Work Text
The faucet squeaks with a turn of the handle. Shaking your hands in the sink, you swipe your face with the leftover moisture, before grabbing the hand towel. Leveling with your reflection for a moment, you heave a sigh and flick the bathroom light off as you exit.
As you step back into your bedroom, the muffled swoosh of the front door and the faint jingle of keys signify the return of your husband. You move to the closet, chuckling as you hear Foggy singing to himself down the hall.
When Foggy finally appears in the doorway, he finds you draping different options of shirts across your bedspread with a critical eye.
"Whaddya think?" In lieu of a greeting, Foggy pinches a large navy sweater up to his shoulders, allowing you to take in the detailed portrait stitched on the front.
Your eyes flit first over embroidered Christmas lights around the neckline and bordering the trim. Then, they narrow at the off-centered Santa Claus driving a sleigh, his head tipped back and his round cheeks cherry red.
You tilt your head.
In one glove, Santa holds the reins to the twelve famous reindeer who are all crammed onto the sweater, their stitched eyes wide and slightly frantic looking. Santa's other hand holds up a large stein of beer proudly above his head. Half-hearted snowflakes dot the empty remainder of the sweater, peppering the sleeves as well.
You raise an eyebrow at the ugliest Christmas sweater you've ever seen.
"If there's a contest, you're definitely going to win." You settle on your response, watching Foggy's proud grin transform into a snarky, scrunched up retort.
"Joke's on you. This one's yours." He tosses the atrocious sweater at you, causing you to drop the V-neck in your hands just in time to catch it with your face.
You huff, pulling the surprisingly soft material down and giving Foggy your best attempt at a glare.
He grins and crosses the bedroom to greet you properly. Pulling you in by the waist and pecking your lips twice, the second kiss always lingers as he draws back, refamiliarizing his tongue with your taste.
You hum, meeting his fond eyes with a smile despite yourself. The way this man was impossible to stay annoyed with, was irritating in itself. But of course, you rarely were given a legitimate reason to be angry with your romantic and incorrigibly corny husband who thought his life endeavor was to make you laugh until milk came out your nose.
Foggy reveals his other arm, holding up a second sweater, significantly more red, between your proximity.
"Don't worry, mine is worse."
"Is it? Lemme see." You challenge, but he dodges your attempt and holds the balled up sweater above his head.
"Just trust me!" He uses his height to his advantage, and with his free hand shoves you away while laughing at your attempt to grab the Rudolph-red sweater.
"Why on earth would I do that, Nelson?" You grab his wrist with your left arm, then jump at him, only succeeding in knocking him back a few feet. His arms drop to your waist instinctively, ready to break your fall if you go down with him.
Foggy manages to catch himself, and with you now trapped in his full embrace, he ducks his head towards you, brushing noses.
"Because I'm your husband, Mrs. Nelson."
"Mmhm. That excuse wouldn't hold up in court."
"Sure it would." He steals a kiss.
You grab his chin and steal another before allowing him to break from you.
Foggy brushes past to his side of the closet, protecting the sweater against his side. You allow him to pass, but your gaze tracks his movements like a subconscious ritual to appreciate today's chosen court attire.
The deep raven suit he wore today accentuates the expanse of his shoulders and complements his figure well. It leaves little to the imagination where the image of a powerful, cut-throat lawyer is concerned. It's exhilarating and slightly intimidating when you remember your husband's job is to dominate the courtroom with graceful intelligence and a silver tongue. You've seen him in court a handful of times and are glad you have been spared being on the receiving end of his ruthless wit. At times you even struggle to reconcile the two images, one of the fierce lawyer who will shred the opposition's argument in the pursuit of justice, and your husband, who insists on cuddling under one blanket and gets teary every time the heroes prove victorious in a movie he's seen no less than a dozen times.
It's especially hard to picture such a stern figure when Foggy texts you in the middle of the day that he's coming home with the perfect Christmas sweaters for tonight's family party and insists you will wear them with him or suffer his "wrath". (Wrath here, meaning Foggy will refuse to hug or kiss you for a good hour, before he himself forgets and leans in for a kiss, then gets confused why you burst out laughing).
Foggy crouches down to pull open a low drawer and snatches up some jeans. He tosses them on the bed, then proceeds to shed his jacket first with practiced care, hanging it up in the closet. His gold wedding band flashes under the bedroom light as he loosens his tie with harsh tugs before pulling it from his exposed collar. Next, he unbuttons his cufflinks to roll up the sleeves and unclasps the gold anniversary watch on his wrist.
