Okay, I'm kind of nervous about posting this. It's a Dizzie children story, but it's not sunshiny fluff. I've seen lots of fan-diagnoses of Darcy as having Aspergers or some form of autism (I don't agree - if anyone has Aspergers it's probably Ricky Collins) but it got me thinking about how Lizzie and Darcy would deal with having an autistic child of their own. Which isn't too surprising, since my oldest child is autistic. So this will have some autobiographical shades to it. And for all the angst and such, there will be happy stuff. Because being a parent is like that. :)

Chapters will alternate between Lizzie and Darcy's viewpoints. I have a specific reason for the choice of name for their son, so bear with me if it causes some confusion. Thanks for reading!

Lizzie's first pregnancy was easy. She had her share of exhaustion and morning sickness (better termed all-day sickness), but she knew from the volumes of maternity books she and William read that her symptoms were pretty mild. At every checkup her condition met with the doctor's full approval. William wasn't able to attend every one of them with her, but he always called to ask how it had gone and make sure she was taking care of herself. Sometimes Lizzie wondered which one of them was enduring pregnancy hormones. His emotions had never been so openly displayed – delight, anxiety, pride – the whole range and then some. Of course it only made her love him more.

He was there for the ultrasound, and his face transformed at the fuzzy images that the sonogram technician interpreted as a tiny foot, a balled-up fist. And, "Oh, look at that," the tech said cheerily. "It's a boy!"

Her husband looked at her, eyes wet, and Lizzie immediately squeezed his hand and said, "Yes, we can name him William."

She was able to keep working right up until the day she went into labor, though it worried William beyond all reason. She felt fine, mild contractions notwithstanding, and even though her company was at the point where it could run smoothly for a few months without her constant presence, she didn't want to leave until absolutely necessary.

Her employees were largely of William's opinion. They had been watching Lizzie closely the last few weeks, ready to force her home whenever she put a hand on her stomach. She resisted all day, supervising the final edits of the latest project with only the occasional labored breath. When they started coming less than occasionally, the head editor, Angela, finally put her hands on her shoulders and steered her out the door. "You're not staying here another second. I've already called your husband. He's going to pick you up in ten minutes."

Lizzie put up a token protest, but she was secretly glad to sit down and stop pretending to focus on anything else. William came to get her in a frantic rush, and her attempts to calm him down turned into a wordless moan as the next contraction hit.

The rest of the afternoon was surprisingly boring. They arrived at the birthing center and went through an exam only to be told that yes, Lizzie was in labor, but no, she hadn't been in any danger of giving birth at the office. She was still in the very early stages. They could go home for a few hours if they cared to.

They did not care to. If this was early labor, Lizzie wondered, hunched over in agony, how in the world was she going to hold it together when things got really intense? And how was she going to keep on insisting on a drug-free labor when William was going out of his mind at the sight of his wife in such pain?

They took a lot of walks around the birthing center hallways, and whenever a contraction hit Lizzie clutched William's arm till he winced. Then she tried a birthing ball, and a warm bath, and acupressure, and breathing exercises. Nope, she was still in agony. Everything she had learned in the labor classes seemed to fly right out of her head. She was swimming through a hazy world of pain, and the only certainty was William's anxious but solid presence.

After another exam they announced she was progressing nicely. Which meant several more hours of even more excruciating pain, stretching on into an endless, sleepless night. William kept dozing off in spite of all his earnest intentions, and he apologized every time her shouts startled him awake. Maybe she should take pity on him and send him to another room to get some real rest. Selfishly, she didn't want him to leave. And he'd probably refuse to anyway.

"I guess he's not coming today," Lizzie murmured as the clock changed from 11:59 to midnight. "That is, yesterday."

He came in the gray, bleary hours of pre-dawn. 4:12, to be precise. William wrote it in his calendar as soon as he had recovered – somewhat – from the giddy delight of meeting his newborn son. He covered Lizzie's sweaty face in kisses, smoothing the damp hair away from her forehead, while she cradled baby William and murmured wordless, happy nonsense. Then she offered him to her husband.

She watched the contortions of his face in drowsy contentment, and only then realized that their baby was going to need a nickname.

"Well, how did your mother differentiate between you and your father?" Lizzie asked late that afternoon, after all three of them had taken several naps. They could talk easily about his parents now, and he could mention how much he wished they had known her without going stiff and silent and distant.

Now, he just got that confused furrow in his brow and said, "I don't recall there being any confusion. I suppose she called my father 'dear' most of the time."

"What about your grandfather?"

"I don't know. To me, he was just Pappy," William replied with a completely straight face.

Lizzie shifted the baby in her arms and wondered if she had gone delirious and only imagined such a word escaping her husband's lips. "You called your grandfather Pappy?"

"Well, I was only three when he died."

"Sorry."

"No need for that," he said with a warm smile.

"Anyway…" Lizzie stroked the soft dark fuzz on their son's head. "There's no way I'm calling you Pappy…and I've never been much for dears or darlings. 'William' just suits you so well."

"Would you prefer we chose another name?" he asked, trying to keep his tone detached.

