#atv

Anjali had been asking about the beach since six forty-five in the morning, which was when she'd appeared at your bedroom door in her pyjamas, holding a plastic spade and announced, "we go beach today!"

Arthur had tried to reason with her about how it was too early but she somehow climbed onto the bed and walked on top of both of you without acknowledging a single word he'd said.

She sat between your heads and repeated herself, and honestly it was too early to use energy and convince her and you both had been wanting do do a day trip anyway.

You were in the car by half eight with a couple bags in the boot and Anjali in the back seat giving her stuffed sea turtle Biscuit, that Arthur bought for her from the Natural History Museum, a full briefing on what to expect, her little voice going the entire journey while you and Arthur sat in the front in a comfortable, warm, slightly-sleep-deprived way.

His hand finding yours in the center without either of you thinking about it.

—

The beach was surprisingly very pleasent. Warm and golden and not too busy, with good sand and the sea glittering in the distance.

The moment Anjali's feet touched the sand she was off, running towards the beach with everything she had, which frankly was not a lot considering that she was tiny.

Her spade was swinging wildly, her yellow sun hat was slightly askew, and she giggled and looked back to see if anyone was following her.

Arthur was after her immediately because she had absolutely no sense of safety and the water was freezing. He caught her around the middle, scooped her up, and she laughed very loudly, kicked her legs against the air and went: "Daddy put me down!"

He explained as best as he could why she couldn't go in the water yet, and then there was a pause, a real considering pause.

"Then what we play daddy?" She asked looking up at him with her big dark eyes, her arm somehow covered in sand.

Arthur smiled and took her spade out of her hand, "Well we could make a sandcastle, so the crabs can live in it!"

She paused again and considered this, "Big one?"

Arthur tried to hold back a laugh, "A Massive one, with lots of pretty shells!"

Anjali giggled at the way his hands spread out to emulate how big the sandcastle would be and turned around to face you, who was now setting out the blanket, "Mummy make sandcastle please?"

You smiled at this, "Let me set up the bags, then I will come and help you and daddy okay baby?"

She was extraordinary at sandcastles for a three-year-old, which was a biased opinion, but you stood by it.

She had very clear opinions about the number of towers — four, and then when Arthur had carefully helped to construct four she walked around it and assessed it, holding a bucket full of shells which you helped to collect.

She placed a few shells on each tower with a surprisingly careful manner, humming to herself, which was very adorable to watch until one of the towers accidentally collapsed — there was a very harrowing pause.

She turned around, two more shells left in her buckets and had an exaggerated frown on her face, "Mummy, daddy is bad at sandcastles.

Arthur's face screwed into outrage at this comment causing Anjali to just giggle and grab his nose.

She decided to rebuild the tower by herself this time because "Daddy is silly" and filled the bucket herself, tongue out with concentration, and upturned it with such cadence that when it held its shape she gasped like it was a miracle she hadn't seen coming.

"MUMMY LOOK, DADDY LOOK," she said, with equal urgency each time, pointing at it to make sure you were seeing the right thing.

You both looked and said it was brilliant every time and meant it every time because watching her face was genuinely brilliant.

Arthur pressed shells into the sides of the towers and told her that's what they did in castles a long time ago, used whatever they found nearby.

So Anjali picked up a piece of seaweed and looked at it very seriously and tried to put that in too, he helped her find a spot for it and the castle was honestly the best one you'd ever seen.

The sea, when you finally got there, was cold and not clear blue in a very British way.

As Anjali stepped into the edge of the water she screamed at the temperature but then waded further in immediately because she was completely fearless about things that probably should have given her pause.

Arthur got her under the arms and lifted before he got in any deeper.

He held her over an incoming wave and the noise she made was so purely delighted that a couple further down the beach looked over and smiled.

He kept lifting her, again and again, arms not complaining once, and she kept demanding it again and again the moment she landed.

Then at one point he spun her — picked her up and spun her with her arms out and her head thrown back, she laughed so hard she could barely breathe. You waded in beside them and she pointed at you with immediate authority, and then it was all three of you.

Anjali began throwing handfuls of water at both of you with no particular aim, and you splashed her back which she found outrageous for exactly half a second before she launched the biggest two-handed splash she could manage back at you.

