Disclaimer: I own nothing at all.

Author's Note: Set sometime in the future, likely right after Henry would start middle school.

Written as per a prompt on tumblr from an anon: Snow tells Charming that she's pregnant by dropping little hints but he's a little too dense to notice. Until Snow gets annoyed and tells him upfront.

Tomorrow

Snow watches as Charming considers the samples before him – ten skeins of the finest wool the local spinners could spare. He's an expert of sorts, having spent his childhood raising and shearing sheep. One night, listening to his heartbeat in the dark, she'd said, "Tell me about your life," because she had been born royal, and the childhood of a shepherd was something of which she knew nothing.

"Every autumn," he'd told her, fingertips tracing her spine, "we'd sell the best of the wool in market, but Mother would keep the rest." He'd pulled her hair over one shoulder, tendrils still damp with sweat. "She'd sing at the wheel, her treadling keeping time. She taught me to spin on a drop spindle, but I wasn't very good. The yarn was chunky and uneven, but that winter, she made a shawl from that yarn, and said she wanted nothing more than for my love to keep her warm."

And so now he runs his fingers over the fiber, ranging from fine and smooth to bulky and soft. "What is this for again?" he asks, questioning this pause in their schedules, and for good reason – there is a kingdom to run and threats from her step-mother to consider.

"A blanket," she smiles, and slips her hand over his, feeling the wool slip between his fingers.

"A blanket?"

"Yes," she says. "Granny's going to knit it."

"Any of these would make a fine blanket," he says then pauses, considering a mass of pink yarn.

"Which would be the warmest?" she asks, his hesitation causing her to bubble over with anticipation. She rises up on the balls of her feet, fighting to contain her excitement. "And the softest?"

"Warm and soft?" he frowns.

"And gentle, as if – which would be best for a baby?" she clarifies, breathless.

He's silent for a long moment, then points to a lot of un-dyed wool, spun into a thick cord. "This one," he says decidedly, turning his gaze to her.

She grins at him, her heart close to bursting, but he merely presses a kiss to her forehead and reminds her that Thomas and Ella will be arriving soon, and they really must be going. Her smile fades, and she watches him send out orders to the guards, the mass of thick, soft wool clenched tightly in her grip.

–

Mary Margaret gazes at her husband over her tea, bracing her elbows against the counter. He's doing the dishes alone tonight, having attempted to shoo her off to bed. "You were sick this morning," he'd said, and took the sponge from her hand, trading it for a mug of chamomile tea.

"I'm fine," she'd insisted with a knowing smile. If her husband were more perceptive, he might have the puzzle pieced together already, but he's been busy being a father and a grandfather, a deputy and a prince, David Nolan and Charming. She, on the other hand, hadn't needed the test to know. Emma had caught her purchasing it at the pharmacy just days ago, and – much silence and even more tears later – she'd held her mother's hand while they waited for those two endless minutes to pass.

"What are you thinking?" David asks, breaking her from her thoughts. His sleeves are rolled up past his elbows and he's flung a dishtowel over his shoulder. "You feeling all right?"

"I'm fine," she insists, and takes a long sip of her tea. "I was just thinking – maybe we should look into getting a bigger place again."

He sighs, his hands growing still. "Snow, I thought we decided to stay here."

"I know," she says, though internally she thinks that that was then and this is now, and now they may be four and a half instead of just four, mere months away from becoming five. "We did, but … what if things start getting even more … cramped?" The loft has undergone some major renovations since the breaking of the curse – every available inch having been re-purposed to best suit their needs. The four of them still share one bathroom, but they've managed to partition three separate bedrooms, complete with (thank the powers that be!) fully locking doors.

He chuckles, and drains the dirty dishwater. "I know Henry's amassing a lot of … stuff," he says, and begins to put away the freshly washed and dried dishes. "But I'll tell him he needs to keep some of it elsewhere. The boy has three bedrooms after all."

"No, no," she insists. "I was just thinking … what if someone else needed to stay here?"

He frowns, glancing at her over his shoulder. "Who would be staying here?"

"I don't know," she shrugs, and is about to elaborate when Emma and Henry come crashing through the apartment door. Henry bounds up to her, eager to tell her about his day, while Emma eyes her knowingly. 'So?' she mouths, and Mary Margaret laughs softly with a shake of her head before fully engaging herself in Henry's description of his new school.

Tomorrow, she thinks. She'll tell him tomorrow.

–

Snow works the snarls out of her hair, deft fingers pulling at the knots. She catches sight of her husband in the mirror, setting aside his sword and kicking off his boots. She reads the exhaustion in his face, in his posture. He's a good leader, but the burden weighs heavily on him – a weakness he betrays to only her.

"What's this?" Charming asks, touching one of the many crystal unicorns dangling near their bed.

