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When Mary and Bash announce that they’re pregnant, over dinner with Henry and Anne - the Tudors, though Anne continues to refuse to take Henry’s name, of even hyphenate - Charles looks at Kenna. He’s sure she already knew; distinctly remembers a phone call on date night (movies and takeout) a few weeks ago that immediately preceded his being ushered out of Kenna’s apartment, and he’s sure he saw Mary’s VW Bug pulling up just as he pulled away. He knows how girls work - or, at the very least, he knows how his girls work, and the way Anne is looking on and smiling as the two embrace and Henry claps Bash on the shoulder, all pseudo-father bravado, tells him she probably knew, too. Or, at least, had her assumptions - if the constant attempts to ply Mary with wine were any sign, she’s spent the entire night trying to get the younger woman to confess.
Nonetheless, Charles is looking at Kenna, and when she meets his eye over Mary’s shoulder, she smiles a little wider. He sees her hug her friend tighter, hand spanning down the length of her spine, and Charles winks at her, smiles easily to himself as she ducks her head in to press her lips to the side of Mary’s neck. Kenna’s always been one to give any sort of affection she possibly could, and no one bats an eyelid when her lips press to the underside of Mary’s jaw, too, before Anne gets in on the hug.
Later that night, Charles sits with one hand on the wheel and the other turned palm up in Kenna’s lap on the drive back to his loft. She’s drawing into his skin; idle patterns he can’t quite make sense of with half his mind on the road, and humming softly along with the quiet radio. When it’s bright out, and the roads are busy, she keeps the music turned up - loud and blaring - but she seems to have an unspoken agreement with the night; when it’s calm, and quiet, she keeps it low and in the background.
“I can’t believe they’re having a baby,” she says quietly, and Charles can tell it’s directed at no one in particular, so he doesn’t reply. He runs his hand down the side of the wheel, flicking the turn signal and shoulder checking the lane beside them before he merges, steadily approaching the downtown lights. Henry and Anne passed them in the Lamborghini nearly ten minutes ago, heading the same way, and he’s sure Mary and Bash are behind them in Mary’s Volkswagen. They like to have their ‘family dinners’, as Bash calls them, as far out of downtown as they possibly can - as far from the politics of their lives as they possibly can. Of course, Henry’s choice of car sort of diminishes the escape - but Charles is nearly positive that Anne is the one who insists they take it out as often as they do; not because she likes the stares, or the attention, because he knows for a fact (after a night of sobbing, drunken confession) that she does not, but she does like to break the speed limit in it. In fact, Charles is sure he’s the only one of the boys driving - and driving Kenna’s Lexus, because despite her insistence that she would drive and save the environment from his truck from the night, she had three glasses of wine with dinner.
She does this every time. He never complains, and actually kind of prefers the small vehicle over his own.
“Maybe we should set up a nursery,” he suggests idly, after another few minutes of almost-silence, thinking of more shouts of ‘Uncle Charles’ and another baby clutching his fingers as it tries to toddle. He has a son of his own; Henry Brandon, Earl of Lincoln - from his first marriage to the King’s sister, but he’s nearly twelve now, to Charles’ thirty four, and off at boarding school. Before that there was Mary, Henry’s first child - eighteen in a few months and about to graduate, move out and start at Oxford. Charles pretended he didn’t see his friend wipe at his eyes when she announced it at the last dinner - declining this one in favour of studying - but couldn’t help the silent prayer of thanks he offered to whoever may have been listening that the two had mended their relationship. Currently, Mary lives half time with her father, the other half at her mother’s house in the suburbs, and she’s been spending summers in Spain with her mother’s family since she was fourteen. He’s endlessly impressed by the girl - and is nearly already just as impressed by her younger half sister, the Princess Elizabeth. She’s two, now, speaking in full sentences and starting preschool next year, mostly due to her own demands - he’s sure Anne and Henry would keep her home longer, if they could, but she’s running the nanny to the bone. She’s also the last baby to have been in his life, and Charles can’t help the burst of excitement he feels with the consideration of Mary and Bash’s - but Kenna gasps, gives a shocked little laugh and squeezes his hand too tight, like a scold.
“Charles!” She gives, and he glances at her, surprised by the reaction. “We can barely decide where to get dinner, or whose place to sleep at - let alone have a baby!” She continues, eyes wide like saucers, her expression laughing but also evidently a little scared. Charles gives his own laugh, squeezes her hand back and shakes his head.
“No!” He backtracks, slipping his fingers from her to squeeze her thigh. “No, no; I meant only because they’ll undoubtedly name you Godmother, and we’ll be doing a lot of babysitting,” it’s not a bad idea; it’s not something he’s against at all, having a baby with Kenna - but he can’t deny that she’s completely right; they’re not ready. He may have already raised one son, but as a couple, they’re not ready, and if there’s anything he’s learned with Kenna it’s that they have to do things together.
“Oh,” she says, looks at him a moment longer, then sits back. “Oh,” she says again, and brings a hand to her mouth, laughing - at herself, at him, at it all, he doesn’t know, but it’s still his favourite sound. “Well, I suppose you’re right,” she gives, and he grins, sure he won’t hear the statement again for at least another dozen weeks.
“Though…” he starts, trailing off as they pull the final turn to his building. “Maybe we should start somewhere. With deciding where to sleep, I mean,” he glances at her, finds her watching him precariously, and grins again. “Maybe we should move in together,” he suggests, watches her run her finger along her bottom lip as she contemplates out of the corner of his eye.