She then turned and did the same to Arthur.

Arthur put on the most exaggerated, annoyed face ever and then splashed her back.

A bit later on, Arthur, because he could never fully switch off the part of his brain that found everything interesting, started telling her things while you stood in the shallows. About how the waves worked, how the wind out at sea pushed the water and it travelled all the way to the beach, how the tide came in and out because of the moon pulling on the water.

Anjali listened with her brow furrowed like she was doing serious buisness, standing in the water with her hand in his, looking out at the horizon like she was trying to see where the waves started.

"The moon pulls it?" she said. "Like magnets?"

"Yes, actually exactly like a magnet, brilliant Anj", the pride on his face when she said that was something you had to look away from slightly because it was too sweet.

As they got out of the water, Anjali spotted a jellyfish.

She found it on the wet sand at the water's edge, stranded there, translucent and still, and she went over to look at it with the fearless curiosity she brought to everything.

She then immediately turned and came back to you both at speed, which wasn't something she did often. "Mummy, daddy," she said, very serious, taking your hands and pulling, "there is a creature." You let her lead you and Arthur over and there it was.

A small moon jellyfish, pale and luminous on the sand, very much out of the water it needed to be in.

"That's a jellyfish Anju," Arthur said, crouching down to her level.

Anjali looked slighlty offended, "I know a jellyfish."

She looked at it again with her brow furrowed. "It lives with fishies," she said.

"Yeah," Arthur replied, trying not to combust at hoe adorable and intelligent his daughter was.

"Why it not in the sea daddy?" she asked, looking up at him with a very intense concentration.

Arthur explained that sometimes they got washed up on the beach by the waves and got stranded,

Anjali looked at the jellyfish for a long moment and then looked up at Arthur with an expression of absolute resolution. "We must help it," she said. "It needs to go home."

Arthur looked at you. You looked at Arthur. "Rescue mission," you said, and he nodded like this was a perfectly normal thing to be doing, which with Anjali it was.

He found a big flat shell from further up the beach and explained to Anjali that they couldn't touch it with their hands because jellyfish could sting even when they weren't in the water.

Anjali listened very carefully and held her hands behind her back the whole time to be safe, which was the most responsible she'd ever been about anything.

Very gently, Arthur scooped the jellyfish onto the shell and Anjali stood close watching every move, saying "careful, careful, careful" under her breath, and you all walked together to where the waves were coming in and he lowered the shell to the water and let the jellyfish float off.

It drifted back into the sea returning to where it was supposed to be.

Anjali watched until she couldn't see it anymore, shielding her eyes against the sun. "Bye jellyfish," she said, very softly. Then she looked up at you both, satisfied. "It home now."

—

Fish and chips was always the plan and Anjali had known this since before you'd left the house, which meant the entire walk up from the beach she was vibrating slightly, holding both your hands and swinging between you and counting "one, two, free, one, two, FREE".

She ate her first chip with enormous seriousness, "yummy chips!"

You were all sitting on the blanket with the sea glittering at the bottom of the hill, everything smelt of salt and vinegar.

Everything was good until a seagull landed a foot from Anjali's tray that was placed next to her, and locked eyes with her.

Before you could say anything it had taken a chip and was back in the air.

The look on Anjali's face passed through shock, comprehension, and pure outrage in about two seconds, and then she blew the most extended, raspberry directly at the retreating seagull, pointing up at it with one finger, cheeks puffed out with the effort of it.

"He TOOK my chip," she said, turning to you, deadly serious. You told her that was very rude of him. She agreed it was very rude, and then turned back to blow another raspberry at the sky as a final statement on the matter.

Arthur had tears running down his face from the effort of not laughing, and you weren't doing much better, Anjali ate the rest of her chips with one eye on the sky for the rest of the meal.

You changed her on the beach afterwards into a dry, clean frock, her hair curling at the ends from the salt water, cheeks pink, and she looked so perfectly herself that it was almost hard to look at directly.

She decided she wanted to jump over the waves at the water's edge while you and Arthur sat back on the blanket together, his arm around you, watching her. Every wash of shallow water that came in she'd track carefully, wait for her moment, and jump with both feet, landing with a splat and immediately spinning around to check your scores.