Snow smiles. "It was mine when I was younger, and my mother's before me," she says, and comes to wrap her arms around his waist from behind. "It hung above my crib when I was a baby, then by my window as a little girl."

"However did it get here?" he asks, turning in her embrace.

"Johanna brought it," she says, voice soft and bordering on fragile. "Took it with her when she fled from Regina, along with – with some of my mother's things." She thinks of the crown sitting on her dressing table; the crown that is so much heavier than it looks. Just a few trinkets – a crown, a mobile, a book – by which to remember her mother, her mother who will never meet her granddaughter. But she still has Johanna, and maybe this will be enough. "She thought – she thought I would want it."

"She's a good friend," he remarks softly, his hand coming to cup her cheek. "I'm glad she's here. And safe."

"Me, too," she whispers. "But I'm not sure if this is the best place for it." They're swaying now, his hands settled firmly on her hips. She winds her arms around his neck.

"No?" he asks, dipping to press his forehead to hers.

"I've gotten a little old for it, don't you think?" she says lightly, but watches his face intently, searching for any sign that he might be figuring her out. "Perhaps we can find some place more suitable for it."

"I like it here," he says. "After all, where else would we put it?"

Her stomach twists with excitement, and she's opening her mouth to tell him when he silences her with a kiss, his hands guiding her hips in closer to his own. She sighs into him, a new tension building in her core.

She swears she'll tell him later. After.

As they come down together, Snow gazes up at the unicorns shining in the moonlight, her husband's face nestled against the crook of her neck. "Charming?" she whispers softly, fingertips stroking the back of his neck. "David?" she tries again, when he doesn't respond, only to find that he's already fast asleep.

She pulls him closer and drifts off, promising herself that she'll tell him in the morning.

–

Family movie night is a Thursday night tradition in their household. Not everyone makes it every week - Gold is particularly stubborn to make an appearance, and when Regina joins them she only ever offers a tight smile to anyone but Henry. Regardless, movie night goes on.

Tonight it's just them – Mary Margaret, David and Henry. Despite her insistence that she's happy, Emma's been particularly distant since she'd seen those two innocent pink lines, and jumped at the opportunity to spend some extra hours at the station catching up on paperwork. But Mary Margaret decides to leave her be, trusting that in time her daughter will be more willing to talk.

(Truthfully, she's frightened that trying too hard may just push her further away.)

The boys picked tonight's movie, and as much 'ass-kicking' as she's done in the past, superhero movies will never be Mary Margaret's first choice. Unfortunately, her husband and grandson had outnumbered her, and - even more unfortunately - they'd both passed out a mere hour into the film. As the credits begin to roll, Henry is sprawled across the couch, his head nestled against David's knee. David is snoring softly, his head lolled backwards, but his hand is still settled warmly against his grandson's shoulder.

She doesn't want to wake them, but she can already imagine the backaches they'll both have in the morning if they stay that way all night. So instead, she snaps a picture and perches on the couch beside her husband, softly stroking his cheek. "Hey," she whispers, and presses a soft kiss to his lips, smiling when he blinks awake. "Hey," she says again. "Movie's over."

He yawns, then glances down to the boy curled up against him. "Guess I should take this one up to bed," he muses, voice thick with sleep.

Mary Margaret makes her way to Henry's room ahead of them. She pulls back the covers, smiling at a framed picture of her husband and grandson dueling with wooden swords.

David gently lowers Henry to the bed, and she pulls the blankets up over him, tucking him in warmly. "Good-night, Henry," she whispers, and places a light kiss on his forehead.

David lingers a moment, brushing strands of the boy's hair back from his face.

"You're really good with him," she says softly, and catches herself pressing her fingertips to her stomach.

He smiles sadly back at her. "I just wish-"

She cuts him off. "I know." She comes to him and takes his hands in her own, stroking her thumbs over his knuckles. "But maybe," she ventures cautiously, "maybe it isn't too late."

He frowns at her, drawing her closer. "What do you mean?"

"Charming," she breathes, the nickname deepening the intimacy of the moment. "What would you think about-"

The sound of the door opening and closing and the distinct sound of Emma's footsteps filter up to them. Mary Margaret sighs, realizing the moment is gone.

"What?" David urges, hands at her waist.

"Nevermind," she smiles, and pulls away, ready to greet their daughter. "It's nothing."

Tomorrow, she tells herself. Tomorrow.

–

Days pass, and though her step-mother's threats still plague her dreams, Snow has more important matters to consider. There's only so long she can keep this news from her husband, only so long before everyone else in the kingdom will have figured it out. So one night, when Charming comes to dress for bed, she takes him by the hand and leads him down the corridor from their chambers.

