Chapter Text

Three Years Later

Pen stood in Francesca and Michael's garden, watching absolute chaos unfold around her, and tried very hard not to throw up.

The twins' third birthday party was in full swing. John was currently covered head to toe in chocolate cake, having decided the best way to eat it was to smash his face directly into it. Rose was orchestrating a game that seemed to involve all the other children screaming at maximum volume while running in circles.

It was loud. It was chaotic. It was a lot.

And Pen's stomach was staging a full rebellion.

"You okay?" Colin appeared at her elbow, concerned. "You look pale."

"I'm fine," Pen lied. "Just—it's loud."

"It's very loud." He wrapped an arm around her waist. "Want to go inside for a bit? Get some quiet?"

"No, I'm—" Another wave of nausea hit her and she had to breathe through it. "Actually, yes. I need to use the bathroom."

She made it inside just in time, kneeling on the bathroom floor and emptying her stomach while trying to be as quiet as possible.

This was the third time today. The morning sickness was supposed to be getting better, not worse.

She heard the door open behind her.

"Pen?" Francesca's voice. "Are you okay? Colin said you weren't feeling well."

"I'm fine," Pen managed, flushing the toilet and sitting back. "Just—something I ate probably."

Francesca was quiet for a long moment, studying her. Then: "How far along are you?"

Pen's head whipped up. "What?"

"I'm not an idiot, Pen. I've seen you avoiding the wine. You barely touched the cake. You've been pale all morning. And now you're throwing up at my kids' birthday party." Francesca crossed her arms, but she was smiling. "So. How far along?"

Pen debated lying. Then decided there was no point. "Ten weeks."

Francesca's face split into the biggest grin Pen had ever seen. "OH MY GOD. PEN. YOU'RE PREGNANT."

"Shh!" Pen stood up quickly, wobbling slightly. "We weren't going to say anything yet. We didn't want to take away from John and Rose's birthday."

"Are you insane? This doesn't take away from anything—this is amazing!" Francesca pulled her into a careful hug. "I'm so happy for you. Does anyone else know?"

"Just you now. We were going to wait until twelve weeks to tell everyone."

"Can I tell people? Please? I'm going to burst if I can't tell people."

"Fran—"

"Please. Everyone's here. It's perfect."

Pen looked at her sister-in-law's excited face and couldn't help but smile. "Fine. But let me and Colin do it together. And let me brush my teeth first."

"Deal."

Five minutes later, Pen and Colin stood in the middle of the garden while Francesca gathered everyone around.

"What's happening?" Violet asked. "Is everything okay?"

"Everything's perfect," Francesca said, practically vibrating with excitement. "Pen and Colin have an announcement."

All eyes turned to them. Pen felt Colin take her hand, squeezing it gently.

"So," Colin said, and Pen could hear the smile in his voice. "We weren't planning to announce this today, but apparently I married a woman who can't keep secrets—"

"It's Francesca's fault," Pen interjected.

"It's completely my fault," Francesca agreed cheerfully.

"Anyway," Colin continued, "we're having a baby."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Violet screamed. Actually screamed.

"Oh my god!" Kate was the next to react. "When? How far along?"

"Ten weeks," Pen said. 

Eloise pushed through the crowd, her face shocked. "You're PREGNANT? How did I not know?"

"We've been very careful," Colin said.

"Apparently not careful enough," Benedict said, grinning. "Congratulations."

Portia was crying, of course. She pulled Pen into a tight hug. "My baby. You're having a baby."

"I know, Mum."

"And you're—you're feeling okay? Not too sick?"

"Nothing like last time," Pen assured her. "This is so much easier."

"Because it's just one baby this time," Francesca added, still beaming.

"Just one," Pen confirmed. "Which is honestly a relief because two nearly killed me."

"You were amazing with two," Francesca said. "But I'm glad you only have to do one this time."

The rest of the party dissolved into excited chatter about the baby. Violet was already planning nurseries. Daphne was giving unsolicited advice about labor. Kate was asking about due dates and hospitals.

And through it all, Colin kept his arm around Pen's waist, both of them grinning like idiots.

"We're having a baby," he whispered in her ear.

"We're having a baby," she confirmed.

"Our baby."

"Our baby."

Second Trimester - 18 Weeks

"Colin."

"Mm?"

"Colin, wake up."

"What time is it?"

"I don't know. Two am? Three? Doesn't matter."