Arthur called out nine and you called ten and she looked between you and decided you were both right and turned back to wait for the next one.

She sang while she waited — a song of her own invention, tuneless and completely confident, about chips and the jellyfish going home and Biscuit the whale and seagull who was rude.

The sun was getting low and a golden sheen coated the air.

Arthur pressed a kiss to your temple and you leaned into him, neither of you said anything because there wasn't really anything that needed to be said.

Anjali jumped a particularly good wave, landed it, spun around with her arms out. "DID YOU SEE," she shouted.

"Ten out of ten," Arthur called back, without hesitation.

She pointed at you. "Very amazing! Ten," you confirmed.

She turned back to the sea, planted her feet, absolutely delighted with herself, the hem of her dress dripping, her hair wild and the whole beach golden around her.

a/n - like and comments and reblogs are very appreciated <3 lmk if u wanna be on the taglist

I. two pink lines

The thing was, you'd been trying not to think about it.

Four days late wasn't unusual. Your cycle had been off before — stress, a bad week of sleep, that one month you ate nothing but pasta for a fortnight and your body just decided to protest. Four days was nothing. Four days was barely a blip.

But then it was eight days, and you told yourself it was just a longer cycle.

And then it was twelve, and you started sleeping weird.

And now it was fourteen days, and you were standing in the middle of Boots on a while Arthur was filming the podcast.

You were holding two different pregnancy tests, comparing their little diagrams on the back of the boxes with probably more focus than you'd ever given anything in your entire academic career.

You bought both.

You did them in the Boots bathroom because you genuinely could not wait until you got home. The little tiled room smelled like hand soap and there was a motivational quote on the wall about blooming where you're planted that felt deeply appropriate.

You sat on the closed lid of the toilet, tests balanced on the edge of the sink, and waited.

Three minutes had never felt so long in your life.

When you looked, both of them showed the same thing.

Pregnant.

You just stared at it.

Your hand came up to your mouth without you really deciding to move it.

Your eyes went blurry.

Pregnant.

You'd been trying for a few months. You knew it was possible. You wanted this, both of you had.

You had the conversation and bought the folic acid and everything, but somehow knowing it was possible and then actually seeing it were two completely different things.

Also you were absolutely crying in a Boots toilet on a Wednesday.

You pressed the backs of your hands to your cheeks. Took a breath.

Then you smiled so hard your face hurt.

II. reveal

You didn't tell Arthur.

Not that day, not the next. You meant to — you planned to, lying in bed that night while he scrolled on his phone beside you, his shoulder warm against yours.

The words sat right at the back of your throat.

'Arthur, I'm pregnant. Arthur, we're having a baby. Arthur, those tests I did in a Boots toilet this afternoon both said yes.'

But every time you opened your mouth, something stopped you.

Not fear, exactly.

More like — you wanted to sit with it for a second. Hold it for yourself, just briefly. This enormous, quietly extraordinary thing that was just yours for a little while.

So you kept it.

For a week, you kept it.

What you didn't know was that Arthur already knew.

Or strongly suspected, anyway — which to Arthur was basically the same thing.

It had started with the belly thing. You kept touching your stomach. Not in any obvious way, just absently, the flat of your palm pressed there when you were watching telly, or your fingers curling around your waist when you stood in the kitchen. He noticed.

Then there was the nausea. You'd gone a bit green one morning and quietly said you weren't hungry and disappeared back upstairs.

He stood in the kitchen holding the plate of noodles he made you and thought about it for a long time.

And then — and this was the one that had really done it — you hadn't mentioned needing more pads.

He wasn't trying to track that. It wasn't weird, it had just become something he was aware of, the same way he was aware of when you were running low on your shampoo or when you'd had a hard week and needed a takeaway instead of cooking.

He paid attention to you. That was all. And the absence of that particular addition to the shopping list was quite strange.

He hadn't said anything. He was waiting for you to be ready.

It was a Sunday evening when you finally said it.

You'd made dinner — pasta, because it was the only thing your stomach was reliably okay with lately — and you sat across from each other at the kitchen table.

Arthur had been talking about something Isaac said on the podcast and then trailed off because you'd gone quiet.

