One Directon Preferences

"Fred, Meet Your Little Sister"

"Be careful when you go in, alright, buddy?" Louis warned his son, patting him on the back as the both of them approached waiting room of the maternity, labour and delivery unit. Baby cries sounding around the desolate space were drowned out by the squeaking wheels of wheelchairs being pushed by nurses - with the presumed husband following close behind - holding heavily pregnant women in labour and ready to bring their baby into the world. "Your mum is probably trying to get some sleep, and, your sister is probably zonked out for the world. Don't be too loud, alright?"

Freddie gave him a curt nod as he looked over his shoulder and up to Louis.

"It sounds weird, y'know? When you say your sister. It's been just me for 16 years and now I've got a little sister," he explained, his shoes squeaking on the linoleum and shining tiled 4th floor of the London hospital, "like, I'm a brother now. At 17, I'm in the middle of college, on the football team and now I'm an older brother. It's crazy."

"She was an oops baby though, wasn't she? Both me and your mum were shocked when the doctor told her she was pregnant. We're in our 40's and we've got a newborn baby and ," Louis chuckled, bringing his hand up to the door and tapping the knuckle of his forefinger against the door acting as a barricade, blocking both of them from yourself and the new baby relaxing in the ward. "Wouldn't change our story line for the world though. I love you just as much as I love her, no matter the age I am at the time of your births. Once you see her, lad, you'll fall instantly in love. She's gorgeous. She looks so much like you when you were born. It's like travelling back in time back to the day we first had you."

That was the last time Louis walked those same hallways and corridors - 17 and a bit years ago.

He remembered that day clearly.

He remembered waking up to prods to his shoulder, winces and guttural groans and heavy pants leaving your mouth as he switched on the bedroom lamp and found you in a hunched position; a hand rubbing your bump with your other running through your hair, tugging on the strands when a contraction waved through your body.

He remembered panicking as he walked the bedroom floor, picking up clothes for you to wear and packing them into a bag that was overflowing by the time he was finished. A trouser leg hanging from between the flap, a hoodie thrown in and bulging the bag out, and a pair of shoes that were thrown sub-consciously in.

He remembered driving down the street towards the hospital, earning vice grips upon his thigh as the car bumbled over bumps and pot holes in the road; painful sparks and jolts coursing through your body with each bump or pot hole passing beneath the wheels of the car.

He remembered frantically explaining what was happening to the receptionist as soon as he'd helped you step foot into the lower level of the hospital. His frantic explanations unnecessary with your groans and your hunched body being the visible clarification of what was happening. He'd not removed his hand from your back, with his palm flat resting upon the small of your back as soon as he'd helped you from the car.

He remembered wheeling you down the brightly lit corridor with a hand lodged tightly into yours as you went through contraction after contraction after contraction. Your waters breaking and pooling in your lap and beneath your seated body, a puddle beneath the wheelchair in the lift before droplets began dripping from the seat, forming a path along the shining tiled floor as he pushed you towards the labour and delivery ward.

He remembered the nerves running through his body he scanned your pregnant body as you slid into a hospital gown, removing your dampened underwear and balling them up on your hand to pass on to him to put in the baby bag.