Charles tried not to look irritated but he'd been interrupted twice already while working on patient notes, so when Nurse Sheridan peeked around the door of his office a third time, he sighed in resignation. "Yes?"

"Sorry, but I thought you ought to know that there's a Mrs. Winchester down in the lobby," the nurse told him.

Charles brightened a bit. Charlotte didn't visit often, knowing full-well how busy his practice was, but he always enjoyed it when she did. "Well then have her come up, Thank you."

"No sir," the nurse replied. "I meant she's in Admitting."

That got him out of his chair, and Charles shoved aside the chart, moving down the hall to the stairs at the end of it, lab coat flaring, hurrying down them as he tried to stay calm. The ebb and flow of daily traffic seemed against him, and Charles wove around gurneys, patients and visitors until he reached the lobby of the hospital, his attention focused on the front desk where he spotted a familiar figure speaking with the nurses there.

Charles surged forward, turning a professional eye on his mother, mentally checking her over in a glance. No pallor, no sagging features, no obvious injury. "Mother," he murmured, relieved. "What are you doing here?"

"Trying to get someone to do their job," came her annoyed response. "Honestly, this is as irritating as trying to find a salesclerk at Macys!"

"Doctor Winchester," the desk nurse spoke up, her tone firm. "Your mother here doesn't seem to understand that I can't just give her a wheelchair, especially for an unadmitted person!"

"I'm not asking for a permanent gift, young lady!" Pamela fumed, "You'll be getting it back, you know!"

"Mother," Charles tried to soothe her, well-aware that tempers were rising quickly. "What do you need it for? You look reasonably ambulatory to me."

"Well for Charlotte of course!" His mother glanced up at him and nearly rolled her eyes. "The poor thing took ill while we were at Phipps this morning and has been sick to her stomach twice! Honestly, she looks so dreadfully pale that I made her bring us here forthwith."

Charles quickly looked around the waiting room, feeling a sense of panic that increased when he didn't see his wife. "Where is she?"

"Right-oh . . ." Pamela waved to an empty seat, and looked perplexed. "Well she was right there."

"Charlotte?" Charles rumbled, and began to circle the chairs, his lab coat flapping as he did so. His mother joined him, and one timid man pointed a finger to an alcove with a drinking fountain.

Charlotte looked up from it, her expression pre-occupied; Charles loomed towards her, studying her face. "Charlotte, what's wrong; how do you feel?" She was pale, but her quick smile reassured him.

"I'm fine," she told him. "Just a little tummy upset, nothing to worry about."

"We'll see about that." He guided her out of the waiting room, shooting his mother a 'stay put' look, and steered Charlotte to one of the empty examination rooms before turning to face her again. "You are a nurse," Charles reminded her pointedly. "You would have never agreed to come in if it was something minor, Charlotte my love. What's going on?"

She bit her lips before blurting, "You're right of course, but your mother can be very insistent. Given my symptoms, It's possible I'm . . . pregnant."

Charles drew in a breath. "But we haven't . . . that is, we are still taking . . . precautions."

Charlotte shot him an arch look. "My birthday."

"Your birthday," Charles echoed and felt his face flush as the salacious memories came flooding back in a rush. The magnificent Rachmaninoff concert at the symphony hall, the intimate dinner at Marliave, and after that the better part of a bottle of Colheita Port followed by a few rounds of exuberant lovemaking that late January night.

They locked gazes and smirked at the same time; Charles loved the pink flush on her face as she giggled, adding, "We took precautions, but I suspect they were slightly flawed that particular evening."

"Agreed, given that both of us were comfortably in our cups at the time," Charles agreed, pulling her into his arms. "Good Lord. I suppose we should arrange for a Hogben test to confirm matters then. Other than that, how do you feel?"

"Good," came her quick reply. "But by my calculations I'm only about eight weeks along and I don't want to get your mother's hopes up just yet. Can we test without letting her know?"

"She'll suspect," Charles pointed out, "But we can try. After a urine sample you should go home and rest. I'll see about setting an appointment with Aubrey Colman in Obstetrics."

