Chapter Text
In the spring of 1813, just weeks after their wedding, the Bezukhovs left their Moscow home to spend the summer in Saint Petersburg. Following the death of Natasha’s father only a month later, both Sonya and the countess came to live with them, leaving Nikolai to take care of his father’s estate alone.
It was not long after this that Natasha first fell ill, supposedly sick with grief. She confined herself to her quarters, refusing to see anyone but her husband and a few select maids for days at a time.
Weeks later, her terrible illness still persisted, and Pierre was growing more and more concerned with each passing day…
May 1813
One sunny Sunday afternoon, Pierre creeped into the bedroom he shared with his wife, moving quietly so as to not wake her. He approached her curled up form carefully, tilting his head and craning his neck towards her so as to inspect her from a safe distance.
“I don’t know what you’re doing, but I believe you’d find it in your best interest to stop.” Natasha said suddenly, making no effort to turn towards him. Pierre took a step back, a bit frightened that she’d seemed to sense his presence so intuitively.
“I’m worried,” he said quietly, afraid to upset her further.
“Worried?” Natasha sat up with a wince and looked him in the eye. “There’s no reason to be worried. What a foolish thing to say.”
She huffed to herself in frustration and collapsed back into bed. Natasha had not been herself these last few days. She was quite clearly sick, but instead of allowing Pierre to fetch her a doctor— whom she claimed was nothing but a “useless parasite” to the sick and old, of which she was neither — she laid in bed endlessly and developed an uncharacteristically sour attitude which was soothed by little.
Periodically, it seemed her husband’s presence brought some relief to whatever ailed her, and she clung to him and prohibited him from leaving her side. Unfortunately, this only ever lasted a few hours before she returned to her bitterness, regarding him and all else in her sight with a level of disdain Pierre hadn’t even known she was capable of.
At first, he couldn’t help but take some personal offense to her words, but now, he only felt concern.
“Shall I send for your mother, Tasha?” he asked, desperately hoping the older woman may be able to provide some solution to this mess.
Natasha groaned into her pillow, but after a moment with no further suggestions, she conceded.“I suppose that’s better than a doctor.”
—
No more than two hours later, the countess arrived. She had been rushed out of her quarters by a very anxious looking valet– the staff of the house were just as eager to see their mistress cured as the count was, as her headache was as much their pain to bear as it was hers– and had dragged Sonya along with her.
The two women were escorted up to Natasha’s bedchamber, where she lay miserably, a huge frown plastered on her pale face. They immediately flocked to her side, pressing their hands and lips to her face both to assess her health and greet her.
“Oh, at least there’s no fever, darling,” the countess sighed in relief. “But you do look quite ill.”
“How are you now?” Sonya asked.
“I think I’d feel much better if you two weren’t buzzing around me like flies,” she complained, earning a shocked look from her mother.
“Natasha!” the countess gasped. “I can’t believe you.”
Natasha rested her head in her hands. She gave a helpless look to her husband, who had entered behind the women and now stood awkwardly just in front of the doorway. She managed such a dejected expression that Pierre began to wonder if Natasha truly would’ve been better off left alone, to wait it out rather than feel the guilt he did now for having forced her into this interaction.
“Oh, mama,” Natasha cried suddenly, reaching out for her mother. The older woman looked confused, but accepted her daughter's embrace. “What an awful state I’m in. Sick and cruel like an old hermit.”
She sobbed into her mother’s silk shawl, her face gone red and eyes puffy.
“I look a mess too,” she said as she wiped her tears from her face with little success.
“No, my dear, it’s alright,” the countess said. She took her shawl off her shoulders and used it to wipe her daughter's face, a special kindness overwhelming her. “You look lovely as ever. Sonya and I think so,” Sonya nodded at this, smiling weakly, “as does your husband.”
Pierre perked up at this mention of him, agreeing eagerly as Natasha looked back at him with her messy hair and flushed face. Truthfully, he hadn’t thought much of her appearance in the last few days, nor did he ever have many feelings surrounding the matter that weren’t pure wonder and astonishment at the idea that the woman before him not only married him, but truly loved him. But even now, when she was visibly nauseated and looked close to fainting, she could be described as nothing less than beautiful.
