"Angelina?"

Said woman groaned and pulled a pillow over her head as George rolled onto his side in the bed. The two of them were currently laying on their bed, honey colored blankets wrapped around them. They'd both worked long days today; him in the shop dealing with the last rush before school started back up, Angelina at the Ministry putting together her last suggestions on new regulations before sending them up to her supervisor. Despite both of their obvious exhaustion, George couldn't stop the energy from rebounding off one side of his rib cage to shoot to the other. Angelina had apparently had enough of him.

His stunning, talented wife, with her hair wrapped in her red and gold silk bonnet. His wife who currently only had one eye open as she peaked at him, eyebrow raised and annoyance obvious in her gaze.

His pregnant wife.

"Don't you even want a clue as to what we're having?" he asked, scooting closer to her.

"Will you shut up if I say yes?" she grumbled, pulling the pillow back over her face.

George gently slid under the pillow, the smell of saffron and vanilla hitting his nose. Grinning, he nudged Angelina's nose with his own.

There was no way he could go to sleep now. Sleep had seemed impossible since she'd told him she was pregnant a week ago. They hadn't been trying for a baby, but they weren't not trying either. Their friend group either already had kids or were going to have them soon, so the timing had just seemed right. Besides, he wanted to have kids before his younger siblings did, and it was going to be close considering the way Ron and Hermione shagged like rabbits. Thank fuck, Ron wasn't living with him any more.

"I will hit you," Angelina muttered.

"You're brilliant." Over the years, George found that flattery was always the best option.

"And you're a smug bastard."

"Me?" George slid his hand onto her waist, fingers tangling in the soft fabric of his work shirt. "Never." Slowly, he slid his hand across her body until he found the hem of her shirt. He pushed up under the shirt and didn't stop until his hand was resting on her flat stomach. "You don't even want to guess as to what it is?"

"I don't have a guess," Angelina muttered.

George pouted. "Well, what do you want then?"

He wanted a boy who he could tote into the shop for customers to dote over; a boy who would smile up at him with the same crooked grin George sported and the same flaming red hair; a boy who his mom would dote on and his father would tear up over. But then he imagined a little girl with Angelina's skin, her hair, and her sass and he wanted that, too, wanted Angelina to raise a little Quidditch star.

"Sleep," she said.

"Angelina," he whined.

She groaned. "I don't know, George. It's not even enough big enough to be a boy or girl."

"Yeah, but what do you want?" He pressed his palm into her stomach for emphasis.

Angelina opened her eyes to glare at him. "A quiet husband."

Then she rolled over.

George was highly offended by this.

Instead of complaining, he slid across the bed and pressed himself into Angelina's back. She was always so warm. His hand found her stomach again. While he nosed the back of her neck, the hand on her stomach rose as she huffed. George grinned, knowing that despite her ire, she found him slightly amusing.

"I want a boy," he muttered against her skin.

"You would."

He pinched her skin lightly for that comment, which earned him an elbow to the stomach in response.

This was what he loved about them; their playful dynamic. He wondered how that would change when they had this baby. The thought had him thinking back to his parents, how they would have changed after they had Bill, then Charlie, then the rest of their not so small family. How would he and Angelina change if they had seven kids?

"Do you think we'll be good parents?"

Angelina sighed, finally seeming to accept that George wasn't going to let her sleep any time soon. "I hope so," she said, pushing the pillow off of their heads. "Do you think we won't be?"

"I think you'll be an amazing mom," George said, gently stroking her cheek.

Angelina kissed the palm of his hand. "And you won't be a good dad, Mr. Baby Whisper?"

George snorted. The title wasn't one he'd have picked out for himself. He'd earned it when Victoire was a baby. To say that she was unplanned was an understatement; Bill and Fleur hadn't been prepared at all to take care of a child. When she'd gotten upset, they'd both panicked and Flooed to the Burrow in search of Mum. Not the wisest thing to do with a baby screaming bloody murder. Unfortunately for Bill and Fleur, Mum wasn't there. When they arrived, it was only George in the kitchen. Bill had immediately rushed out to find their mother, leaving his wife and sobbing baby in their kitchen.

The poor woman had looked so tired, hair frizzy and popping out of her usually sleek ponytail and dark circles under her eyes. Despite his raging depression, George had offered to take the baby from her. While Fleur tried to explain what had been going on, half in French and half in English, George gently spoke to the crying baby in his arms. Rocking her seemed to help so he continued to do that until she eventually calmed down. Fleur was staring at him slack jawed. George had only offered a shrug in response and grinned as he cooed softly to the little girl in his arms. From then on, if Mum wasn't available, Fleur and Bill — and eventually everyone one else in his family — had sought him out.

"Watching a baby for a few hours isn't the same as parenting one," George said softly, tracing patterns over Angelina's arm.

"At least you recognize that," she said. "I think that's promising."

George nodded, uncertainty still lingering.

"Hey," Angelina said softly. "You're gonna be a great dad."

Then she turned over and snuggled back into his chest. "And I want a boy, too."

George grinned. "I knew it."