He came early, and fast, and it was so unexpected that they hadn't even had time to call anyone, to reach out for the help they so desperately needed. They had planned for it all to take place in a calm, white room somewhere, with professionals at hand, people who did this every day for a living doing all the work and taking the stress out of the event for both of them. As per usual when it came to their life, it didn't go according to their plan.
They hadn't planned to fall in love. At least, she hadn't. Her husband, lovely and impassioned as he so often was, never missed out on an opportunity to proclaim loudly that he had known from the moment he'd first laid eyes on her that they were for each other. He hadn't, of course, because it was a ridiculous notion, to think that an eleven year-old boy might imagine love and marriage and babies to a likewise young and awkward and gangly girl. It was similarly ridiculous to think that a fifteen year-old boy would imagine the same things with a slightly less awkward and gangly and young girl who grabbed at any chance to lie about how much she hated him, but so it had been.
They hadn't planned to get married at eighteen. They'd been drunk and far too excited to have gotten their own place together when he'd dropped to one knee and asked her to marry him; she had said yes instantly, and they'd told their friends and all of the Order members the next day and she'd bought an ivory dress the day after that, and they'd been married within the week and it had been perfect.
They hadn't planned on losing so many friends, but they were fighting in a war. They were the outnumbered faction fighting for the side of freedom and equality and the right for everyone to simply live in this world, in any world. There were maybe fifty of them, official members of the Order of the Phoenix, vigilantes who answered the call each time there was an attack, whose numbers were slowly but surely diminishing with each and every mission.
They certainly hadn't planned on getting pregnant. Not at nineteen, not when they were two very valuable soldiers on the losing side of a war that would decide the fate of the world.
They hadn't planned to deliver their little surprise on their own, in their home. She'd woken up early, before James, which was unusual, and had simply laid there and watched him sleep. She rarely got to watch him sleep, hardly ever saw him looking so innocent and peaceful, absolutely had never had the luxury of watching him wake. The way his body started stretching before he even woke up, his long legs rustling under the covers, his strong arms flexing just slightly around her. His lips parted before his eyes fluttered open; she hadn't known that before. She'd been on him before he'd really finished waking up. He'd been groggy and slow at first, but he'd come to quickly, matched her intensity, then laid there and let her have him when he'd realized that that was all she'd needed.
They'd showered together, which they did often, and she hadn't noticed at first. It was a popping sensation, and then the pain had been so intense that she'd nearly fallen, and he'd had to catch her. It hadn't been very noticeable until then, she'd been having the pain on and off for a few days and everyone she'd asked had said that it was normal, that it happened more often the further along you got. He'd had to help her out of the shower, both of them panicking, thinking something must be terribly wrong, that they were losing him.
He'd gotten her to the bed, helped her lie down, propped her up on some pillows, and left the room for not even ten seconds intending to floo someone – probably Poppy – for help, and she was already screaming for him to come back. He'd been back by her side so quickly she'd have sworn he'd Apparated had they not made it impossible to do so in their house. She couldn't speak properly, but he'd somehow understood that it was now or never. A Gryffindor through and through, he'd spread her legs and taken a look. She'd never seen him look so pale, so obviously close to passing out. A few choice words and inventive threats from her had brought him round a bit and he'd set his jaw and delivered their son.
It had been a lot of instinct on both of their parts. She'd figured to push when she'd felt the contractions coming; for him it was mostly gritting his teeth and not passing out and knowing when to catch the baby. All in all, for how unexpected it had all been, they'd managed well. They were both crying, sobbing, really, when he wrapped the baby in a soft blanket, wiped away the blood and gunk, handed him over to her. She'd let him, then, go call Poppy, who had arrived moments later and calmly reminded them that they were both naked and wet. She'd really only taken issue with James's nudity and he had, unashamedly, pulled on the pyjama pants Lily had stripped him of not an hour before, and then they'd all been able to focus.
Lily had the easiest time of it, she thought, having only to focus on the tiny – he was smaller than most, Poppy had confirmed, because he'd come three weeks early, but was perfectly healthy – pink baby James had wrapped in the soft cream blanket that was likely soiled forever now. Poppy had concentrated solely on checking to make sure that Lily and the baby were fine, performing Healing spells to make the recovery easier on her, and assessment spells on the baby. James had to split his attention between the three of them, making sure that Poppy – who had done a wonderful job of pretending that he wasn't breathing down her neck – was doing a thorough enough job assessing his wife and son, making sure that Lily was feeling all right, and shooting longing glances at the baby.
He'd wanted so badly to hold him, and she'd known even then, but hadn't been willing to give him up just yet. It wasn't until after he'd walked Poppy out and seen that she had managed to floo safely back to Headquarters, and had come to sit beside her, placed an arm over her shoulder and a wondering hand lightly on their baby's small chest, that she offered to let James hold him again.
He had stolen his arm from her shoulder so quickly and had accepted his son into his arms and stared down at him so reverentially that the sight had brought tears to her eyes.
"What?" he'd asked when he'd finally managed to tear his gaze from the sleeping baby whose life he so gingerly held, and realized that she was crying.
"Nothing; it's hormones," she said dismissively, but that was a lie.
She just loved them so much, her husband who was but a child at heart, but a real man and hero when he needed to be, who loved her with everything he had, and the baby who had fought his way out of her body mere hours before, but was everything, everything to his parents already. She loved them so much that she felt she would die of it if she held it all inside, so she told him, and saw in his eyes, and felt in his lips when he pressed them to her brow, that he felt the same.
It had been two days since then, and she was completely recovered thanks to Poppy, and she'd managed to convince James that she could handle a bath on her own, thank you very much. She had planned to take a long, hot bath, revel in the time away from James who, as wonderful and doting as he was on both her and the baby, had been getting on her last nerve lately what with his insistence that he must do everything for her and she should not even need to lift her wand, much less her finger for anything.
She'd only lasted through ten minutes of solitude, though, before the longing had overcome her. She needed to see him, both of them, her incredible, amazing, beautiful boys.
They were on the bed, and James was cradling Harry in his arms and staring down at him with such awe and such wonder and devotion the likes of which she'd only seen when he'd been alone with her, and only on special occasions even then. His hair was messy and Harry, even at two days old, had a full head of the same dark, unruly hair as his daddy, and his eyes were open and he was staring up at his daddy with sleepy, unfocused eyes. James bent his head and lifted Harry just enough to nuzzle his soft, pudgy cheek with his nose.
He lifted his head just slightly, his arm still holding Harry close, his knee lifted off the bed to support the angle, his other hand resting ever-so-gently on Harry's chest and holding back the blanket she'd swaddled him in before escaping to her bath so that he could see his face.
"I will protect you, Harry," he whispered, just loud enough so that Lily, leaning unnoticed in the doorway, could hear him. "I won't let anything happen to you."
She sniffled, and she hadn't noticed she was crying until she was crossing the room and climbing onto the bed next to James. He glanced up, lifted his hand from Harry's chest to drape his arm around her shoulder.
"I won't let anything happen to either of you, as long as I live," he vowed, and kissed her. Lily rested her head on his shoulder, and Harry stared up at them, and they stared down at him.
And they were happy.