I was inspired by Father's Day and wondered how Arthur and Francis felt about this special day.

Happy Father's Day everyone! Please enjoy.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters, series, or fandoms.

It had taken them months, almost a year actually, to get this far and they weren't going to back down now. They were so close, so very close to finishing the preliminary interviews, secondary interviews and paperwork, the background checks and routine meetings. Arthur even convinced Francis to sign up for courses on parenting and care giving, he enrolled in child development to get a better grasp on the new additions to their modest home.

"Any day now," Arthur murmured quietly to himself as he washed his face, he couldn't help his eyes drawing to the right, toward the door opposite to the one he initially entered the bathroom. The opposite from which his husband, Francis, was slowly rising in. The door to the right was open, revealing a quiet room, curtains pulled back to allow the sun's warmth in. The bedroom was the result of many hours of labour and planning and cultivated hope.

The procedure was a long and tedious one, and finally, they were almost finished; the end in sight. It would be any day now that the call would come. Between the classes and check-ups Arthur and Francis delved into planning for the future. Their home was decked out with spongy corner protectors in the kitchen and fences were installed at the stairs. The bedroom connected to theirs (suburban homes were sometimes so convenient these days) was converted from a reading or all-purpose room to a nursery. The pale green walls, which took many trips to the local depot store and paint samples, accented the white picture frames that hung upon them, waiting to be filled with future memories. An aged rocking chair given to them by Arthur's mother sat against the wall opposite to the door, to the left of a large white bay window with stripped green upholstery, sheer white curtains hung on either side of it. Against the right wall, a changing table could be found with all the compartments under the cushioned counter filled with the necessary supplies to for a young child. And nearest to the door along the wall sat two baby cribs, pristinely white and dressed with blue covers and pillows, a gift from Francis' parents if Arthur remembered correctly. He lightly touched the crib closest to him, this was a slight detour from his morning routine, a quick scrutinizing scan of the empty room, and a long glance toward the two empty beds.

"Any day now," a scruffy voice leaden with sleep reached his ears and he turned towards it. Francis stood in the bathroom's light, a smile adorning his features. "Don't worry your little head over it so much, it's bad for your heart, cher."

"It still hasn't sunken in yet is all,"

"Says the man who sits in there every night and makes a list of the things we need to get before they arrive," Francis chuckled lightly as he ran his toothbrush under the water tap, "I'm getting tired to carrying you to bed when you pass out, you know."

"I can't help it!" Arthur huffed, slightly irked to find the list left behind on the bowed window's in-set cushions, probably from last night. "Everything needs to be ready for them,"

Francis rinsed loudly, quickly patting dry his mouth before stepping into the recently dubbed baby's room, his lazy smile never faltering by the increasing irateness of his spouse. "We won't know for sure until they come home, non? What is the point of trying to figure out everything, leave some for later," he lightly ran his fingers up Arthur's arm, still clenching the white crib before placing a kiss on said man's cheek. "Now I need to make breakfast and you have to do some gardening do you not?"

Yes, among the things Arthur was adamant about, it was the food which his babies were going to eat. None of this highly processed and doused in chemicals and preservatives for them, not if their daddy had anything to say about it. He was hell bent all spring and fall the previous year to master the farmer's way and dedicated a corner of the backyard to it. Another course at the local community college was in order, and Arthur happily applied his knowledge in agriculture to produce organic and pesticide free vegetables and legumes. Almost every weekend, Arthur could be seen out in the backyard tending to his tomatoes, potatoes, cabbages, and carrots. Other days he was in the greenhouse that was set up nursing herbs. The couple had long established Arthur's contributions to cooking meals, and gosh darn it, if Arthur was not allowed in the kitchen, he bloody hell will provide ingredients of the highest caliber for his chef.

Arthur's thoughts were along similar lines as he left the two-story home through the back door that Saturday morning, creating a list of plants and herbs that needed to be checked up on. After a nice serving of omelets and jam, Francis began his work in the office, planning menus and decorum were the woes of an event's planner and caterer. It was shaping up to be a fairly lazy and typical Saturday afternoon.