"You alright?" he asked.

"Yeah." You pushed a piece of pasta around your plate. "Actually — no. I mean, yes. I'm fine. I just need to tell you something."

He put his fork down.

"Okay," he said, and his voice was very calm. The careful kind of calm that meant he was paying close attention.

You looked up at him. Your heart was going absolutely stupid fast. "So, um." You laughed a little, which wasn't what you'd planned. "I've sort of known for a week, which I know, I'm sorry, I just needed a minute—"

"You're pregnant," Arthur said.

You blinked. "I— what?"

"You're pregnant?" He said it the same way. Steady. Like he'd been sitting with it too.

"How did you—" You pointed at him, slightly outraged. "Arthur. How."

"The belly thing." He gestured vaguely at where your hand had just been, resting on your stomach without you noticing. "And you were nauseous last week. And you didn't ask me to by pads."

"You noticed that?"

"I notice everything." He shrugged, but his eyes were very bright. "I wasn't going to say anything. I was waiting for you."

You stared at him. Your vision had gone blurry again.

"So," he said softly. "Are you?"

"Yeah," you whispered. "I am."

The smile that broke across his face then was the kind you didn't see all the time — wide and unguarded and a little bit overwhelmed, the kind he couldn't have controlled if he'd tried.

He was out of his chair before you'd finished the word, and then his arms were around you and his face was in your hair and he was just holding you tight. You pressed your face into his shoulder and finally let yourself cry properly.

"I knew it," he murmured into your hair. His voice wasn't entirely steady. "I knew it, I knew it."

"You could've said something," you said, half-laughing, half-crying.

"I was being respectful."

"You were being smug."

"I was being both." He pulled back just enough to look at you, hands cradling your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks. His eyes were glassy.

III. appointments

The first appointment was a lot of information delivered by a very nice GP who clearly gave this talk multiple times a day.

You sat side by side on the little chairs in her office while she walked you through what came next — blood tests, booking appointments with the midwife, the dating scan, what to expect, what to avoid, the list of foods that were suddenly banned which meant no pub crawls.

Arthur had brought a notepad and he was writing things down.

The GP had glanced at it with a small approving smile and said that's very thorough and you'd had to look at the ceiling to compose yourself because you loved him so much it was actually ridiculous.

"Do you have any questions?" she asked at the end.

Arthur looked at his notepad. He had many bullet points.

You did not have a notepad. You had one question, which was whether the no soft cheese rule was truly non-negotiable or more of a guideline.

(It was non-negotiable. You were devastated.)

The twelve-week scan was a different thing entirely.

You were nervous in a way you hadn't quite expected — not about anything being wrong — just about the reality of it suddenly becoming very, very real.

Arthur held your hand in the waiting room. His thumb was moving back and forth against your knuckles, steady as a metronome, and you weren't sure if he was doing it for you or for him or both.

"You're going to cry," you told him.

"I'm not going to cry."

"Arthur."

"I might cry a little."

"This is mental isn't it?" you said with a huge grin.

Arthur laughed at how strange you were being, "Yes it is."

The sonographer was warm and professional, she put the cold gel on your stomach and then started the actual process of scanning.

There it was — this small, unmistakable shape on the screen, the flutter of a heartbeat, a whole tiny person (although it was hard to make the shape out) already stubbornly in existence.

You heard Arthur exhale very slowly.

"There's the heartbeat," the sonographer said, and she angled the screen slightly so you could both see. "Looking good."

Arthur was gripping your hand hard enough that you could feel every individual finger. "That's—" He stopped. Cleared his throat. "That's the baby."

"That is indeed the baby," the sonographer confirmed, professionally.

You looked at him. His jaw was clenching very hard like he was trying to stay composed, and his eyes were absolutely glistening.

"You're crying," you said.

"I have something in my eye."

"Arthur, we're in a hospital."

"They have dust here too, you know."

You laughed, even with your own eyes watering, and turned back to the screen, and for a moment neither of you said anything — just looked at this small, extraordinary, impossible thing you'd somehow made together.

"That's really mental," Arthur said, quietly. Not embarrassed by it. Just honest.

"Yeah," you agreed.