He came up to the other side of the bed and kneeled beside her, taking her hand into his.
“See,” her mother said. “Now, tell me what’s been wrong.”
“Well, I’ve been sick several times and I’m impossibly tired despite resting for days,” she said.
“She doesn’t sleep well, either,” Pierre added. “Often I spend much of the day sat beside her so she can rest, but all she does is toss and turn.”
“He is a saint, isn’t he?” Natasha smiled fondly at her husband. Her opinion on him changed so quickly it nearly gave him whiplash. “I can’t sleep without him in bed with me.”
“And you’ve been very irritable, haven’t you?” her mother asked.
“No, I haven’t! I just—” she started, but quickly stopped herself and downcast her gaze with a bit of embarrassment.
Slowly, a smile began to creep onto the countess’ lips.
“When did you last have your monthly?” her mother asked excitedly.
“Well…” Natasha looked deep in thought, counting on her fingers briefly and shaking her head. “I’m not quite sure. It must’ve been some time ago.”
“Oh, darling!” the countess brightened instantly, squealing with a childish delight. She wrapped her arms around her daughter and pulled her into a tight hug. “I’m so happy! A grandchild, finally, I can hear angels singing!”
“Grandchild?” Pierre said, confused as ever, but as the word left his mouth, he suddenly felt very, very stupid. “Do you mean… Do you think—?”
“Our dear Natasha, pregnant!” Sonya held her hand over her mouth in shock, but she seemed just as overjoyed. “I can hardly believe it.”
As the countess nearly suffocated Natasha in her embrace, the younger woman simply looked confused. Natasha furrowed her eyebrows together and gave a questioning look to her husband, as if to ask what they meant, but he offered no answers. He couldn’t seem to muster any kind of expression other than complete and utter shock.
“What do you mean?” Natasha finally asked, gently pushing her mother away from her, though she really had to pry her off.
“Natasha, darling, you’re pregnant. That’s what’s made you sick,” the countess said. “Of course, a doctor should examine you to confirm our suspicions, but a mother’s intuition is rarely wrong about these things.”
Natasha spent a moment more with that confused look plastered on her face, before she lit up and grabbed her mother’s hand.
“Do you really think so?” she asked eagerly, but before her mother could reply, she was talking again. “Pierre, call the doctor. Have him brought as quickly as possible.”
Any irony to be found in Natasha’s sudden change of heart regarding doctors was lost to the crowd. Pierre in particular looked too dumbstruck to have heard anything his wife had said. He seemed absolutely thoughtless, though a certain joyful glow colored his cheeks.
The countess slapped him lightly on the cheek, sighing. “It’s always the men fainting over babies, your father did it all four times,” she said, giving up on him and turning to Sonya. “Have someone fetch the doctor, dear, and quickly.”
Sonya rushed out of the room, and soon many hushed voices could be heard just outside the door. Natasha was unconcerned with the idea of such gossip spreading through the house’s staff, it wasn’t as if it mattered much who heard. As soon as she felt well enough, she’d be off to tell everyone herself.
—
The doctor had barely made his goodbyes before Pierre reached for his wife and pressed kisses to her face with nearly childish excitement.
Despite his large stature, he felt the overwhelming feeling of happiness inside him was too much to contain, and the only way he could possibly get it out would be to shower his lovely Natasha in as much affection as possible. She seemed happy to receive this, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him close.
“I think I may be the happiest I’ve ever been,” he told her. “You’re so wonderful, so absolutely magnificent. How is it even possible you’re real?”
“Don’t I feel real? Solid and all there?” she asked him, and he laughed.
“Yes, very much so.” He placed a hand on either side of her face, his touch soft and gentle, as if he was handling fine china. To hold her in his arms felt miraculous.
He climbed into bed beside her, laying atop the covers so as to not dirty the sheets with his day clothes, and rested his head just beneath her chest. It was certain they would look silly to a third party, with his large form curled around her and his feet threatening to hang off the mattress, but they both found much comfort in this position. Natasha liked to play with her husband’s hair, while he listened intently to the steady sound of her heartbeat.
Like this, they could drift off into a deep sleep together, even with such excitement pounding through them like a never ending morning bell.