Note: This was originally meant to be part of a larger piece that I'll get to posting later, a collection of oneshots revolving around babies/children/OC children of certain pairings, and that's a work in progress. This piece, however, originally for the "painting the nursery" prompt, ended up much longer than the other drabbles, and so I decided to post it separately from that group. (As usual, characters/content are not of my own original design)

She smirks as she politely points out his mistake.

"Ian, there's paint on your nose."

He turns to her—obviously not listening—and Barbara grins at the smudge of green smeared across his face.

"What?"

"There's paint all over your face."

Why they waited until this late to actually sit down and paint the spare guest room into the nursery, she'll never know. So far, the job's gone rather well, she thinks. It's quite warm for a Saturday in early October, and after putting down the first coat on the walls, Barbara's opened up the windows in the house. As her husband finishes the second layer, she sits back in the rocking chair his father had made two months beforehand, and she watches.

Needless to say, Ian isn't the most...organized painter in the world.

He blinks and rubs the tip of his nose, pastel paint coming off all over his hand, and soon they're both laughing until they're breathless.

"Then take some!" He wipes off a handful and smears it over her own face, and Barbara scowls at him, snatching the paintbrush out of his hands.

"Oh, you just wait until I get over there," she warns, grinning, as she pulls herself somewhat heavily out of the chair. He steps back as she swipes the brush at him, and gives a heavy sigh as he feels his left foot fall ankle-deep into a paint can.

His wife laughs as he pulls his leg up, dripping with the yellow paint for the border.

"Ian, you don't paint with your feet," she giggles, handing the green brush back. He looks at her curiously, thinking over her statement, and continues to meet her gaze as he reaches back to place one foot on the wall behind him.

"Ian!"

And now there's a giant yellow paint spot on the wall, she thinks.

"No, look," he says, proud of himself, and lifts his leg away to reveal the perfect yellow footprint on the wall. She inspects it for a moment or so, and then ends up nodding her approval.

"It's...not bad, really."

"Your turn," he says, and she shakes her head.

"I can barely stand on both feet evenly, let alone on one. No way."

"No, you've got to do it too, Barbara. Come on." He holds out a hand to support her and she flinches at the cold as she dips her right foot into the bucket.

"Ankle deep," he directs, and she grimaces and sticks her foot even further in.

"I don't like this," she frowns, and pulls her foot free, shaking the extra droplets off.

"Right next to mine," Ian indicates on the wall, supporting her as she hops closer. "Just stick it right on."

Barbara holds her leg as steady as she can, and places it firmly next to his own footprint. "There," she says proudly, pulling it away to leave a perfect mark. "How's that?"

He smiles and kisses her cheek. "It looks wonderful."

They step back, their yellow feet dangling safely over the newspaper that covers the wooden flooring, and admire their work.

A completely pastel green nursery, and two yellow footprints on the wall with the two windows.

Not bad for a day's work.

Ian looks at the yellow paint, and debates whether they should go ahead and do the upper border today, or to put it off. While they've been working all morning, a part of him nags that he should do it before it's too late—after all, they've put this entire mess off for this long already, and the baby's due in nearly two and a half weeks. And, knowing how life is, this baby will be born on anything but the due date they were given.

"Ian?"

She looks expectantly at him, and smiles when he blinks, confused.

"You were drifting off again."

"Mm-hmm."

"Thinking?"

He nods.

"Thinking about...?" she prompts, and he shakes his head.

"Just you," he says, kissing her again. A hand drifts to where hers rests atop the swell of her stomach, and he rubs his thumb gently across the surface when he feels the baby kick under his palm.

"That's nice," she sighs sweetly, and turns to lower herself into the rocking chair. "Do you want to do the border now, or...?"

He thinks hard again, and leans forward, folding his arms on the arm of the chair. "I think it can wait for now. A break would be nice."

"That sounds fine," she agrees, and he wipes his foot off on the newspapers as best he can.

"However, I'm going to clean my foot off first, and then we can do the rest in a bit. Maybe an hour. Does that sound good?"

"What sounds good to me right now is a sandwich, Mr. Chesterton," she requests, laughing, and he kisses the top of her head.

"I'll see what I can do about that."

She grins and listens to the sound of his footsteps down the hall, the sound of the bathroom door closing, and then the rush of water as the bath is turned on. A breeze picks up through the open windows and Barbara closes her eyes, resting her head against the back of the rocking chair. She's very nearly asleep when the doorbell rings, of course, and she stirs lazily. Ian must've decided to take a shower, she thinks, because the water's still running in the bathroom, and the doorbell rings again.

"Ian?" she calls, and when there's no answer, she wipes the rest of the paint off of her own foot, heaves herself to her feet, and pads barefoot across the wooden flooring to the living room.

"Hello?" she asks when she opens the front door, only to find that there's nobody really there. A woven wicker basket lies at her feet on the doorstep, and Barbara stoops to pick it up, frowning. A gift?

She looks to the left to see a man with dark, clean-cut hair and checked trousers walking off down the row of houses. He doesn't look back—if he was even the one to leave it, and Barbara can almost make out his conversation with the three that follow him (two boys, one blonde, and one in what she thinks could be a kilt, and a young lady), as the blonde woman at his side is rather loud, she thinks. But whatever they're saying isn't very important, and she takes the basket inside, and settles it on the coffee table before the couch to inspect it.