Colin propped himself up on one elbow, squinting at her in the darkness. "What's wrong? Are you okay? Is the baby—"

"The baby's fine. I'm fine. But I need you."

"Need me for what?"

Pen threw the covers back and straddled him in one smooth motion. "What do you think?"

Colin blinked, still half-asleep. "Are you—right now?"

"Right now." She rolled her hips against him and felt him hardening immediately. "Unless you're too tired?"

"I'm never too tired for this." His hands came up to grip her hips. "But didn't we—we had sex like four hours ago."

"I know. I want to again."

"Not complaining, just—" He gasped as she ground down on him. "—clarifying."

"Second trimester hormones are insane," Pen said, already working his boxers down. "I'm constantly horny. It's a problem."

"It's not a problem. It's the opposite of a problem."

"You said that yesterday morning. And yesterday afternoon. And last night."

"I stand by it." He helped her out of her sleep shirt, his hands immediately going to her breasts. "God, look at you. You're so fucking beautiful."

She was showing now—a small but definite bump that she couldn't hide anymore. And her breasts were even larger, sensitive to the touch.

"Stop talking," she said, positioning him at her entrance. "More doing, less talking."

"Yes ma'am."

She sank down onto him with a sigh of relief, and they both groaned at the sensation.

"Fuck," Colin breathed. "You feel amazing."

"You feel pretty good yourself." She started moving, finding a rhythm that felt perfect. "This is—god, why does everything feel better right now?"

"Increased blood flow," Colin managed. "To all the—oh fuck—to all the important areas."

"How do you know that?"

"I've been reading the pregnancy books."

"Of course you have."

She rode him slowly at first, then faster as the need built. Colin's hands were everywhere—her breasts, her hips, between her legs where she needed him most.

"That's it," he encouraged. "Take what you need. Use me."

"So generous."

"I'm a giver."

She came with his name on her lips, and he followed seconds later, both of them breathing hard.

After, when they were tangled together again, Colin said, "We should probably sleep now."

"Probably."

"You're not going to let me sleep, are you?"

"Give me like ten minutes."

"You're insatiable."

"You love it."

"I really really do."

24 Weeks

"How are you feeling?" Dr. Brooks asked at the appointment.

"Amazing," Pen said honestly. "This is so much easier than last time."

"That's because you're only carrying one baby. And this time it's yours, so your body's not fighting the hormones as much."

"And no bed rest?"

"Definitely not. Blood pressure is perfect. Baby's growing beautifully. You're the picture of health."

Colin squeezed her hand. "Told you."

"You were worried," Dr. Brooks said, looking between them.

"Last time was—" Colin paused. "It was scary. The preeclampsia, the emergency delivery. I think we're both a little traumatized."

"That's completely understandable. But this pregnancy is completely different. Pen's healthy, the baby's healthy. Barring any unforeseen complications, you should be able to carry to full term."

"Full term," Pen repeated. "Forty weeks?"

"That's the goal."

After the appointment, in the car, Colin said, "You get to have the full experience this time."

"The full experience?"

"Waddling. Swollen ankles. Not being able to see your feet. All of it."

"You make it sound so appealing."

"It's going to be amazing. You're going to be so pregnant and miserable and I'm going to love every second of it."

"You're weird."

"You married me."

"Worst decision I ever made."

"Best decision," he corrected, and kissed her.

30 Weeks

Pen stood in what would be the nursery, hands on her hips, surveying the chaos.

They'd moved into their own townhome six months before their wedding—a beautiful three-bedroom in Notting Hill with the morning light Colin had wanted and enough bookshelves for Pen's ever-growing collection. They'd painted the nursery a soft green, assembled furniture, and now Pen was nesting with a vengeance.

"Is this where you want the crib?" Colin asked, standing next to the window.

"No. Too much light in the morning."

"What about here?" He moved it to the other wall.

"Too close to the door."

"Pen, we've moved this crib seven times."

"I know. But it needs to be perfect."

"It's already perfect."

"It's not perfect until it feels perfect."

Colin set down the crib piece he was holding and came over to her, wrapping his arms around her from behind, his hands settling on her bump. "You know the baby isn't going to care where the crib is, right?"

"I'll care."

"I know." He pressed a kiss to her neck. "That's why we'll keep moving it until you're happy."

"I love you."

"I love you too. Even when you're being impossible."

"Especially when I'm being impossible."

"Especially then."

They got the crib situated eventually—in its eighth position, which Pen declared perfect—and spent the rest of the afternoon organizing tiny clothes and debating whether they had too many stuffed animals.

