. Shelby," She countered, her voice smooth and light, before taking a deep breath. "My mother was an alcoholic. She died of liver disease when I was seven." Her hands subconsciously tightened around Charlie, and she didn't realise she had stopped swinging them until he wriggled in her lap. She smiled widely down at him, though Tommy could see it was fake, and began rocking them again to Charles' satisfaction.

Tommy allowed her words to hang in the air between them while he smoked, eyes looking into the distance, and Mercy could only be pleased they weren't on her. She didn't like to talk about her upbringing: it made her feel vulnerable and tense in ways nothing else could. She kept her eyes on the little boy in her lap, pulling faces at him as they played.

"You take care of Charles now his mother is dead. Who took care of you?"

She didn't stop playing with Charlie, but Tommy saw how she fought a rising discomfort. He didn't know if it was the blunt mention of his dead wife that had caused it, or the question he had posed to her. Mercy liked to think of herself as an honest person, and while she didn't want to peruse the details of her life, she didn't see the point in lying or avoidance.

Besides, it wasn't as if she – and the rest of the household – didn't know some details of Mr. Shelby's private life.

"My grandmother. We lived in the village on the other side of the estate. I used to walk past it every week, actually, on my way to the market here." She looked his way and noticed that he was watching her with that scrutinising gaze, like he was piecing together the information she was giving him and somehow looking for something deeper to connect it all.

"But you don't go back there." He kept his eyes on her, and she looked up at him thoughtfully, wondering what he was thinking. Nothing went unnoticed by Mr. Shelby now, it seemed, and she thought in that moment how different he appeared to the man a year ago who seemed to see nothing at all, even when it was right in front of him.

"No. I don't go back there." She confirmed, and Tommy thought that was all the information he would be prying from her today.

So he nodded slowly, stamped out and discarded his cigarette, and licked his drying lip. The sun caught the wetness he'd left there, and her eyes – unbidden – flickered to them. It was quick and meaningless, she knew, but she hoped Mr. Shelby hadn't seen it all the same. His voice was low and gravelly as he murmured, "Interesting."

"Well, I'm no criminal mastermind business mogul, but I suppose, yes. In a way." The words had left her mouth before she could think about it, and she immediately wished she could recall them. Her mouth had gotten her into trouble plenty of times in the past, and Mercy had forgotten herself and who she was speaking to.

But rather than becoming cold, or telling her to know her place, or taking Charlie from her then and there, his face split into a smile and he began to chuckle.

Mercy thought it transformed his face, that laugh. His usually icy, cutting eyes danced with mirth and his face softened under the pressure of his charming smile. He looked so much younger; he looked as though a weight had been lifted from his body.

"And here I thought you just called me 'Mr. Shelby'." Was he teasing her? She thought he might have been.

"Oh, I do. It's much quicker to say: Criminal Mastermind Business Mogul is such a mouthful after all, Mr. Shelby." For a brief moment, he thought about telling her to call him 'Tommy', but she was still his employee and he was still her boss. Besides which, there was a deeper, dirtier part of him that very much enjoyed the way she called him 'Mr. Shelby', and it sent a charge of electricity into the air between them as he looked into her.

Mercy's mouth dried out. She didn't know what he was thinking but she could feel something shift in the air between them, and it made the hairs on her arms stand on end. She thought there was something searching in the way he looked at her, and she wondered what he would find as he held her, trapped, in his gaze.

"Aye. It certainly is."

His words gave her the opportunity to break away, something she did with relief. She noticed that Charlie had gotten bored and had begun twisting her hair between his chubby fingers. She cleared her throat and unwound the strands from his grasp, standing abruptly once she had. "We should go; this one still needs to be fed, and bathed and put to bed."

Tommy didn't respond verbally, but he came close to her and she feared briefly what he was going to do. He was so much taller than her, and so handsome, and though he smelled like cigarettes there was something in that that made her eyes flutter headily. He consumed her in that moment, and she didn't like how much she liked it. The feeling was strange to her, new, and she didn't understand it; she didn't understand the nervousness that being so close to him caused.

She knew he was dangerous, but this wasn't a danger she was familiar with.

But he simply took Charlie from her arms into his and began making his way across the park, back to the car. Mercy exhaled a breath she didn't know she had been holding and revelled in the lightness of the air around her, air that had been so heavy it felt like it was squeezing her.

One Shelby boy she could handle. Two? Apparently not so easy.

So what do you think of their first, real, interaction? I'd love to hear from you!