Such mundane actions, yet your eyes are riveted to every movement. Damn, your husband was hot.
"Honey." Foggy's tone alerts you to the fact he must have already been talking for awhile. Finding his gaze already on you, and the smirk rising beneath it, confirms your guess.
Honestly, you didn't care if he teased you for how often you got worked up whenever he went to court dressed in his finest attire. He certainly didn't mind either, reaping the benefits just as well.
"Yeah?" You clear your throat and hope the desire fades with it. In a few hours you would be in a room full of his family members. The last thing on your mind should be what you'd like to do to this Nelson in particular. You stare at your laid out options on the bed, if only to disguise the side-eyeing of his large hands now unbuckling the leather belt at his waist.
Foggy snorts, but doesn't call you out on your shameless ogling. "I asked if you had any trouble with the casserole?"
"Oh, no." You shake the events of today back into the forefront of your mind. "Yeah, I didn't have any trouble with it. The recipe Aunt Susan gave was pretty straightforward."
You quirk your lips to the side, biting on them slightly. "Hopefully it's good, though. I've never made it before."
"I'm sure it tastes amazing. You're more than capable of bringing a man to his knees with the meals you've cooked before."
You snort, now facing your husband again as he tugs up the pair of jeans.
"You do that when we order takeout. So that doesn't count."
Foggy grabs the the allegedly "uglier" sweater and pulls it over his face. His arms lift above his head as they blindly search for the sleeves and his happy trail down his stomach is revealed from the upward motion. With his vision obscured beneath layers of festive red, you ogle him shamelessly, only turning back to choosing some black leggings for your outfit when his head pops up.
"I stand by my statement, because it's true." He says. You lift a quizzical brow at him, doing your best to feign innocence. However, the need is useless and your retort is forgotten when you see his sweater is indeed much worse.
If one could imagine a party full of drunk elves tearing down Santa's workshop while toys on tables are ablaze, and Mrs. Santa throws copious amounts of "snow" onto the elves, they would be halfway there to how horrible the image truly was. To think someone spent hours stitching such a scene by hand was diabolical.
"You weren't kidding."
"No, I wasn't." Foggy raises a brow at you, knowing he was right all along. He brushes past your figure, smacking your ass lightly on his way past.
"C'mon, I'll go try it now and it'll blow me away."
"Yeah, okay." You roll your eyes at his enthusiasm over a mere casserole.
With the addition of the sweater covering up whatever shirt you choose, you grab the nearest one, a pink v-neck, and change into the deep blue Christmas sweater. You find your favorite winter leggings, thick but not constricting. The sweater is large enough to swallow your arms and fall to your thighs.
You exhale, relieved, then glance up and find Foggy in the doorway, his expression soft as he waits for you. If heart eyes could be personified, it would be defined soley by the way Foggy looks at you.
Your cheeks prickle beneath the unadulterated affection in his eyes, so you move forward, exiting the bedroom before either of you start something that would make you very late to the annual Nelson family Christmas party.
Foggy releases a long, drawn-out moan that escalates in pitch. His head tilts back, eyes shut tight as he savors the bite melting in his mouth.
When he comes back to reality, straightening his posture and opening his eyes, he finds you trying your best to judge him for his theatrics, but failing miserably to hide your amused smile held between your teeth.
"Honey." He puts the fork in the sink, then grabs your face in both hands and smashes his mouth to yours.
You exclaim into his mouth, but accept his enthusiastic kiss of approval.
"Sweetheart, this is perfect. It tastes just like Aunt Susan's." Foggy eyes the dish before opening up the utensil drawer and grabbing a new fork to scoop up another bite.
He hums, shaking his head.
"Dare I say," he whispers lowly, "It may be better than Aunt Susan's." He jabs a finger at you, swallowing the last of his bite.
"But under no circumstances will you ever tell her I said that. Unless you want to see your husband served on a silver platter with Christmas dinner."
You taste the remnants of the dish from his kiss and though you never tried the actual meal despite cooking it yourself, you trust his judgement, biased husband that he is.
"I'll take your secret to the grave." You swear, breaking into giggles as Foggy grabs you, peppering your face with kisses for the hell of it.
"Alright. Let's go before I change my mind and keep this casserole to myself. We gotta train to catch."