"Ian?" she calls for her husband, and when there's no answer, she continues to open the present anyways.

A nice blue ribbon is tied around the handle, with little silver bells dangling from a white string wound around, and Barbara smiles. It's a very lovely present, no matter who left it on her doorstep. White tissue paper is carefully folded into the inside of the basket, and she folds it aside with delicate hands to reveal the items tucked inside.

It's nothing special, at first—there's a tin of muffins, a few packets of tea, a tiny stuffed brown bear that fits in the palm of her hand, with a matching ribbon around its neck, and a pacifier—things they already have at home, of course. But as she digs deeper, she begins to get a little suspicious.

A beautiful golden bracelet, a worn book on the history of the French Revolution (the exact copy that she remembers, too), and a golden coin reminiscent of those in ancient China.

Her hands now shaking, she pulls a small toy from the basket—a tiny blue police box, every detail exactly as she remembered it. She pulls it back across the coffee table on its four tiny wheels on the bottom, and lets go, watching it roll across the surface of the table, rotating slowly as it goes.

Parting the tissue paper further, one hand brushes against more paper, and she withdraws a rectangular, rather heavy, stack of items from the bottom of the basket, wrapped in light blue tissue paper, and tied with cord.

She undoes the tie, parts the paper, and finds it to be a stack of three picture frames, all the same size, and large enough to fill the spare spaces on the mantle of the fireplace. All three are black-and-white portraits, and look almost professionally done, as far as pictures go. Like the sort of thing they did in the school yearbooks nowadays, she thinks.

"Ian," she shouts again, because this is quite a surprise if her suspicions are correct. The bathroom door opens and she hears his footsteps, but not whatever he says to her. No, she looks through the pictures to quell her curiosity, and is very sure of the shock on her face as she looks at the photos.

The first picture is of Vicki, her hands clasped nicely over her lap, the second of Susan, and the third, of the Doctor.

She drops the third picture on the couch beside her and cries, the tears flooding up before she can even think to stop her emotions.

"Barbara!"

He doesn't even look at the frame as he sets it aside to sit beside her, rubbing circles into her back as she sobs.

"Barbara, what's wrong?"

She shakes her head, unable to answer, and buries her face in his chest as his arms find their way around her. Ian's terribly confused, and he holds her for a few minutes until she's calm enough to formulate some form of English.

"I don't think I understand," he says softly to her, laughing, and wiping his thumb under her eye to sweep away tears. "I take a shower, and when I come back, you're in tears, sweetheart. What happened?"

"I just..." she sniffs and swallows hard, and gestures to the basket on the table. "I heard the door ring, and when I opened the door, this basket was on the doorstep. I didn't see anyone who left it, but just...oh, Ian, just look at it!"

She starts to cry, and places a hand over her mouth, trying to hold back the tears as he looks through the objects. He holds up the tiny police box, and when he looks to her for confirmation, she points at the pictures and nods, crying herself into a mess all over again.

"Oh, Barbara."

He takes her into his arms again, laughing to himself. "It's alright. It's just fine."

Again, she calms herself down in a minute or two, struggling to reign in the sudden flood of emotions.

"He still thinks of us, Ian."

He smiles, and picks up the photos to look through them. "You know, I have a feeling that he always will."

She nods and watches him arrange the three new pictures on the mantelpiece, and gives her approval when the arrangement looks right.

"Your mother's going to ask who these three are, you know," Ian says, gesturing, and Barbara laughs.

"I'm sure we can think of some excuse," she sighs, leaning back into the couch. "Just a few people we met on our two-year excursion. What did we tell her that was, again?"

He shrugs, and throws his hands into the air. "I don't even know anymore, you know."

She laughs, grins, and then remembers what she'd asked beforehand.

"So, you were getting me a sandwich some twenty minutes ago," she reminds him with a hopeful grin, and he rolls his eyes as he crosses into the kitchen.

"You're lucky I love you," he chuckles, and she grins from the sofa, rubbing one hand across the swell of her belly.

"I know," she says, and admires how nicely the three new photos fit into place with the others they've set up—among pictures of family, and ones from their wedding, as well as more recent ones since she's been pregnant. Sitting amongst the old family photos, she thinks that perhaps their...extended family, if you could call the Doctor that, deserved to have their photos there as well.

Barbara smiles. "I know."

(Another) Note: At least, a few notes here and there on the story. The group that left the gift (originally, I had intended for it to be Donna and the Tenth Doctor, but decided to do something else) was supposed to be the Second Doctor, with Jamie, Ben, and Polly, but, of course, I tried to keep the description a bit vague. Also, regarding the items in the gift basket, the second listing of items layered are significant to the first season or so's travels: the bracelet is the one that Barbara picked up in The Aztecs, the book is Susan's from An Unearthly Child (I'm assuming that Susan never really gave it back, maybe), and the coin was (supposed, though I'm not sure of the accuracy) supposed to be a hint at the Marco Polo serial.