The sonographer smiled, "I see you're both very happy."

You replied trying not to laugh hysterically at just how amazing this predicament was, "Maybe a bit."

III. baby bump

By five months, you were unmistakably, beautifully (especially in Arthur's eyes) showing.

You'd gone through a phase of not quite believing it when you looked in the mirror — the bump was there but your brain kept lagging behind the physical reality.

But now it was there. Round and present and impossible to ignore, and Arthur treated it like it was the most precious thing he'd ever seen, which, in hindsight, was adorable but also occasionally infuriating because it meant he wouldn't let you do anything.

"I'm getting a glass of water," you said.

"Sit down, I'll get it."

"Arthur, it is a glass of water."

"Don't worry, I've got it." He chirped walking to the kitchen.

"I am five months pregnant, not made of glass—"

"I don't want you to strain yourself baby."

You rolled your eyes whilst trying to prevent a smile from breaking through and sat down. He got you the water with crushed ice in it because he knew you liked to chew it. You took it with the most exasperated expression you could manage but deep down the gesture, along with all the other ones, made you melt.

The nights were quite different though.

In the mornings Arthur was attentive in an occasionally slightly overbearing way, and during the day he was always hovering at a slight distance, and that was all sweet and honestly quite funny.

But in the nights, with the lamp off and the room dark and warm, he was so incredibly soft..

He had this thing he did.

When he thought you were asleep, he'd shift down a little, and he'd press a kiss to the curve of your bump, quiet and gentle, and he'd talk to the baby in this low murmur that you could only half make out — telling them about his day, or asking them questions they obviously couldn't answer, or just saying I can't wait to meet you.

You'd never told him you were often still awake for this.

You figured it was his thing, and you didn't want to make him self-conscious about it. So you lay there with your eyes closed and listened to him tell your unborn baby about the football, or about something funny Isaac had said.

It made you feel so full of warm.

One night he was mid-sentence about a game of chess he played when you couldn't help it.

"Arthur," you said.

His head stuck up immediately to look at you, he had a very embarrassed expression on himself. "Oh um — I thought you were asleep."

"I know."

He paused trying hide his bashful smile and shock. "How long have you been awake for these?"

"A while," you admitted.

He was quiet for a second. Then he just kissed your bump again, unbothered, and said to your stomach, "your mum's been eavesdropping on us".

There was one afternoon, though, that was harder.

You had been looking at photos from before — not intentionally, you were just scrolling back through your camera roll to find something else and ended up staring at yourself from six months ago, which felt like a different lifetime. Your body was different now. Bigger, slower, rounder, covered in tiger stretch mark.

You knew it was for a reason and that it would happen. You knew that. But it didn't always stop the small mean voice that crept in sometimes.

Arthur found you in the bathroom, leaning on the sink, not crying exactly but not not-crying either.

He didn't ask what was wrong immediately. He just came up behind you, put his hands on your shoulders, and looked at you in the mirror.

"Hey pwincess," he said with a discord mod voice.

"I'm fine." you said with a slight giggle. He knew how to crack you (in more ways than one)

"Pwincess pwease —."

"I just—" You exhaled. "I don't look like me anymore."

Arthur's hands moved from your shoulders to your waist, arms wrapping around you from behind.

"You look like you," he said simply. "You look like you, and you look like someone who's growing a baby, and I think you look incredible." He said it without inflection, like it was just a fact he was reporting. "And I know that's not always enough to shut the voice up. But it's what I actually think."

You leaned back into him.

"The voice is annoying," you said.

"Tell it to get out of your bathroom," he said. "This is a nice bathroom."

You laughed despite yourself, and he kissed the top of your head, and you stayed there for a while until it passed.

V. twenty-four weeks

The gestational diabetes diagnosis came on a Tuesday afternoon, after what was supposed to be a routine appointment.

The consultant explained everything sweetly and calmly, how pregnancy hormones could make your body less responsive to insulin, how it wasn’t your fault, how common it was, how most people managed it through diet, exercise, and monitoring, and how some people needed medication later depending on their numbers. She talked about fasting glucose, post-meal readings, carbohydrate distribution, portion sizes, protein and fibre, extra scans, and the possibility of induction if the baby grew too large.

