This is (chronologically) the fourth of about five of these little one shots which are somewhat interwoven. Modern AU, which I have never done before but I thought it was worth giving it a go! In this one characters are all the same ages etc as they would be during series 3. Written and posted in one sitting so I anticipate there will be a few errors! Enjoy, LP. x
Keep You Warm – Early January 2013
It was dark and cold; the novelty of winter had worn off with the end of Christmas. The biting chill of dark days and the inevitable costs it bought had been basked in the golden glow of the festive season and forgotten but now in the cold light of January they were obvious; clothes that fit too tight, bills that were higher than could really be afforded, cupboards cluttered with unwanted gifts. But for them both there was still that feeling in the pit of their stomachs that comes from something new that both excites you beyond belief and terrifies you at the same time.
The cot wedged into the corner of their room, the basket of nappies on the dresser, a drawer full of clothes that had seemed so small to him, like nothing could ever be so little and delicate, socks for impossibly tiny feet. They all served as a reminder, when he woke in the middle of the night confused and foggy headed, a mewing coming to his ears and Sybil shifting out of the bed beside him. She was going to their daughter. The baby that was the cause of the feeling, the hopeless excitement that he now felt almost subconsciously, the baby that was still swamped by the clothes he thought even the tiniest body would fill, whose cries in the middle of the night still sounded foreign to him – still effected by the newness of her life, not her true voice yet.
She had been born in the week between Christmas and New Year, the week that had always seemed so uncomfortable – neither here nor there. Sybil had been a little sad saying that the poor thing would never have her birthday remembered, it would inevitably be overshadowed by Christmas, no matter how much they tried. People would give her one present for both, when any other child would have two through the year; children would never be around for her parties, too ensconced in familial routine of the Christmas season; she would never spend her birthday in the sun, in the garden, she would have a childhood of birthdays cooped up indoors.
But he had been glad of it in some ways, now that in between week had something, now it had her, they would celebrate her in a week that would otherwise be spent working through the dregs of a box of Quality Street and watching an endless stream of Christmas broadcasting, being lulled into a trance in front of the television.
Since they had brought the baby home he'd taken to working at the kitchen table in the afternoons with her bundled against him, wrapped in shawls and blankets to compensate for the temperamental heating. It allowed Sybil some sleep, without being disturbed by the baby in the room with her. It seemed that since becoming a mother her hearing could pick up the slightest sniff, the catch of breath in the baby's chest, even the softest snore – and all of it set her on edge, he had caught her countless times when she was supposed to be resting, placing a palm on the baby's chest, checking she was still breathing. He did wonder though, how long he could keep up the guise – his afternoons spent 'working' were more often than not spent being mesmerized by the little being in his arms.
Work had picked up again, thankfully, in the new year, he had had a few more 'out of office' articles commissioned and somehow, despite the sleepless nights and the excitement and the new found worry, inspiration for his book had come flooding back to him after a spell of writers block had left the document frozen in time for months. Work had given him a sort of half paternity leave, meaning he didn't have to come in as long as he maintained his usual output from home. He was glad of it, they needed the money, and it gave him reason to stay in the flat with Sybil and the baby just being, something that gave him more joy than he ever anticipated it would.
He would retreat back to the kitchen and his laptop of an evening, when the baby had been fed and tucked up in the Moses basket in the cot and Sybil was knitting minute cardigans or reading or doing the minimal cleaning her stitches would allow her. He had had to stop her a few times, when she was taking it too far, testing her still fragile body beyond the limits she had yet to accept it now had. It was a throw back to the early months of winter that she had spent 'nesting' as her mother had so fondly called it the morning she came round to find Sybil at seven months pregnant stood on a chair disinfecting the top of the kitchen cabinets.
That particular Saturday afternoon it had started to snow again and by the time the football scores were being read out on Radio Five Live, a heavy layer of white had settled on the already icy pavements on the street outside. Both the baby and Sybil had slept through the four o'clock feed and as the time ticked round, approaching five, he knew he had to wake them both.
He wrapped the blanket, a white shawl his mother had sent from Ireland as soon as she had found out he was to be a father, more tightly around the baby and she shifted in his arms, a little starfish hand escaping the swaddle and pressing against her cheek. He kissed her forehead as he rose to his feet, taking in her smell and the softness of her skin. It was still a marvel to him that only a week ago she had been the cause of the kicks he felt beneath the skin stretched over his wife's round belly, that – cheesy as he knew it sounded – he and Sybil had made her, made something so beautiful.