"Where are we going?" he asks, laughing as he stumbles along behind her.

"I've been exploring," she says, and smiles brightly over her shoulder. Neither of them grew up in this castle, and through all of her youthful travels, Snow had never before visited King George's kingdom. There is plenty to discover within these walls, and they have their whole lives to seek them out.

"Well, I'm glad one of us has been," he replies. "I still get lost."

She laughs and pulls him to a deserted set of rooms not far from their own. The furniture has been tarped, making it clear that nothing here has been disturbed in a long while. She bounds ahead of him and tugs away a dust-covered sheet to reveal a rocking chair, smiling broadly at him.

"What?" he frowns, and pokes at some of the other draped shapes.

"Come here," she tells him, and pulls him by the hand to sit in the chair. It creaks under his weight, and then again under them both as she climbs into his lap. "I love you," she says as his arms encircle her waist.

"I love you too," he replies, and presses a soft kiss to the skin behind her ear, his nose pressing into her hair. They sit in silence for a moment, rocking back and forth in the chair before he finally asks, "What is this place?"

She smiles into the crook of his neck, and whispers, "A nursery." She pulls away to gauge his reaction – moving from confused to stunned then back to confused once more.

"A – a what?" he stutters, searching her face.

"A nursery," she says again, and when he still doesn't seem to comprehend, she takes his hand in her own, pressing them both against her abdomen.

He gasps, eyes focused on their hands. "Do you mean …?"

"Yes," she whispers, and when several moments have passed and he still hasn't said anything more, she pulls back to better see his face. "Are you … happy?" she asks carefully.

He shakes himself, his bewildered expression replacing itself with a broad smile. "Happy?" he beams. "Happy doesn't even begin to describe it." He kisses her, his giddiness spilling over into her, and soon they're both laughing and crying, his hand still pressed tightly to the spot where their child is growing.

–

Two 'tomorrows' come and go, and Mary Margaret realizes that 'tomorrow' just won't do, and it has to be today. So when morning comes, she wakes before her husband and sets about making breakfast. Emma's almost out the door when she emerges, sitting at the kitchen table to pull on her boots.

"Oh, sorry," she says quietly, then gets up to tug on her jacket. "Didn't mean to wake you. Minor robbery at Gold's."

"You're going alone?" asks Mary Margaret, pausing as she reaches for the cereal.

"Yeah, just a couple kids," Emma assures her. "And I figured you two need some time to talk," she adds pointedly.

Mary Margaret offers her a slight smile as she pulls down two bowls. "Thank you," she says quietly.

Emma opens the door to leave and grins back at her. "Don't thank me; thank him," she says, nodding to the bedroom door. "He owes me two night shifts for this."

Mary Margaret laughs, and bids her daughter goodbye, delighted to have had their first 'normal' exchange in nearly a week. With Emma gone, the loft is quiet aside from the soft sounds of David snoring, Henry having spent the night at Regina's.

David wakes ten minutes later and ventures out of the bedroom, bleary-eyed and stiff. She greets him with a light kiss, squeezing his hand in hers. "Breakfast is on the table," she tells him. There's cereal and toast waiting for him – after all, grand gestures were always more his thing than hers, and whatever meal she's prepared for him will not likely be eaten anyways – along with a surprise. She shoos him to the table and turns to fetch him a mug of coffee, heart beating fast.

"Snow."

She turns slowly, the uncertainty in his voice causing her heart to catch in her throat. "Yes?" she says, trying to keep her voice even, though her mouth has suddenly gone dry.

He holds up the test, those same two pink lines staring at them both.

"Yes," she whispers again.

He continues to stare at her for a moment, eyes wide and mouth open, finally managing to stutter, "And you're sure?"

"Pretty sure," she replies, although suddenly she's as unsure as she's ever been. "Are you- … is this- … ?"

But before she can properly formulate a question, he's rushing toward her, taking her face in his hands and kissing her deeply. "I tried to tell you," she explains tearfully, when he pulls away, "but we kept getting interrupted and-"

He cuts her off with another kiss, lingering as he slides one hand under her sweater to press his palm flat against her stomach. "You tried to tell me," he says breathlessly, "and I didn't get it because I'm as dense as ever."

She laughs, brushing his tears away with her thumb. "Yeah, pretty much."

He kisses her again, slower this time, moving his hand to stroke up her back beneath her sweater. "Where's Emma?" he murmurs against her lips.

"Work," she replies with a gasp, as his lips trail down the side of her neck. "Says you owe her two night shifts."

"Think I owe her more than that," he says, voice low, before sweeping her off her feet – quite literally – and into his arms, already moving toward the bedroom.

While there's still much to discuss – living arrangements, their grandson, their never-ending challenge to find their way home – these are things, she decides, that can wait until tomorrow.