“Maybe you’re right,” she repeats, and he’s sure it means she won’t say it again for a year.
The new apartment is finished by the summer; two stories, the upper has the main bedroom, a massive ensuite and an office space for them both, done in dark wood furniture and leather against pale purple walls and a massive window. His books take up half an entire wall; her collection of records takes up the other half, and Charles thinks the new-age record player sets his typewriter off nicely.
There’s a living space on the lower floor; hardwood with a dark carpet under the couches he’d be sure she got from a garage sale, based if only on comfort, if it weren’t for the charges to his credit card. There’s the kitchen - and down the hall, three more bedrooms. One, Henry sets up himself; Charles watches with terror from the doorway as Kenna helps him put the punk posters up, sure his son is going to get into more trouble than he ever did as a teenager, but he watches her tuck him in from the same spot later that night - even though he insists he doesn’t need to be tucked in - listens to them talk about boarding school and all his friends, and a girl he fancies he thinks might fancy him back, and when he’s drifting and his words start to slur, he calls Kenna ‘Mum’ and Kenna nearly cries.
They do end up setting up a nursery; it’s yellow and green and purple, with a crib ready to be turned into a toddler bed and a rocking chair with a fluffy bunny sitting in it. Mary says she’s jealous, it’s better than her own - though Charles knows Bash built every piece of furniture in it by hand and it’s probably everything she ever wanted - and Charles comes in one day to find the girls sitting on the floor, surrounded by photos from years ago and somewhere between laughing and crying.
They call the last room the guest room, and both pretend they’re not thinking about another nursery, because they’re still not ready.
Because they’re not ready, Charles suggests they buy a dog in July - Henry’s always wanted one, and he’s not oblivious to the way Kenna falls in love every time she sees one on the street. How could he be? She shouts ‘puppy!’ and drops to her knees every time they pass one, so they buy one - they buy three, actually, french bulldog brothers, Snap, Crackle and Francis, and Charles comes down for coffee one night around three am, up working late on a presentation he needs for Parliament the next day. He checks on Henry, because he was only twenty two when the boy was born and used to sleep next to his crib just to make sure he was breathing, scared to death with the ghosts of the King’s lost babies in his thoughts, and finds Kenna asleep in bed with him, the dogs spread out on the bed and somehow taking up more space in bodies the size of his feet than the actual people. Charles smiles, rubs sleepily at his eyes, and turns off the Harry Potter title screen flickering on Henry’s laptop before getting in the bed with them all.
A month later and his (their) son’s gone back to school, and he and Henry get a call in the middle of a meeting that Mary’s gone into labour. They spend seven hours pacing the waiting room while Little Mary sits and jiggles her knees, security at all the exits and entrances, and Charles pretends he doesn’t see the way Henry’s jaw twitch every time a nurse passes them, but pats him on the back and reminds him that Mary is twenty three, and healthy, and if anything goes wrong Bash will kill the doctors. And if Bash doesn’t kill the doctors, Kenna will - and if Kenna doesn’t… well, he’s never actually seen Anne carve someone’s heart out with a spoon, but he’s sure she’s capable.
At four am, James Sebastian De Poitiers Stuart, High Steward of Scotland and heir to the throne, is born. Bash is all red cheeked and bright eyes, walking around the room with the baby - who is asleep, and stoutly ignoring them all - in his arms. Henry’s hand goes to the back of Mary’s neck, and both their eyes close when he presses their foreheads together, communicating in the silent way they have since she was little, before he presses his lips to her temple. Charles isn’t sure who holds the baby more - Little Mary, Kenna, or Anne, but he knows he’s never set down, and Elizabeth leans her head on Mary’s shoulder, sitting next to her in the hospital bed, and makes quiet promises to her baby cousin about teaching him all the ways to trick her parents. Anne and Henry pretend they don’t hear, and Charles smiles into Kenna’s hair when he hears Anne’s own quiet mumblings that Elizabeth may have another baby to make promises to, soon.
Weeks later, Mary and Bash are asleep in Kenna and Charles’ bed after having their first shower in what Charles thinks must be days, wrapped up in towels and put to sleep with stern orders from Anne. Elizabeth is at school, just as she insisted she would be, and Mary is at Oxford - with constant photos posted of the campus, of her dorm room, and of a boy she keeps hashtagging as ‘Bavaria’ but won’t give them an actual name for. That’s right; hashtagging - Charles knows how to use instagram. Henry’s in the kitchen, cooking, though Charles knows he tells the magazines he doesn’t know how, and Anne’s sitting on the counter with a drink he’s near positive doesn’t have any actual liquor in it.
Kenna’s sitting on the floor, next to the playmat they moved the coffee table out of the way for, snapping photos of James, surrounded by the dogs. Charles leans over the couch, elbows propped on the back of it and a glass of scotch in his hands, and watches her - hand resting every little while against the baby’s chest to check his breathing, her lips pressing to his forehead over and over and palm smoothing what little hair he has. She glances at Charles once, twice, then takes a photo and sticks her tongue out - so he sticks his tongue out at her in obvious retaliation, and she snaps another photo.
They’re not ready for a baby, but her hair is in a messy bun and there’s locks hanging that catch the light when she turns her head, and the ring wrapped up in his sock drawer says they’re ready for something.