AN: This is only my second fanfic, and my first was nearly fifteen years ago, so I make no guarantees on quality. This plot bunny took hold, though, and there was no turning back. Since I've never written a multi-part before, I really don't know how long updates will take, but I am posting the beginning now in an effort to force myself to keep writing. It's not much, but I hope my little offering to the community will provide some of you a few minutes of happiness over the long hiatus.
"Ooh. To the left."
"Hey! Take it easy! I think labor might be more pleasant than your foot rubs."
"I could pretend to be Ted Chaough."
"I swear, Pegs, if that baby doesn't come soon, I'm revoking my vow of sobriety, and I'm taking you with me."
There were tragic accidents. There were happy accidents. And then there was Stan. The beginning was a bit of a blur, really. A drunken night of getting Ted out of her system. A missed period. A dead rabbit. Then stark reality. This wasn't Pete. She wasn't a 20-year-old secretary anymore. She couldn't hide this. She and Stan were having a baby.
In contrast to Peggy's initial ambivalence, Stan was overjoyed, and he carried her along on the tide of his enthusiasm. How could she not be buoyed by his sheer bliss at not only being a parent, but being a parent with her? So here they were, six months later, living out Abe's dream of raising a family on the Upper West Side. (And wasn't that rich?)
There were happy accidents, and there were tragic accidents, but Stan was neither. Stan was the best accident of all.