"There's no such thing as too many stuffed animals," Colin argued.

"We have seventeen."

"That's a perfectly reasonable number."

"Colin, the baby isn't even born yet."

"I'm getting a head start."

That night, lying in bed, Pen felt the baby kick against Colin's hand where it rested on her stomach.

"She's active tonight," he said.

They'd found out they were having a girl at the twenty-week scan. Colin had cried. Pen had cried. It had been a whole thing.

"She's been active all day. I think she's training for something."

"Marathon?"

"Possibly. Or football."

The baby kicked again, harder this time, and Colin laughed. "She's strong."

"She gets that from you."

"She gets everything good from you."

"Smooth."

"I'm a smooth guy."

Pen turned in his arms to face him. "Are you ready for this? Really ready?"

"Are you?"

"I think so. I'm terrified, but I think so."

"Me too." He cupped her face. "But we're doing this together. And we're going to be amazing."

"You're going to be amazing. I'm going to be a mess."

"You're going to be perfect."

"You have a lot of faith in me."

"Always."

36 Weeks

"I can't see my feet," Pen announced from the sofa.

"That's normal," Eloise called from the kitchen.

"I can't tie my shoes."

"Also normal."

"I can't—" Pen struggled to sit up. "I can't get off this sofa."

"That's just because you're being dramatic."

"I'M NOT BEING DRAMATIC. I'M STUCK."

Colin appeared, laughing. "You're not stuck."

"I am. I'm going to live on this sofa forever. This is my life now."

He helped her up, and she waddled toward the bathroom, feeling approximately the size of a house.

"I hate this," she said.

"You look beautiful," Colin said.

"I look like I swallowed a beach ball."

"A very cute beach ball."

"I'm going to hit you."

"You'd have to catch me first."

But he was right—she was beautiful. Glowing, people kept saying. Though Pen suspected that was just sweat from the constant state of being overheated.

Still, she made it to thirty-six weeks. Then thirty-seven. Then thirty-eight.

"Any day now," Dr. Brooks said at the thirty-eight week appointment. "Baby's in position. Cervix is starting to soften. Could be this week, could be two more weeks."

"Two more weeks?" Pen asked, horrified.

"It's possible."

"I'm going to die."

"You're not going to die."

"I'm going to explode."

"Also unlikely."

In the car afterward, Colin said, "Two more weeks maximum. We can do two more weeks."

"You're not the one who feels like a whale."

"You're not a whale."

"I'm the size of a whale."

"You're the size of a pregnant woman who's about to have a baby. It's perfect."

"You're delusional."

"I'm in love."

"Same thing."

40 Weeks

Pen woke at three in the morning to a sensation she recognized immediately.

"Colin." She shook his shoulder. "Colin, wake up."

"What's wrong?"

"My water just broke."

He was out of bed instantly. "Okay. Okay, it's happening. We're having a baby. Right now. Today."

"Colin—"

"I need to get the hospital bag. And call your mum. And—shit, where are my shoes?"

"Colin."

"And we need to time contractions. Have you had any contractions yet?"

"COLIN."

He stopped, looking at her.

"Breathe," Pen said. "We have done this before. Let's just—let's get ready calmly."

"Calmly. Right. I can do calmly."

He was not calm.

He called Portia six times. He called Dr. Brooks. He called his mother. He packed and repacked the hospital bag three times. He made Pen breakfast that she couldn't eat because she was too nervous.

And through it all, the contractions got stronger and closer together.

By seven am, they were five minutes apart.

"Time to go," Colin said.

"Time to go," Pen agreed.

Labor was long.

Not as scary as the C-section had been, but long and exhausting and painful in a different way.

Portia arrived at the hospital within an hour, taking up position on Pen's other side.

"You're doing so well, sweetheart," she said, holding Pen's hand through a contraction.

"I'm dying."

"You're not dying."

"I'm reconsidering every life choice that led me here."

"Also normal."

Colin was perfect—getting her ice chips, letting her squeeze his hand until she probably broke bones, not complaining when she yelled at him that this was all his fault.

"You're doing amazing," he kept saying. "So amazing, Pen."

"Stop—" Another contraction hit. "—stop being nice when I'm trying to be mad at you."

"Can't help it. You're too beautiful."

"I hate you."

"No you don't."

Hours passed. The pain got worse. Pen got an epidural and felt immediately better.

"This is amazing," she said. "Epidurals are a gift from god."

"You said that about chips last week," Colin pointed out.