The rocking of the subway train is rhythmic, broken only by sporadic jerks and bumps that send you knocking into Foggy's chest. Your eyes watch the stations blur past the windows, until your vision starts to swim and you switch to people watching instead. But with each stop, more and more travelers shove their way into the car, shouting on phones, talking and laughing with friends, or coughing and sneezing from the brutal winter above ground. Your eyes dart up to Foggy's face, his absent gaze straight ahead as you feel more than hear the faint hum of a Christmas carol vibrating from his chest. You frown as the train jerks forward again. The harsh lights of the train car flicker and buzz. The doors open and in flood more commuters, but this time, an acrid smell best left unidentified hits you like a brick wall. You huff, harshly gritting your teeth.
You swallow carefully, though the train doesn't help as it jerks forward again at an unforgiving speed, bouncing over the tracks with the weight of a full car of people. Your gloved fingers fall on Foggy's thick winter trench coat. Biting your lip in consternation, you finally manage to undo the top five buttons, down to his stomach.
Slinking your arms under his armpits, within the confines of his jacket you press your nose into the center of Foggy's chest, closing your eyes and inhaling his familiar musk and sweet apple cologne he wore for the party. The material of his sweater scratches your nose but you only step closer, until your body is pressed against his. You squeeze his waist with your arms. Foggy's grip remains on the handle above your heads while his other hand holds the insulated tote that carries the casserole. He drops a kiss onto the top of your head and shuffles one of his boots slightly between your stance.
As close as you can be, you close your eyes and take deep slow breaths into Foggy's chest, feeling the vibrations of your favorite Christmas carol when he resumes his humming.
"Franklin!" No less than ten people, similar not only in facial features but enthusiasm to your husband, chorus their welcome once Foggy pries open the door to Nelson's Meats.
"Patty! Theo! Ma! Aunt Susan! Un- ah, forget it. There's like a hundred of you." Foggy calls back, arms wide open as his family members rush forward to envelope him into the fold.
By no means are you left behind. Now a resident Nelson for two years, the relatives are just as eager to see you. A line forms as each member hugs you tight, grips you by the shoulders and asks questions varying from "How the hell are ya?" "How's the old ball and chain, heh?" "Franklin is behaving himself, right dear?" "You look so damn beautiful, sweetheart. How the hell did Franklin convince you to choose him?" "Is Franklin treating you right? Cuz if not, I know a guy..."
You wave off Uncle Sean with a laugh. "Yes, yes. He's good. He's perfect." You beam as the elderly man purses his lips in disbelief, before breaking into his own smile and a wink.
"Welcome back, sweetheart! I missed you at brunch this past Sunday." Anna greets you at last, leaning in to hug you with a kiss to the cheek.
"Hello, Anna." You smile, always amazed at how you earned the affection, and slight favoritism, of Foggy's mother. You remember being terrified of her when you first met, but now, you truly feel at home and the most comfortable by her side at these events.
"I'm sorry again I couldn't make it." Anna huffs, waving your apology away like a bad smell.
"Don't apologize, dear! I'm sure you caught that nasty stomach bug going around. Half the family got it the week before last. I'm just glad you're feeling better." She squeezes your arms. "How's work? How's that project you were busy with? Is that asshat of a boss still giving you a hard time? You know, Foggy could probably do something about that, being a big fancy lawyer and all."
You chuckle. "I'm sure he would if he could. He's even offered to step in a few times. But I'm okay, really. The project is almost finished and then things won't be so tense at work." You explain, easing Anna's worried frown bit by bit.
"Alright, dear. I'll take your word for it. But don't wear yourself out!" She gives your shoulders a good, firm shake. You nod, blinking away the dizzying effect it has on your vision.
You turn your head, looking for your husband, and find him already across the room, engaged in an animated, hand-waving, rambunctious conversation with his dad, brother, and two male cousins.
You love the image of Foggy in his natural environment, perfectly at ease amongst family. His personality, sometimes too much for the outside world, is met with the same energy within the shop's walls. He gestures with the hand not holding a drink and pulls exaggerated faces as he tells a story, no doubt about a court case. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes alight, and his long blond hair is slowly losing the gelled hold it had from his work day, strands of it falling between his bright eyes and brushing his rosy cheeks. Theo tugs on a handful of hair brushing Foggy's shoulder with some comment you vaguely make out to be 'Who is copying whose hair style?'.
A hand presses into your shoulder and you turn back around to find Anna, Aunt Susan and Rachel, another inducted Nelson by marriage only a few months ago, standing before you. Anna holds out a cup, which you accept.
