fic: All the Way In (John/Jesse, 1/1)
Yes, I wrote mpreg. I wrote John/Jesse mpreg. Because if there’s something funnier than Jesse Lacey knocked up, tell me what it is, ‘cause I got nothing.
All the Way In
by iphignia939 and callsigns
SUMMARY: "Hear that, baby? Daddy thinks you're unbelievable."
If there's a more horrifying concept than marrying Jesse Lacey, John doesn't know what it is. Except for this.
"I can't believe you're pregnant," he hisses.
Jesse pats his belly. "Hear that, baby? Daddy thinks you're unbelievable."
*
Contrary to what the entire goddamn fucking internet thought, it only happened once.
Jesse had shown up, a little drunk (for Jesse, anyway, which meant "borderline alcohol poisoning" for most other people), and started slurring out a congratulations on John's upcoming nuptials. Or possibly calling him a cuntface. John wasn't sure which; Jesse'd been slurring pretty hard by then.
"Why are you being such a bitch?" he'd asked, sitting down on the sofa. Jesse was sprawled in his lap, clutching his bottle of Jack Daniels like a binkie.
"Because," Jesse had said, "my fucking best friend is fucking getting married, and I had to find out through ADAM GODDAMN LAZARRA."
John winced. He still wasn't sure how Adam had found out before literally everyone else he knew, except Michelle, but he wasn't surprised. People just told Adam things, always had. "I'm sorry! But you had to know I wasn't going to just up and tell you, 'oh, by the way, I'm getting married.' You'd freak out. And oh! Look what you're doing!"
"It's not that you're getting married," Jesse had said, sounding insulted. He'd pushed himself up on one elbow. "I don't care that you're getting married, Nolan, Jesus. That's -- you know, whatever, I'll buy you a toaster. 's fine."
John had looked at him. "So why--"
"You're marrying a merch girl," Jesse'd said, all wounded dignity, and all John could do was laugh.
"Fucking class snob," John had said, still laughing, and leaned in to kiss Jesse's cheek.
Nothing he hadn't done a hundred times. Except Jesse'd turned his head at the last second and got John's mouth instead, and somehow that had turned into drunken making out, and John had finished off Jesse's bottle and gone down on him. And somewhere in there he'd fucked Jesse, something Jesse had insisted on, as "a goodbye present, Nolan, because if you think I'm going to break the goddamn sanctity of marriage for you you're out of your fucking tree."
That had been five months ago. Jesse hadn't said a word to him since.
Until ten minutes ago, when Jesse had showed up with something he called second-trimester belly and a shirt emblazoned with "Not the Babydaddy" written on it.
*
"How did this happen?" John says, staring at Jesse.
"Well, when two men love each other very much--"
"Fuck you," John says, "you're a guy. And unless I learned wrong in seventh grade biology -- which, by the way, I did not -- men do not have babies."
"Then I'm a miracle," Jesse says blandly.
John opens his mouth to start yelling.
"Look, I don't know, okay?" Jesse snaps. "I started throwing up every morning, but I thought it was just a hangover. And then I *kept* throwing up, even when I stopped drinking, and I didn't want to eat anything but soda water and Saltines, and my chest started hurting, and my ankles felt fucking huge, and I went to the doctor and he read the test results about ten times and told me I was having a baby and *he* was writing a paper." He crosses his arms over his chest and shifts uncomfortably.
John just looks at him. "You're not joking," he says slowly. "You're really -- you're having a baby."
"I am a man and I am with child." Jesse nods. "Yes."
"*My* baby."
"No, the baby of the OTHER guys I've been fucking!" Jesse chucks a picture frame at his head. "Listen, asshole--"
"I'm sorry!" John yells, ducking. "It's an honest question, okay?"
"It's an honest question if you think I'm some kind of fucking slut!" John opens his mouth; Jesse points at him. "Don't fucking say it, Nolan. No."
"Didn't say a word," John says honestly, because he hadn't managed to before Jesse'd cut him off. "So, okay. You're pregnant." He takes a breath. "What do you want to do?"