"No," she said firmly. "It's an important tradition in your family. We'll work it out."

It was easy, in the end. They just shortened his name to Will, which his grandmother usually turned into Little Will or Willy or Willy-Billy. Fitz called him Willy D or Willy B, since his middle name was Bennet.

Everyone loved him.

He was the second Bennet grandchild (but only by three months) and the first grandson. Jane and Bing's little girl Mei was adored, but mostly only from a distance. San Francisco was far more accessible for visits than New York. And it wasn't just family members. After a few months maternity leave, Lizzie started bringing him to work with her – one of the perks of having her own company – snug in his baby sling. Everyone cooed and babbled at him and wanted a turn holding him.

William monitored every milestone meticulously. He purchased a new calendar solely to record his son's accomplishments. First smile, first time rolling over, first tooth, first word.

The first word was debatable, of course. It was impossible to pinpoint for certain when Will's utterances transformed from random babbles to deliberate words, but his father believed that by eight months his mamamamas were directed at Lizzie. She was more inclined to call wawa his first, which didn't happen until ten months. Regardless, by his first birthday he had a growing list of indisputable words.

At fifteen months, his favorite word was baba. He said it when their family took walks on lazy weekends and they'd pass other strollers with toddlers; he would insist on Lizzie reading him his favorite picture book full of babies for the fourteenth time that day and say baba at every page, and he said it while patting her stomach.

They took it as a sign.

"I always wished I could have had a sister or brother nearer to my age," William said wistfully as he tucked a blanket over his sleeping son and stepped back from the crib. "Gigi and I are close, but not like you and your sisters. I'd like to give that to Will."

"Me too," Lizzie murmured, leaning over to kiss Will's forehead. His dark hair kept teasing them with faint hints that might almost be red, but sooner or later they'd have to admit it was black. Maybe their next one would be a redhead. Yes, there would definitely be another one. There was no question of that. And why wait any longer?

Her second pregnancy was harder. During the first trimester, she could barely manage to get out of bed. She was forced to do a lot of telecommuting. Some days she didn't get any work done at all. William helped as much as he could, getting Will breakfast before he left for work and playing with him from the moment he got home until bedtime. He hired a maid to come by twice a week so she wouldn't have to worry about housecleaning. She frankly didn't care if the house was a mess.

She did feel tremendously guilty about Will. They were having another baby for him, to have a sister or brother close in age, a friend and a play buddy….but right now, it was stealing away all of his mother's energy and enthusiasm.

"You shouldn't be so hard on yourself," William said when she admitted her anxiety to him. He was rubbing her feet while she lay in bed after another day of doing almost nothing and snapping at Will when he wouldn't stop tugging her hand to try to get her off the couch. "This is the worst part. You remember that from all information you've read on pre-natal development."

"You've read about all that more than I have," Lizzie pointed out. "Obsessively."

"True enough."

"So what exactly is going on right now that makes me feel like I've run a marathon every single day?"

"You're facilitating the growth of a new human being, as well as an entire organ. You're entitled to be exhausted."

"Ugh." Lizzie turned sideways and buried her face in her pillow. "It was easier last time."

"I might add that you're doing all that on top of caring for a very active toddler."

"No, I'm not," Lizzie burst out, her eyes suddenly hot with tears. "I'm not caring for him; I'm hardly managing the bare minimum. I feed him and change him. Forget playing with him or giving him any of the attention and – and – motherly stuff that I'm supposed to. I'm so tired. I'm just so tired."

William listened without interrupting, patient and understanding as always, and when she had nothing left he pulled her close into a wordless hug. He held her for a long time. Then he kissed her forehead and said quietly, "You have doubts about your parenting abilities. That's understandable. I have doubts about my own. But I don't doubt yours. You are extraordinary."

She sighed and leaned against his chest. "If I wasn't in danger of puking up my dinner, I'd be tackling you right now."

"Thank you?"

The world seemed a lot sunnier during the second trimester. Lizzie got some of her energy back, she didn't have to stay home from work very often, and she had plenty of attention to spare for Will.

That was when they noticed his speech delay.

He had a solid handful of words, but the list hadn't grown much for some months now. Lizzie started worrying when she was chatting with a neighbor whose little girl was three months younger and discovered she already had a repertoire of fifty words.

She called Jane. "How many words did Mei have in her vocabulary when she was Will's age?" she demanded without even greeting her.

"Hi, Lizzie. It's good to hear from you. But you sound worried. What's going on?"

"Will only says about twenty words with any regularity. Is that a problem? It's a problem, isn't it? I'm sure it's a problem."

"Oh, Lizzie. You were always a worrier. It's sweet that you're so concerned, but I think you might be panicking. Some children are late bloomers, but they come along. You didn't talk much at first either, and look at you now."

Lizzie took a breath. She knew somehow that Jane would be able to reassure her. "Yeah. I've pretty much made my career out of saying lots of words. Okay, maybe I'm just panicking."

The pediatrician didn't think she was panicking. "I think an evaluation would be a good idea," Dr. Ortiz said at Will's eighteen-month checkup. "Just to rule out any serious issues."