"Try the eggnog. Rachel made it from scratch!" She boasts. Rachel nods her affirmation. You lift the cup to your lips.
"It has a slight kick to it. My family usually adds double the rum." Rachel warns.
You freeze. Then, before they notice your hesitation, you tilt the cup upwards. As soon as the thick substance touches your lips you feign a swallow. You lower the cup, allowing them to see the evidence on your lips before licking it away. Even that small amount, you taste the spice of the drink and hum your genuine appreciation.
"It is good." You praise. Anna's eyes flicker from your hand gripping the cup to your face.
"Well drink up, then! There's plenty of it to go around." Anna turns abruptly, catching mischief from the corner of her eye.
"Aiden! Don't touch that table, young man!" She shakes her head, charging after the three year old who waits until she's close before dashing off with a croissant in hand.
"How was the casserole? I hope it was easy to follow." Aunt Susan asks, turning your attention back to her.
You reassure her it was and the conversation flows from there, spreading organically from member to member of the family. You make your way around the room, greeting everyone and catching up, all the while nursing your eggnog at your chest.
You eye the trashcan in the corner, then look around the room for any sign of Rachel or Anna.
In your search, you find Foggy again, still talking with the same people, although now one or two more have joined the exchange of work stories. Foggy is actively engaged in whatever woes of work his cousin Pete, is sharing when Lucy, a four-year-old, runs into Foggy's frame and latches onto his leg.
She starts calling for her uncle's attention, but Foggy doesn't respond, nodding along to Pete's story. You watch as Foggy lays a hand over Lucy's head, smoothing back her hair a few times. At the first break in conversation, he stoops down with the enthusiasm of seeing a long lost friend, no sign of annoyance at her interruption to be found.
"Yes, sweatpea! How can your favorite Uncle Foggy help you?" A string of protests from the men around him cause Foggy to scoop up the giggling girl and take a significant step away.
She grabs his cheek, pulling his head into her. He offers his ear, leaning into her grasp so she can "whisper" what she wants. Foggy's eyes go wide, he gasps, and bounces the girl in his arms.
"You can absolutely say hi to your aunt! Should we find her?" Foggy drops his voice to a dramatic whisper. "I'll give you a hint. Look for the most beautiful woman in the room."
Cheek to cheek, their faces scan the room, features alarmingly similar. You're already blushing when their eyes find your face. Foggy makes a show of waving you over and you huff, self-conscious under the eyes of the awaiting group, but happily weave through the room to their side.
Lucy shouts for you in glee when you arrive, diving from Foggy's arms to yours. You catch her, laughing and forgetting your shyness as the little girl begins to catch you up on all her play time escapades.
When you get a chance to speak, you shift her to lower her down. She begins to protest, but you place her down regardless. You hold her hand instead, crouching down to her eye level. Still holding the cup, you offer your eggnog to Foggy.
"Rachel made this. You should try it." You say. Foggy accepts it without question, sipping it heartily and nodding.
"Nice kick to it." He hums and downs the rest of it.
You exhale, relieved to have not wasted the drink and turn back to the little girl with a sweet smile to continue her story.
"Then what happened, princess?"
Dinner is called within the hour and everyone gathered in the too small butcher shop begins to work in sync. Some members grab the crockpots and dishes off the tables while others shift the tables into the center of the room. In minutes, four long tables are lined end to end down the center of the shop and fold out chairs are dragged up along each side. The food is replaced on top and everyone finds a seat, marveling at the buffet of food and thanking those who made it.
Foggy's hand rests on your thigh beneath the table, the other hand holding his fork which half the time is used for it's intended purpose, the other half of the time used to point accusingly at someone misrepresenting him in a childhood tale.
You take careful bites of your food, happy to finally be seated. The packed shop, with the generated heat of dozens of bodies in winter clothing and unintentional bumping into one another, made sweat begin to prickle beneath the neckline of your already heavy sweater. Although you loved the enthusiasm and energy of the Nelsons, sometimes it felt like you were all packed like sardines within this tiny storefront.
Now that everyone was a little more organized and seated at the table, it didn't feel quite as overwhelming. Even still, sweat continues to spread under your armpits and bead at your temples. Your head slightly throbs with the multiple passionate voices competing in volume to be heard the loudest. Your stomach rumbles, the lack of sustenance throughout the day starting to take effect.
You take another bite of mashed potatoes. Your stomach twists and it's all you can do to swallow. You grab your cup of water, chugging it down to the halfway point.