You sat there nodding which was easier than admitting your brain had stopped fully processing words around minute three.

—

On the drive home, Arthur kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding your hand.

At a red light, he squeezed your hand once.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “We’re okay.”

You nodded without looking at him. “I know, it's just — I, I don't know.”

—

The first week was the hardest.

Not because anything dramatic happened — your blood sugar wasn’t wildly uncontrolled, nobody was rushing you to hospital, the baby was fine — but because the diagnosis was always on your mind.

You found yourself standing in supermarket aisles reading nutrition labels with concentration. Bread that had never mattered before suddenly mattered. Rice mattered. Fruit mattered. Portion sizes mattered.

At home, a small glucose monitor kit took up permanent residence on the kitchen counter. Four times a day you had to wash your hands, prick your finger, squeeze out a drop of blood, feed it to the strip, and wait for a number that seemed capable of dictating your mood for the next hour.

Some readings were fine. Some were frustratingly high for reasons you couldn’t always identify. Those were the worst ones — the meals that seemed reasonable, the walk you’d taken afterwards, the number that still came back above target.

One evening after dinner, you sat at the kitchen table staring at the monitor for so long that the screen timed out twice. Arthur openedthe front door after a whole day of filming with the sidemen, carrying a bag of shopping.

“You haven’t tested yet,” he said softly.

You exhaled sharply. “I know.”

He set the bag down and pulled out the chair beside you. “Bad day?”

“I’m tired of thinking about it.” You rubbed at your eyes. “It’s like my brain never gets a break., I just want to eat some bloody pudding”

Arthur was quiet for a moment, then said, “You’re allowed to hate it.”

You looked at him. “It feels dramatic to hate finger pricks.”

“I don’t think it’s the finger pricks,” he said. “I think it’s the constantness.”

“Yes,” you said, your voice louder than you intended. “Exactly.”

Arthur reached for your hand. “You’re carrying our baby and managing a medical condition at the same time. I know how horrible things are right now, I', here whenever you need me okay?"

You laughed weakly. “You sound like AI.”

“Bloody hell.”

That earned a real smile.

Eventually he took the monitor from your hand and set it gently on the table. “Want me to sit with you while you do it?”

“You always sit with me.”

“I know.”

You pulled back enough to look at him. “You don’t have to.”

“I know that too.”

—

A week later, a package arrived. You opened it and stared at the contents in disbelief.

“Arthur.”

He looked up from the sofa. “Hmm?”

“What is this?”

“A case.”

“For what?”

“For your monitor kit.”

The depressing beige NHS pouch had been replaced with a really cute, embroidered bag. It had compartments for strips and lancets and alcohol wipes. It was very whimsical.

You laughed helplessly. “This is ridiculous.”

“You hated the old one.”

“It was functional.”

“You described it as shit coloured”

—

The walks started after the midwife mentioned that gentle movement after meals could help with blood sugar control. Arthur latched onto the suggestion immediately.

The first time he proposed an evening walk, you stared at him in disbelief.

“It’s seven-thirty.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s raining.”

“It’s only drizzling.”

“I’m pregnant.”

“Wait who is the father...”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

You rolled your eyes jokingly as you stood up. “Such a bastard.”

He laughed, grabbed your coat from the hook, and held it open for you. “Come on. Twenty minutes. Then we can come home and complain about the weather together.”

Somehow, it became one of the best part of your days.

Dinner, then coats, then the two of you moving slowly through quiet streets while the sky darkened around you. Sometimes you talked about names or nursery furniture or what colour the baby’s eyes might be. Sometimes you complained about glucose readings or swollen ankles or strangers who insisted on giving pregnancy advice in supermarkets. Sometimes you walked in comfortable silence while Arthur kept one hand at your waist.

VI. eight months

The beach was Arthur's idea.

He'd been planning it for about two weeks.

He checked the forecast, found a stretch of coast that wouldn't be too busy, and packed a couple bags with meticulous thoroughness.

"It's just a beach trip," you'd said, as you sat on the bed and watched his shirtless frame move around the room like a madman looking for another bottle of sunscreen.

"It's very important," he said.

"Would have prefered a trip to skeggy butlins mate." You said deadpan.