"Serious issues?" Lizzie repeated, a heavy weight settling at the bottom of her stomach.

"Developmental disorders. Expressive speech impairments. It's good to catch these things early. Don't worry. There are plenty of resources to deal with them. And he may just be a late bloomer after all."

But Lizzie was a worrier. It was what she did. When William called up to ask how the checkup went, she tried to mention it casually. "He's doing great. Normal percentiles for weight and height. Everything looks healthy. Oh, and the doctor gave us a number for a speech specialist. Just, you know. Just in case." Her voice betrayed her at the end.

"Lizzie, are you all right?"

"Sure. Sure. You know. Just worrying whether our son has some disorder with a series of unpronounceable words and a lifetime of trouble."

"I'm coming home," he said. "I'll be right there." And before she could protest he had already hung up.

She should have kept her mouth shut about it. Hoping to achieve some kind of damage control, she sat down with Will to read him a book and present her husband with a scene of idyllic mother-son bonding.

Instead, he squirmed away from her to return to his methodical block-stacking, and by the time William came home Lizzie was worse than ever.

"It's my fault," she blurted as he came through the door. "I spent three months neglecting him, and now he can't talk because I didn't – foster his skills, or something."

William set down his coat, went to her and put his arms around her. "You know that's ridiculous, right?" he said gently.

"Is it?"

"Children have learned to talk without anyone caring for them at all. If he has any trouble, it has nothing to do with any imagined neglect on your part."

"Mph." She leaned into him. "Maybe if you repeat it often enough I'll start to believe it."

A week later they met with the speech specialist, braced for a brutal ordeal. It was far easier than they feared. She chatted with them for about a half hour, then played with Will. He clapped when she blew bubbles, laughed when she made silly noises, and even said five of his twenty words. Lizzie tried not to lean over and spy the notes she was making in her binder.

Afterward, she had no diagnosis with a series of unpronounceable words. Just, "Will has a speech delay. He would benefit from weekly therapy."

"And that will eliminate the delay?" William said.

"It will help," she replied. "I can also suggest some ways you can encourage his speech development." She smiled with a nod at Lizzie's now-obvious pregnancy. "I expect a sibling to play with will be an added benefit."

Was she serious, or only saying that because she could somehow sense Lizzie's irrational guilt? Probably reading too much into that.

So Will started speech therapy. He loved Linda, the round-faced, silver-haired woman who came twice a week, with a giant bag of toys, to play with him. Whether it was actually helping his speech his parents could only guess. Linda assured them that his progress might not be noticeable at first, but every little step forward was important.

The new baby came in the middle of September. Sometime around 9:30 at night, Gigi came over to watch Will, bounding with excitement, while Lizzie and William headed off to the birthing center. Labor went much faster this time. By sunrise Lizzie was holding their daughter in her arms, cooing over her indisputably red hair. They called Gigi first and asked her to put Will on the phone. There was silence, then a distant shriek, and Gigi returned with an apologetic, "He doesn't like when I hold the phone at his ear. Sorry. But I told him he has a new baby sister, and he said baba! It was adorable."

Lizzie smiled and wiped her eyes, too tired to decide whether they were sad or happy tears. Maybe both.

Later in the day Gigi and Will came to visit. Gigi gasped and laughed and gushed over her niece. Will was more interested in the button that moved Lizzie's bed up and down. "Will, come see the baby," Lizzie said over and over. William wrestled him away from the bed's controls and pulled him up to get an aerial view of his sister.

"That's your sister," he said, holding him tight. "Your baby sister."

"Baba," Will said obligingly, waving his hand.

They had decided on Hannah, a sort of variant on her paternal grandmother's name. Lizzie couldn't help also thinking it was fairly easy name to pronounce, and therefore more likely to become one of Will's rare words.

He hadn't said any new words for months now.

It was Linda who brought it up first, though Lizzie had been thinking of it for some time, afraid to voice the fear as if that would make it real. "Will may have a more pervasive developmental disorder," she said at the end of September. "His speech isn't the only issue. I've see a few other behaviors that are usually red flags."

Lizzie shifted a sleeping Hannah in her arms, trying to subdue the dark panic rising in her. "Like what?"

"Repetitive behaviors. Like how he stacks his blocks over and over, the same way every time?"

"I thought he was just – organized," Lizzie said falteringly.

Linda gave a sympathetic smile. "I don't want to worry you. I just want to make sure you're getting Will all the help he might need."

"Of course." She felt detached, like she was watching herself from a distance. "Thank you."

They went through another round of specialists. More chatting with doctors, then watching them play with Will. Or really, play around him. He was very solitary. He didn't look at people's faces very often. Sometimes he didn't respond to his own name. They had his hearing tested just to rule that out, but there were no problems there. She never thought she would have been relieved to learn her son had hearing loss.

Just before Halloween they learned the diagnosis. By then, faced with his growing behavioral issues, they already pretty much knew what was coming.

Will had autism.

On the way home from the specialist, Lizzie said the only thing she could think to say. "It's official. October is a very, very bad month for us."