The night came with the end of Arthur's labour in the fields as Francis often called his hobby, coming through the door at dusk with dirt and grime covering his faded overalls and gardening gloves. He was tired and sweaty from the day's work and only wanted to wash up and bask in the warmth of their home and aroma of today's dinner. "I'll be upstairs, Fran," he called as he shucked his boots off at the backdoor and clambered up the stairs to their master bedroom, only hearing the sizzling of vegetables that I planted alright as a reply.

Francis hummed lightly as he twirled about the kitchen, expertly dodging the kitchen island, and supervising three of the four heating units at the stove. He heard the backdoor open from just outside the kitchen, and knew his Englishman was exhausted from the day's heat. It was practically summer after all, and as he worked in his office, he often glanced out the window in the comfortably air conditioned room to see Arthur crouched over with a plow in his hand or water hose.

"This lamb wellington should do the trick," Francis murmured to himself, his gaze softening as he checked the oven, Arthur was so careful and attentive now that the due date was approaching.

A loud ringing sounded from the kitchen island cutting through the sizzling, and a bright blue light shone from the cellphone that sat there. Being an entrepreneur, one must always have his phone on him, at all times. Fairly late in the evenly as it was, Francis was not expecting any sort of calls however. It being a Saturday made it even less likely. He quickly snatched it up, lowering the heat of the hot plates and oven as he did so.

"Bonjour?" he answered.

"I would like to speak with Mr. Bonnefoy or Mr. Kirkland, this is the Fairview Hospital," A formal voice of a woman answered.

"This is Mr. Bonnefoy, what is the matter?" Francis' voice hitched near the end, his anticipation and heart rate rising by the milliseconds before the woman on the other side replied. Could it be, was it finally happening? His widened eyes caught the green pools of Arthur's as the man entered the kitchen, fresh from a shower with a pair of navy blue boxers and a towel around his neck.

He barely heard the reply, barely acknowledged the words flowing into his ears. Only enough to ramble a quick farewell and snapping the cellphone shut. Francis quickly turned to the stove, flicking the dials to zero.

Turning back to his husband, ever so expectant and brows furrowed with worry, he took it upon himself to deliver the message. A large smile, one that reached his eyes and created crow's feet stretched over his features, "They're here."

Now it was Arthur's heart rate that escalated and his breathing heightened with adrenaline and exuberance.

The drive to the hospital was one filled with tense silence interjected with Arthur's fussing of course. Ever the worrywart, Arthur spent the first 10 minutes after recovering from his panic attack gathering a change of clothes and hounded Francis in wrapping up leftovers for them, just in case. No one knew how long the stay would be.

As they burst through the automatic doors of the maternity wing, a quick interrogation of the receptionist, courtesy of a adrenaline high Arthur and equally excited Francis trailing behind, brought them to room 147. They were met with a nurse who patiently explained the procedure, and came across an unseen roadblock; only one of them could be allowed in the delivery room.

"Y-you go, Francis," Arthur urged as the nurse left to bring the gown and gloves required for visitors in the delivery room.

"Arthur," Francis chided, "you've been looking forward to this since she got pregnant,"

"I don't know if I can handle it," And Arthur really did look shaken up and flustered. His hair was tossed about, not given the chance to dry properly and his clothes were slightly wrinkled. Probably because the lavender shirt he blindly grabbed from the closet was actually Francis' (fashionably wrinkled was in, non?) and pants, were ones straight from the basket of newly washed clothes that day. Arthur's hands shook slightly when Francis took them in his in an attempt to comfort him while they sat with the nurse and the ever clear forest green eyes were wide with anxiety and stress evermore accentuated by furrowed prominent eyebrows.

"I know you can, cher," he placed a soft kiss to each of his husband's hands, his usually husky voice quiet and coaxing, "They are our children, our babies. And we are their fathers we must handle it whether we're ready or not, they're coming." Francis squeezed the trembling hands in his. The trembling stopped.

The nurse returned with the necessary materials.

