Jughead pulled off his beanie as he leaned into the doorframe of the small living room, taking in the scene before him, lit only by the twinkling lights of their Christmas tree. His wife laying on the couch, asleep, hair fanned out about her on the throw pillow as their son slept against her chest, blond curls bouncing ever so slightly as her breath bobbed him up and down.
He didn't think his heart could feel so full.
He set his keys down into the bowl on the small table by their door as quietly as he could, not wanting to disturb them. He then carefully tip toed over, hands gently grasping at the toddler's sides, pulling him up onto his shoulder.
He managed to do so successfully without waking him, but Betty rose with a small gasp before realizing it was only her husband.
"Sorry," she yawned. "Attie wanted to wait up for Santa and I got tired of arguing with him."
"Yes, two year olds can put up quite the fight," the raven-haired boy laughed.
She glanced at the clock which read 12:05 AM. "Three-year-old, now."
"Yeah. Three-year-old now," he chuckled lightly. Their little Christmas miracle.
They'd been trying for over a year when a doctor told them that they probably could never conceive. Something was wrong with Betty's uterus that kept the eggs from ever implanting properly.
She was devastated. All her life, the only thing Betty was sure of was her desire to be a mother. It took awhile for her to accept it; she insisted they keep trying, going through fertility treatments for an additional three months, each month being devastated when her period came, because if she was bleeding, then she wasn't pregnant.
Finally, she decided to move on. They stopped actively trying, and she was content just being with Jughead.
Three weeks later, she found out she was expecting with a due date in late December.
Initially, she wasn't too keen on the idea of her baby being born so close to Christmas. "He can't share a birthday with a deity, Jughead! How is he supposed to compete with that?!"
She held this sentiment right to the very end. When contractions started in the late afternoon of Christmas Eve while she baked cookies with her mother, she insisted she'd just cross her legs and keep him in there till the 26th.
She sang a different tune, however, just a few hours later as she sat in the passenger seat of their car, clutching onto Jughead's sherpa, hurling expletives at him, blaming him for her pain. When they arrived at the maternity ward of Riverdale's memorial hospital she asked, or rather screamed, for an epidural, but her labor had progressed too far. She was nine centimeters dilated, and it was time to start pushing.
She pushed for thirty minutes, and then, just after midnight on Christmas day, there he was. He was bloody and screaming and beautiful. And he was theirs. Jughead could feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes and they sprang freely from Betty's as they laid the tiny newborn on her chest, and Betty pulled the crinkly hospital gown off one shoulder and he almost immediately latched on and began to nurse.
Originally, when they found out they were having a boy, Betty wanted to make him a Fourth, but Jughead refused to subject his child to the same ridiculous name he grew up with. But Elizabeth Jones was not going to be the reason the Forsythe name was abandoned by the Jones family.
They finally settled on the name of one of their mutual favorite characters, Atticus Finch, and Forsythe as the middle name.
"Hello, Atticus Forsythe Jones," she whispered, fingers stroking through the wispy hairs at the crown of his head as he ate. "Welcome to your life, baby boy."