Conversation continues to flow around you, Foggy's own hand squeezing your thigh absentmindedly whenever he starts to get excited.
You inhale. Exhale. Your eyes dart over the table's spread, searching for something lighter than the meat and potatoes on your plate to eat, despite having barely touched either.
Instead you find Anna's gaze already on you and suppress a jump. You drop your head down and make a show of stabbing some ham, asparagus and corn onto your fork and taking the massive bite.
Even as the flavors sting your tongue and you force your lips to close around the fork, you know you've made a mistake. Anna is no longer watching you, but it's too late to spit out your food. That would be rude, and you didn't want to give anyone the wrong idea.
You curl your toes in your shoes, press your fingernails into your palms, and swallow.
You count through gritted teeth.
One, two, three...
"Let's get the dish of the night out here!" Foggy's father exclaims.
The table erupts into praises as Anna half-heartedly waves away the attention as she moves her chair back to stand.
"Alright, alright. Nobody needs to lose their shit." Her eyes twinkle when the kids gasp at the curse word and giggles break out among them.
In seconds, she returns with a glorious roast of turkey draped in a maple glaze, sprigs and dried fruit. The pungent aroma of sizzling meat and decadant sweetness drifts over the table. It smells delicious, to a degree, until the smell continues to grow stronger and stronger. Past the point of appetizing and bulldozing straight to nauseating.
Unfortunately, it's the nail in your coffin.
Your eyes grow wide. Your stomach lurches. Bile climbs up your throat. You shove back your chair and sprint from the table, booking it into the bathroom.
You slide to your knees on the cold tile, and lift the lid just in time to throw up into the toilet. You gag, tossing up the little you ate at dinner.
Outside you don't hear a sound. That can't be good. The Nelsons are notoriously loud, but right now, you can't hear a single thing. Hearing not even a whisper sends embarrassment flooding your system.
Tears burn your eyeline as you retch again, nearly dunking your head into the toilet with the violent motion. You sit back, gasping for air and choking back the urge to burst into tears.
The door swings open. You don't bother turning around, knowing who it is as you throw up again.
Foggy falls to his knees beside you, pressing the toilet lid back for you and rubbing your back with the other hand. You dry heave a few more painful times before your body is satisfied and the cycle ends.
Collapsing back, your vision swims and your temples pound. Foggy reaches past you to flush the toilet, then cradles your shaking form in his arms.
"M'sorry." Your hoarse whisper draws your husband's brows deeper.
"Baby." He shakes his head, pulling some toilet paper off the roll. He turns your face gingerly towards him and dabs at your mouth. Your eyes drop to where your knees are touching, shame staining your cheeks.
"Are you okay?" Foggy asks.
He doesn't criticize, he doesn't ask why, he only wants to know if you're alright. The sweet sentiment finally breaks you and you burst into tears.
"I....I didn't want to....I had it all planned...to tell you..." You sniffle. Foggy has already drawn you into his arms ever closer and only pulls back centimeters to hear your mumbling.
"Tell me what, sunshine?"
You draw a shaky breath and look up at him with the biggest, saddest expression he's ever seen. Your lower lip juts out, trembling, and he would find it adorable if you weren't so distraught and he wasn't on the verge of panicking himself.
Foggy chooses to calm you down first, cupping your cheeks and swiping the tears that fall from your red eyes.
You grab his wrists for dear life and take a shuddering, steadying breath.
You meet his eyes again and the smallest hint of a smile flickers over your mouth.
"You're going to be a father."
Foggy's thumbs stop. You feel the tendons in his hands constrict. His expression of distraught concern freezes. His eyes stare into yours, unmoving.
You stop breathing then, too.
Tears well up first, until they build up in his eyes and spill down his face, splashing onto your fingers. Foggy smiles with trembling lips, as shaky as his voice when he speaks.
"Fuck....we are....you're...I mean-"
You exhale and nod slowly between his palms. You can feel the warm metal of his wedding band pressing into your cheek as his hands hold you tighter. Foggy's expression grows delirious, his smile larger than his astonished eyes.
"I'm pregnant." You confirm.
A sob breaks from his lips. He dives in and presses his forehead to yours. Foggy closes his eyes, another cry escaping him before he takes a steadying breath.
He lifts his head, sniffling, and kisses your forehead, your cheeks, your nose. He kisses your lips over and over and over, until you gently push him away, smiling ruefully.
Foggy pauses. "What?"