Arthur laughed at that, but then he went back into robot mode again: "You need snacks that won't spike your levels, you need somewhere to sit that isn't on the ground because you said your hips have been bad, there's a foam mat in the bag, there are two types of sunscreen, I just need to find the other one—"

"Arthur."

"Two types," he repeated, and folded a towel.

It was a good day.

The light was low and golden and the beach wasn't empty but wasn't crowded either. You sat on the mat with your feet in the sand, bump settled and present in front of you, sunglasses on.

Arthur sat beside you occasionally handing you things from the bag.

"Stop fussing Arthur, I'm more relaxed than you are," you said, grinning at his sweetness.

"I'm not fussing. Do you want the crackers?"

"I just had crackers."

"Different crackers."

"Arthur—" But you were laughing, and he was grinning, and you took the different crackers.

After splashing about in the sea and making stupid sandcastles you returned to the spot with your belongings.

He lay down on his side, head propped on one hand, and very naturally placed his other hand against the side of your bump. Just resting there.

The baby moved.

You both felt it — the unmistakable roll of a small person adjusting position. It still made your breath hitch.

"There she is," Arthur said softly, without thinking, and then caught himself. You were keeping the gender a surprise. "Or he. There they are."

"Nice recovery," you said.

"I don't know why I said that, I genuinely don't know what we're having."

"Sure."

"I don't." He looked slightly panicked. "Do you know? Did you sneak a look at the results and not tell me—"

"I don't know!" You held your hands up. "I swear!"

"Okay. Good. We don't know. We're in agreement."

"We're in agreement."

He settled back down, hand still against your bump. "Come on then," he said, to your stomach. "Move again. Let's see it."

The baby obliged, and Arthur's whole face went soft again.

You took a photo of him like that. Lying on his side, one hand on your bump, looking at you with the sea behind him.

Later, walking back to the car at a pace that was entirely dictated by your comfort, which Arthur matched without comment, he had one arm looped through yours and was talking about something, some anecdote from filming, and midway through it he stopped and said, "You're happy, right?"

You looked at him. "What?"

"Right now. Today. You're — it's been good?"

"Arthur, it's been genuinely lovely."

He nodded, absorbing this. "Good."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah." He said it simply. "I just — I want it to be good for you. I know the last couple months have been a lot."

You stopped walking. He stopped with you, automatically.

You reached up and put your hand on his face, and he leaned into it slightly, and you said, "You've made it good."

He covered your hand with his for a second. Then he kissed your palm, and started walking again, you went with him.

VII. early

Just a week left till the birth.

That was the thing you kept thinking about lately, as you sat on the floor of the hallway with your back against the wall and your phone in your hand and your other hand pressed to your stomach.

Then some horrid cramps hit.

You were supposed to have another week. It was too early. This was probably nothing. This was almost certainly Braxton Hicks, which you'd had before and which were uncomfortable but manageable.

You'd been fine all morning. Arthur had left at half ten to film a football challenge for Chris — with Bach and George and Arthur Hill, a full day thing.

He kissed you goodbye and told you to call him if you needed anything so you said "I'm pregnant, not helpless"

He said "noted, call me if you need anything okay?" — you pushed him out the door.

The first contraction had come at about half twelve.

You'd timed it.

The second came twenty minutes later.

Still probably Braxton Hicks. Your body had been practising. That was a thing.

By the third, an hour in, you were on the floor of the hallway because it had hit you mid-walk and you'd just sat down.

You timed the next three.

Regular. Getting closer.

It was happening.

You got your shoes — though it took an embarrassingly long time, bending that far wasn't really an option anymore, you had to sort of approach the problem from the side.

You got your hospital bag from the bottom of the stairs where it had been sitting for three weeks, and you got the car keys and called Arthur.

He picked up on the second ring.

"Hey—"

"So," you said, and you were going for casual but your voice was giving it away. "I think this might be it."

Three seconds of silence.

"What."

"I think I'm in labour." You paused as another contraction started building, and you breathed through it, and in the background you could hear something — voices, the echo of a large space. "I'm timing the contractions, they're regular, I've got the bag—"

"Stay there." His voice had gone very focused. "I'm coming to drive you. Stay there, don't move, I'll be there in twenty—"

"Arthur, I was literally about to drive myself, it's fine, I can probably get through—"

"No. No, absolutely not. Stay there."