"What I want," Jesse snaps, "is to not be pregnant and drinking like a fish right now. What I am doing is telling the father of my child that he's going to be a dad in four months, craving a cheesesteak smothered in carrots and Thousand Island dressing -- don't fucking laugh -- and trying not to freak out."
John looks at him for a long moment.
"I -- Jesse," he finally says. "Whatever you need from me, I'm here. You know that, right?"
Jesse shrugs. "Yeah," he said, in a way that clearly meant "no, but I do *now*."
"Okay." John hesitates, then reaches out and squeezes Jesse's hand.
"You're such a 'mo," Jesse mutters, but he doesn't move away. John sort of counts that as a win.
*
John tells his fiance, because he can't not, and because it's kind of rude not to tell someone she's going to be a stepmom by the time they get married. It's only fair.
Also only fair: her dubious expression, followed by a little speech he mentally dubs John, Honestly, It's Okay If You Have Cold Feet -- So Do I -- But If You Feel You Have to Resort to Things Like Lying to Me, It'd Probably Be Best If We Call the Whole Thing off.
Weirdly enough, the name of the speech is longer than the actual speech. John doesn't know whether to be disappointed or not; he splits the difference and goes with "mildly upset, but dulling the pain with Cuervo".
*
"Hey," he tells Jesse that night. "I'm not getting married, okay? You can breathe easy."
"Whatever." Jesse flips through Cosmo. This is not pregnancy-related; he's had a weird thing for women's magazines since junior high. John blames the sex tips. "I mean, I'm not surprised, because she totally wasn't going to be woman enough to handle your manliness, but. You know. Sorry."
Wonder of wonders, he actually seems a little regretful. It's very weird to hear, coming out of Jesse Lacey's mouth. The only time John's ever heard Jesse regret anything is on hungover mornings when he solemnly swears he will never, ever drink that much again.
"It's okay," John says, and corrects himself: "It'll be okay. In a while."
"It will," Jesse says, quietly, and goes back to reading Cosmo in silence.
*
No one's really surprised by the news. John's decided not to tell their parents yet; when the kid's a few months old, he'll explain that Jesse adopted a kid. He doesn't know exactly how he'll explain that he's the other parent of record, but he's still got a few months to figure that out.
Michelle bursts out laughing for ten full minutes.
"'chelle, come on," John says, "it's not fucking funny, okay? Jesse's having a goddamned baby."
"Of course he is," Michelle giggles. Sometimes, his sister is a total bitch. "Because if there's one man who could co-opt the miracle of birth, it's Lacey."
"Michelle, I swear to God--"
"Listen, jackass," Michelle says, interrupting. "You've been half in love with him since the seventh grade. He's been in love with you since at least then, if not longer. The freaky part isn't that you're having a baby, it's that Jesse's being the mature one and dealing with it while you're still stuck on 'oh em gee, genetically impossible'."
"He's had longer to get used to it," John mutters.
"Yeah, exactly, because he's having your baby," Michelle says. "So just man up and deal with it, and decide if you want to be in the baby's life or whatever. And you'd better say yes, asshole, because I really want to be a fucking aunt. Even if the kid *is* half Jesse."
And sometimes, John thinks, his sister is okay.
*
Jesse watches Dr. Crane smear gel on his belly and start running the ultrasound machine over it. "So am I going to deliver this baby out my ass, or what?"
Dr. Crane looks at him. "Are you high?" she finally asks. "Because that's not good for the baby, I don't care what parts you have."
"No, seriously. I read this story--"
"Mr. Lacey, for the tenth time, male pregnancy fanfiction on the internet is not a viable source of information for your condition." Now she sounds long-suffering. "No. We're going to deliver the baby via C-section."
John smacks Jesse upside the head. "Ow!"
"Delivering a baby out your ass," John mutters, rolling his eyes.
"Technically," Dr. Crane says, peering at the monitor, "I'm legally bound to report all incidents of spousal abuse."
"What?" Jesse yells. "It's a fair question! I have a really tiny asshole!"
"On second thought," she says, "smack him again."
*
Whenever Jesse has a craving, he blames the baby. Which is fine when he wants pears and bacon, but John's pretty sure it isn't the baby who wants the blowjob.
"No, seriously," Jesse says, "the baby doesn't think I should have this much sperm."