"I just..." You shrug. "I had created an entire plan to surprise you. I didn't expect to tell you on the bathroom floor of a butcher shop."
He snickers until it tumbles into outright laughter. Foggy stands first and then helps you stand as well, an arm gingerly around your waist and already so protective of your body with this newfound information.
"I know." You lament. "It's stupid. It's just you deserve a grand...surprise... I don't know."
"Baby, sweetheart, darling." Foggy turns you to face him. He presses a firm kiss to your forehead, wipes away the remnants of any tears on your cheeks, and grabs your hand. Raising your fingers to his lips, he kisses your wedding band, eyes on you ever so poignant.
"You are the love of my life. You could have told me behind a damn dumpster in some backstreet alleyway for all I care. I love you, so fucking much, but I don't give a shit about what I deserve. I don't deserve anything." He shakes his head, hair flying into his face with vigor. You automatically reach forward to brush it out of his face. It only spurs him on more.
"I don't deserve you, my beautiful wife, who thinks it's not enough that you are creating our child, but for some reason needs to tell me in some special way, as if the news itself isn't magical already?" He rants.
You sigh, biting your lip. "I know. I said it was stupid."
"It just proves how much you love me. Which again, I'm baffled by." Foggy's eyes fall to your stomach and an awestruck expression glazes over his eyes before he smirks, looking up at you with a twinkle in his eye.
"Think of it this way. They had a serious case of FOMO. We're at the biggest Nelson gathering of the year and our little one wanted to be included in all the festivities."
Foggy watches triumphant as a silly grin finally breaks your somber expression. A hand falls to your stomach.
"They are a Nelson, after all. Makes sense they couldn't keep themselves quiet for long." You snort. Foggy scoffs, but can't help leaning in for another doting kiss.
He pulls you towards the door, hand falling onto the handle and looks over his shoulder at you.
"So are we telling the audience out there? Because, don't panic, but it kind of looked like the sight of my mom's dish alone disgusted you."
You groan. "I knew it would come across like that. No, of course we can tell them. I don't want Anna to hate me."
"Trust me, you're her favorite in-law." Foggy reassures, leaving no time to process the confession as he swings open the door.
The party has gone back to full swing, respectfully not drawing attention to your absence until Foggy steps forward, raising his hand.
"Nelsons!" He shouts. For once, every single Nelson in the room quiets and turns in their seat, eyes now on the two of you. You swallow, pressing into Foggy's side with a bashful smile.
"I just wanted to reassure you guys everything is fine. Although, the newest Nelson might have some strong opinions on Ma's roast."
Foggy grins, basking in the precious seconds of silence it takes to dawn on everyone. Anna, who you are watching anxiously, and who was frowning in confusion, is the first to light up, screeching so loud she scares those sitting nearest her.
"Oh! Franklin! Is it true! I can't believe it!" She scurries around the long table in record time, running straight into you with a hug that unintentionally knocks Foggy to the side. She releases you, tears already in her eyes when you nod. She turns to her son and cups his face.
"Oh Franklin, you're gonna be the best damn father that baby has ever had." She sobs. Foggy's elation collapses into renewed tears of joy and you step back to let mother and son comfort one another.
By now the room has caught on, with cousins explaining to older folk who can't hear as well, and older siblings explaining to the kids there was gonna be a new Nelson next Christmas. Needless to say, the entire room erupts into cheers. The scraping of chairs accompany applause as the Nelson clan floods towards you and Foggy to congratulate you two with hugs and kisses. And of course, not so covert jokes at Foggy's "well done putting the work in", along with playful, but serious threats "that he better not let his big time lawyering gig take him away from his wife and baby."
Foggy shakes his head, his own expression screwed up tight in disgust at the thought of it.
He draws you in against his side. "She's gonna be sick of me by the end of this."
"Probably." You tease, earning a round of laughter and a pinch from Foggy. You placate him, turning his chin to plant a bold kiss on his mouth. The hoots and hollers escalate as Foggy matches your energy, then exceeds it by dipping you low and kissing you until the kids start calling out how gross it is and the phones start coming out to snap pictures.
It wasn't how you pictured the grand reveal going, but how rare it is for life's precious moments to go as planned. And really, the unexpected reality often holds more love, laughter, and memories than you could ever imagine. Yes, the laughter, the cheers, the teasing, the attention, the warmth is all still overwhelming, in truth. But now? Knowing you are surrounded by the biggest support system one could ask for, and the world's most adoring husband and soon-to-be father, it's the best feeling in the world.