In the background you heard someone — Bach, you thought — say "Arthur what's happening?"

"She's in labour," Arthur said, clearly not to you.

And then there was a lot of noise from the background, all at once, a chorus of overlapping male voices that you could only partially make out — "oh my god, is she alright?", "Arthur go", "mate get out of here—"

"I'm coming," Arthur said, back to you. "Are you okay? How far apart?"

"About eight minutes—"

"Eight minutes?—"

"That's still time, it's fine—"

"You sound like you're in pain."

"I'm in labour, Arthur, that is generally the thing that—" You stopped. Another one. Coming faster than eight minutes.

You pressed your hand flat against the wall and worked through it, and you heard Arthur on the other end go very quiet, just listening.

When it passed, you exhaled slowly.

"Okay," Arthur said, and his voice was very careful. "That sounded close together."

"It's fine," you said, less convincingly than before. "I was going to drive—"

"You are not driving yourself to the hospital, please, I am begging you—"

"Arthur—"

"Please. I will be there so fast, just sit by the door—"

From the background: "Arthur for the love of god, GO, we're not filming anything!"

And then Arthur Hill's voice, very clearly: "Arthur, we love you both, get in the car!"

And George: "Good luck reader!! Arthur MOVE—"

"I have to go," Arthur said. "I will be there in twenty minutes. Sit by the door. Please."

"Okay," you said. "Okay, I'll—okay."

You ended up sitting exactly where you'd been before, back against the wall, bag beside you, slightly wet-eyed from the last contraction and also possibly from just the weight of the fact that this was actually happening.

Arthur was coming. You were going to the hospital. There was a whole human being on the way out of you.

You heard the car before you saw the lights through the glass panel of the front door.

Arthur was through the door in approximately four seconds, crouching down in front of you before you'd even fully registered he was there, both hands on your face, eyes doing a rapid check of you from top to bottom.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," you said, slightly tearfully.

"Can you walk to the car?"

"Yeah—"

"Okay, arm around me. We're going."

He got you up and out and into the passenger seat, and the hospital bag went in the back, and he got in and drove, one hand on the wheel and one hand firmly in yours, and you did not let go of it once.

VIII. Anjali

There was no way to make it not long. You knew that going in.

But there was a difference between knowing it and living it.

knowing this will be intense and lying in a hospital bed with Arthur's hand in yours, crushing it with a grip that he took completely without comment, and saying at least three times that you wanted it to be over.

"I know," he said, every time. "You're doing so well."

"Stop saying I'm doing well—"

"You are."

"It doesn't feel like—" You broke off through another contraction screaming in pain.

The pain was searing, tears rolling down your strained face again and again as your cried through it.

And then she was born.

One moment she wasn't there, and then she was crying

"It's a girl," the midwife said.

You looked at Arthur, your face red and tear stained, his face also tear stained.

He was looking at her, being placed on your chest — this small, red-faced, aggressive little person.

Tears were running without him making any move to stop them, jaw working slightly.

"Hi," he said. His voice broke on it. Just that one syllable.

She made a small sound against your chest.

You pressed your lips to the top of her head and kept them there for a long time.

"Anjali," you said softly. You'd both known the name since about week twenty but you'd never said it out loud with her actually there, and now it was real.

Arthur reached out and touched her hand — her impossibly small hand, fingers already fisted — and she wrapped them around his finger with crazy grip.

His whole face crumpled, just briefly.

"Hi, Anjali," he said. "We've been waiting for you."

You looked at him, and at her, and at the two of them together — his finger in her fist, her face against your chest.

"She's got your nose," you said.

Arthur laughed through his tears. "She does not."

"She absolutely does."

"She's been alive for four minutes, you cannot tell whose nose—"

"Arthur." You looked at him. "She has your nose."

He looked at Anjali. He looked at you.

"Yeah," he said softly. "Maybe a bit."

a/n - EEEEEK guys this shit made me giddy

like and comments and reblogs are very appreciated <3 lmk if u wanna be on the taglist