"Both can be true."

More hours. More contractions. More waiting.

And then finally, finally—

"You're ready to push," the midwife said.

Portia was crying. Colin was crying. Pen was too exhausted to cry.

She pushed.

And pushed.

And pushed.

"I can see the head," the midwife said. "One more push, Pen. One more big one."

Pen pushed with everything she had left, and suddenly there was a baby—red-faced and screaming and absolutely perfect.

"It's a girl," the midwife announced, placing the baby on Pen's chest.

Pen looked down at her daughter—bright red hair, just like Pen's had been when she was born, and when she opened her eyes they were unmistakably Colin's—and felt her heart crack wide open.

"Hi," she whispered. "Hi, baby girl. We've been waiting for you."

Colin was sobbing beside her, his hand on the baby's head. "She's perfect. Pen, she's absolutely perfect."

"She looks like you," Pen said.

"She looks like you."

"She looks like both of you," Portia said, also crying. "She's beautiful."

The midwife helped them get the baby cleaned up and weighed—seven pounds, three ounces—and then she was back in Pen's arms, rooting around looking for food.

"What's her name?" the midwife asked.

Pen looked at Colin, who nodded.

"Poppy," Pen said. "Her name is Poppy."

"Poppy Bridgerton," Colin said, testing it out. "She's perfect."

"She's perfect," Pen agreed.

The next few hours were a blur of visitors.

Francesca and Michael arrived with the twins, who stared at baby Poppy with awe.

"Baby," Rose said, pointing.

"That's your cousin," Francesca said. "Poppy."

"Poppy," Rose attempted. It came out more like "Pobby."

John was less interested in the baby than in the buttons on the hospital bed, but eventually he was convinced to look.

"Small," he pronounced.

"Very small," Michael agreed. "But she'll grow."

Eloise came next, with Phillip in tow.

"She's so tiny," Eloise said, peering at Poppy. "How are you so tiny?"

"All babies are tiny," Pen pointed out.

"Not this tiny. This is like—doll tiny."

"She's actually quite average sized," Colin said.

"Well, she's perfect." Eloise looked at Pen. "How are you feeling?"

"Exhausted. Sore. Happy."

"You did good."

"Thanks."

The whole Bridgerton family cycled through over the next few hours—Violet crying, Benedict making jokes, Anthony being awkward, Kate being competent and helpful, Daphne giving more unsolicited advice.

And through it all, Pen held Poppy and marveled at the fact that she was here. Their daughter. Their family.

When everyone finally left and it was just the three of them—Colin, Pen, and Poppy—Colin settled into the bed beside them.

"We did it," he said softly.

"We did it."

"We made a person."

"A perfect person."

"The most perfect person." He pressed a kiss to Poppy's head, then to Pen's temple. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For this. For her. For everything."

"You did half the work."

"You did all the hard parts."

"We're a team."

"The best team."

Poppy made a small sound, and they both looked down at her—sleeping now, her tiny fist curled against Pen's chest.

"I can't believe she's ours," Pen whispered.

"Believe it. We're parents now."

"That's terrifying."

"Completely terrifying."

"We have no idea what we're doing."

"Not a clue."

"We're going to mess this up so badly."

"Probably." Colin kissed her again. "But we'll mess it up together. And we'll figure it out. Just like we figured out everything else."

Pen looked at her daughter—at her husband—at the life they'd built together despite everything.

Four years ago she'd been pregnant with someone else's babies, terrified and uncertain about the future. She'd nearly died bringing those babies into the world. She'd spent months recovering, figuring out who she was when she wasn't pregnant, learning how to be in a relationship without the pregnancy as a buffer.

And now here she was. Married. A published author. Living in the home they'd picked together, with the morning light and the bookshelves and the medium-sized dog they'd gotten last year (who was currently being watched by Eloise and probably destroying something important).

And now—a mother.

Her own baby. Her own family.

It had taken so long to get here. So many detours and complications and moments of fear.

But they'd made it.

Together.

"I love you," she said to Colin.

"I love you too."

"Both of you. So much."

"We love you too," Colin said, speaking for himself and Poppy. "Forever."

"Forever," Pen agreed.

And there in that hospital room, with their daughter sleeping between them and their whole future ahead of them, Pen finally felt like she'd come home.

Not to a place.

But to this.

To them.

To family.

To love.

To everything she'd ever wanted and hadn't known how to ask for.

She was home.

Finally.

Completely.

Perfectly home.