The curtains in the bedroom were still open and the streetlight outside illuminated the falling snow as it swirled and danced to the ground. Sybil was sleeping as she always had done, slightly on her front, legs drawn up and the side of one face pressed deeply into the pillow. She had been frustrated by the swell of her belly in the latter months of her pregnancy and the fact it forced her to sleep on her side. The pillows she had under her chest have away the soreness in her breasts, but she had been too eager to return to that position, the one she had told him numerous times as she tossed and turned in the middle of the night from back to side was "the only normal way to sleep" to allow them to stop her. It had amused him; as if she was trying to rebel against her body, reclaim it for herself after months on loan to the little person in her belly. She had the duvet and the old eiderdown pulled right up so that you could barely see anything of her but her hair and an inch or so of her forehead. Her mother had given her the eiderdown the first time they had visited, when it was still summer and the sun warmed the flat. Cora had knowingly eyed the high ceilings and old window fittings and the ancient, rickety radiator and left the eiderdown on the trunk at the bottom of the bed. It wasn't until November, when the first nights of negative temperatures set in that they realized how astute Sybil's mother had been.
He didn't want to wake her really, she was still exhausted from the strain of the pregnancy and the caesarean, an emergency one ordered three weeks before the baby's due date when Sybil's blood pressure had rocketed and the swelling in her feet had suddenly been regarded as something more serious than an unwelcome symptom of pregnancy that wouldn't allow her to wear anything on her feet in late December but flip flops or slippers.
It had been terrifying, getting the call from the office, his first day back since Christmas. Her voice had been fraught – it was only meant to be one of her routine weekly appointments with the midwife, she was going to nip to M&S on the way home and get something to eat for tea with the remaining left over turkey and see if there was anything left in the sale after the Boxing Day scavengers had picked over it. But suddenly it was the day. They had anticipated hours sat waiting for things to happen, waiting for the pains to amount to something – and now suddenly the certainty and the swiftness and the suddenness of it was terrifying. He'd called her mother and she had got on the first available train to London, arriving at the hospital a little after her first granddaughter did.
The baby shifted in his arms and began to wake – he knew it wouldn't be long until she realized she was hungry and he wouldn't have the option of waking Sybil gently. He lowered himself onto the bed, in the space just above her knees, her face was turned to him and her features were soft with sleep. It made him smile, to see her sleeping, how young it made her look, how even when she was at her most anxious sleep could instantly iron the worry away from her brow. He pushed the eiderdown away from her face slightly and tucked an errant tendril of hair behind her ear. The feeling of his thumb stroking her cheek brought her round, her eyes flickered open gently and she smiled up at him.
"Hey sleepyhead." He kept his voice soft, not wanting to jerk either of them too abruptly from their slumber, "I think you are needed." He nodded his head at the baby in his arms and Sybil mirrored his action, nodding her agreement sleepily and rolling onto her back. As she pushed herself into a sitting position she glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table and raised an eyebrow at him. "I know, I know. But I saw no harm in it when you were both still sleeping. She'd have woken if she was really hungry." He passed the baby over to her, feeling her little body begin to wake, her muscles stretching as she stirred. He watched them for a while, as they settled into the feed – they were still learning, both of them, and it took the baby a while to latch on. He saw Sybil's face tense as she did, it was still sore but she assured him it was getting better. He didn't like seeing this hurt her, he hadn't anticipated this much pain on the other side of the birth. It amazed him that after months of being sick followed by the near constant back ache and the itching of her skin stretching, the pain that had amounted from the birth itself, that still stuck around in the form of the healing incision on her abdomen and now the discomfort of feeding, Sybil still gazed down at the baby as she fed like she would do it all again in a heartbeat. A mother's love he supposed was not to be underestimated.
Sybil made a soft noise, a hum of contentment as she tipped her head back to rest on the headboard briefly, eyes flicking shut. "Thank you," her voice was throaty from sleep and she languidly opened her eyes and looked at him, "Thank you for letting me sleep longer."
He smiled at her and tickled the sole of the baby's little foot which had escaped the blanket, he rubbed the smooth skin of her instep with his thumb; the size of her foot against his hand still something of a novelty. "You've earned it." He rose and leant forward and kissed Sybil's forehead. "I'll start the cooking, eat at 6?"
She spoke without looking up, "Perfect."
He took a moment to look at them, Sybil mesmerized by the baby, stroking her cheek with her forefinger while she suckled. He collected the empty mugs from their respective bedside tables. "Tea?"
She nodded up at him, "Oh Mr Branson, you read my mind." She smiled and a twinkle in her eye let him know she was about to tease him, "Whatever did I do to earn a man like you, with such virtues as the ability to make the perfect cup of tea?" He chuckled as he made his way out of the room. He could think of a few things.