"I will wait here for you, oui?" It was not a question.

It was many hours before Arthur exited the delivery room to find Francis sprawled out across three chairs in the waiting area, the duffel bag of clothes clutched in his arms and a hospital sheet pulled over him, probably donated by a nurse he charmed. Francis flinched at Arthur's presence at his side. "You're out," his groggy mind processed. A quick check of his watch told him it was now 4:00AM. "and the babies, what ab-" Arthur quickly shushed his Frenchmen, his voice in the process of growing in volume, a sure tell sign of Francis becoming more conscious.

"They're fine, healthy and strong," Arthur's tired voice replied as his head slumped down onto Francis' chest. "Beautiful boys,"

A long silence followed. The only reply Arthur received was the rapid raises and falls of his partner's breathing.

It was now Francis' turn to hyperventilate. "I have a boy? W-we?"

"We have two boys,"

Francis was given the chance to enter the hospital room after Ivy was moved into a more comfortable and quiet hospital room. Two hospital cribs carrying small bundles wrapped in blue blankets welcomed him. Arthur's ever present hand at the small of his back helping him move and react to the scene. How was he supposed to act, they were so small, so delicate. "How are you feeling?" his question directed at Ivy, voice timid and hushed, almost fearful that any loud noises could disrupt the peace of the room.

"Much better, now." Ivy sleepily replied a small smile on her lips as she took in his awed expression, her calm features showed signs of exhaustion from the long labour. Her soft violet eyes still bright and shone with life, the same trait which captivated the couple from the beginning during the interview stages and despite her ever changing body over the nine months, those gentle violet eyes never diminished in intensity.

Arthur lifted one with light blond hair from the crib to the right, and placed them into his arms. The babe did not stir, happily asleep and warm, a small fist the only limb free from the blankets twitched as he slept. A round face, gentle sloping nose, and small pink lips greeted him "Mathieu," Francis whispered as he lightly touched the cheek of his baby.

No, our baby. He corrected himself when he tore his eyes away from the beauty in his arms to find Arthur sitting on the hospital bed chatting softly with Ivy, a twin bundle of blue in his own arms. From his position, Francis could see the boy's brother was awake and gurgling, his arms flinging around weakly.

Ivy's raised voice broke Francis' tranquil spell that the long restless hours in the waiting room induced in him. "Come sit, Francis, I think this little one, Alfred was it, misses his brother,"

Moving cautiously across the room, as if he was walking on a tight rope with very precious cargo in the arms, and sat on the opposite side of Arthur and the lively Alfred. Their names already decided after countless hours of pouring over books of baby names, discussing them with other future parents and ancient meanings and name origins, they finally agreed upon 'Mathieu' and 'Alfred'. Mathieu and Alfred Bonnefoy-Kirkland.

"They're beautiful," Francis breathed as he took in the sight of the two small faces peeking out from the blue bundles of cotton blankets. So identical yet, so utterly different.

"Alfred, say hi to your papa,"

Francis' glassy eyes matched Arthur's with an oncoming of tears and emotion that he did not regularly show. The sense of love and devotion to another, was so strong in the instant when he was allowed to hold his second son in his arms as well. Alfred immediately stilled, maybe somehow aware of the change. Little Alfred and Matheiu, you are the most greatest gifts, he thought as he placed a kiss on each of his sons' heads.

"Born at 3:30 and 3:34 this morning," Ivy supplied.

"It's May 19 now, Sunday?" Francis stated with surprise, his tone hushed, considerate of the small and delicate ears that were so close to him.

"It's Sunday, yes." Arthur quirked an eyebrow, "I don't follow," his attention diverted to taking a little Mathieu, who was also beginning to awaken, when Alfred started become restless again.

Francis smiled knowingly, how could his Arthur forget? It was only the day he, no, they were waiting so anxiously to celebrate. "Happy father's day, love."

fin.

It's too long and wordy isn't it? -_-" I tried to be concise and not get so caught up in details.

I appreciate all criticism of my writings... it's the only way I can improve.

Thank you.