He kissed her forehead and hugged her for a long moment, savoring the way she hugged him back, arms squeezing him tight. "Oh mio orso, I hope this is it. I love you."

"I do too, and I love you as well," Charles assured her, feeling absurdly happy.

-oo00oo-

Charles could tell by the arch of her elegant eyebrow that his mother wasn't buying the 'food poisoning' story but she agreed that Charlotte should go home and rest. After they'd left, he carried the vial of urine down to the laboratory himself, moving past the blood and digestive enzyme stations to the little alcove assigned to obstetrics where an elderly doctor looked up from her tray of slides.

"Ah, Winchester, our head of thoracic, yes? Are you lost?"

"No," Charles assured her, looking at her name badge, "Ah, Doctor Moreno. I have a test I'd like run on this specimen as soon as possible, please." He held out the vial.

Doctor Moreno looked at it and then back at him. "Urinalysis is back that way."

"Not a panel. A Hogben test." It felt odd to say it aloud, Charles thought, but no less thrilling.

"Paperwork?" she wanted to know, taking the vial in one lean hand.

"There isn't any yet. It's for me and my wife," he confessed, trying not to blush again.

Doctor Moreno smiled, her face becoming merry. "Oh my goodness. Yes, well I can understand your urgency. Shall we go pick out a toad then, Doctor Winchester?" Rising up she led the way.

Within twenty minutes the newly injected and slightly disgruntled toad was in her own tank, glaring malevolently at Charles as Doctor Moreno affixed a label on the glass front. "There. It's . . ." she checked her wristwatch, "Just after ten, so we'll check for eggs around six this evening before you head home if you'd like."

"Ah, yes, thank you," Charles murmured, feeling a little overwhelmed as the reality of it all started to set in.

Doctor Moreno was still watching him, and gave him a smile. "Your first?"

He blinked. "It will be, if it is."

"How wonderful. I hope the best for you both then. Now if you'll excuse me I have some tumor cross-sections to get back to," she told him.

Charles wandered back to his office and tried to pick up where he'd left off with the charting, but his mind was determined to dwell on this new possibility and rather than fight it, he pulled out a notepad and began jotting things down.

Update will and insurance, he wrote. Christening. Godparents? Buy Spock book.

It miffed Charles that Benjamin Spock was a Yale man, but nothing could be done about that; The Common Sense Book of Baby and Child Care WAS the standard in Pediatrics. Everyone knew that.

Buy crib, he jotted, Decorate nursery.

He tried to picture an infant with Charlotte's elfin features and dark eyes, and the delightful image made his stomach flutter.

A baby.

A new little person.

He stood up, pacing around his office, too excited to sit still. Charles glanced at his calendar, aware that he had two consultations in an hour, but until then—

Without further thought Charles headed down to the maternity wing, striding along purposefully until he reached the large glass viewing window of the nursery. Most of the little bassinettes were empty, but three held ruddy-faced swaddled infants. He looked through the glass, studying them.

"Which one's yours?" came a question from his left. Charles glanced over at the earnest young man in an MBTA uniform who was looking intently at the babies as well.

"None of them," Charles admitted, adding, "yet."

"Mine's that big guy on the right. Max," the man admitted with a grin as he pointed. "We're bringing him home today when Pauline gets discharged."

"Congratulations," Charles murmured kindly. "He looks robust."

"Eight pounds," the man bragged. "That's the size of a bowling ball."

"It's a good weight," Charles nodded, amused at the comparison. "Your first?"

"First boy," the man replied. "He's gonna be spoiled by his two sisters and how."

The man's joy was evident and it warmed Charles through and through. He turned and made his way into the wing, looking for the offices and reaching Doctor Colman's but before he could knock it flew open and an angry-looking woman in a lab coat stormed out, muttering an apology for bumping him before she strode off down the hall.

Charles looked in; Aubrey Colman was rubbing a red mark on his cheek and looking furtive. When he caught sight of Charles he cleared his throat and whipped up a superficial smile. "Sorry you had to see that; sometimes Doctor Mayfield gets testy when questioned about her . . . unorthodox ideas. How may I help you?"