"The baby is roughly the size of the palm of my hand," John says, not looking up from the list he's making. It's not so much the cost that's giving him hives; it's the sheer amount of crap they have to buy. Babies require more shit than Jesse does, even, not that that's surprising. Jesse Lacey is a pissy bitch, but he's a low-maintenance-in-regards-to-stuff pissy bitch. "I'm guessing he doesn't have an opinion about how much you're whacking it."
"She," Jesse says quietly. John looks at him. "I. Um. I think it's a she, not a he. So."
John blinks. "Huh," he says, just as quiet, and puts the list down. "--okay, one blowjob, but that's all."
*
Jesse insists on John putting the crib together. They picked it out at IKEA; while John brought the car around, Jesse ate seven helpings of Swedish meatballs. It's small and neat and white, with a duck mobile hanging over it. Jesse bitched about that fairly loudly, until John pointed out that they could make the ducks little members of Bad Religion or something, give them tiny guitars.
"What the fuck, Nolan," Jesse had said, "like ducks can hold guitars? They don't have fingers." But he'd looked a little mollified, which was enough for John.
The nursery as a whole looks pretty good. Besides the crib and the mobile, everything's in place: dressers, toys, baby monitor, everything. The room is done in blue and white, even though Jesse's convinced he's having a girl, and the shelves are lined with stuffed animals. It's actually kind of soothing, considering that the baby's got half of Jesse Lacey's genetic material. John hopes it's enough.
It's not as weird as it could be, really. Jesse hasn't left the house since he got there, claiming it's getting harder to explain the bulge -- "not even a beer belly gets this bad this quick, Nolan" -- and AP's already talking about Jesse Lacey going back to wander in the desert for another 40 days for the next Brand New album. He's just weird enough that it makes sense.
*
Five months turns into six months, which turns into seven, which rams smack into eight like a drunk saying hi to a tree. The next thing John knows, it's 3:45 in the goddamn morning and Jesse's elbow is slamming into his ribs. "Ow!" he bellows. "Lacey, what the fuck--"
"Shut the fuck up and get the bag," Jesse says, in a tight voice John's never heard before, not ever. It's just terrifying enough that he gets out of bed and puts a shirt on without asking any questions. "I'm in labor."
"How do you know?" John asks. He fumbles on the dresser for his car keys and wallet. "We're supposed to, are you counting contractions? It might be--"
"My goddamn fucking water just broke," Jesse says, still in that tight, scary voice. "I think that fucking counts as labor, Nolan."
John just nods and puts his shoes on. "It's going to be okay," he says quietly, reaching out in the dark and squeezing Jesse's hand.
Jesse doesn't answer. He's too busy doing Lamaze breathing.
John takes three seconds to wonder when the hell Jesse took Lamaze classes -- it sure as hell wasn't with him -- then moves to help Jesse out of bed.
*
Labor takes 29 hours. John isn't allowed in -- at Jesse's insistence, according to the nurse, who looks very sorry to have to tell him that Mr. Lacey "says that you're a cocksucking motherfucker, sir, and if you come in, he's going to brain you". Which isn't surprising, really; it's very similiar to how Jesse used to react when they were in ninth grade and John woke him up to go to school.
He's a little surprised how much it sucks, though. Not being there.
*
He falls asleep on a tiny, cramped sofa in the waiting room, six-month-old copy of Newsweek on his lap, and doesn't wake up 'til someone shakes his arm and says, "Mr. Nolan?"
John stirs a little, sits up. "Mmn?" He yawns into his hand and blinks sleepily.
The nurse smiles at him. "You can see them now."
That shocks John the rest of the way away. He scrubs at his face and tries to smooth his hair down, isn't sure why. "Thank you," he says.
She gives him a scrub gown and a little hat to wear over his clothes, escorts him down the hall. "Just be quiet," she says, opening the door. "Mr. Lacey's still a little groggy from the medication, but the baby's -- there we are."
Jesse's dozing in bed, an IV in his arm and circles under his eyes. He's pale and smiling, though John thinks that might be the drugs as much as anything else. "Hey," he whispers. "You want to see her?"
"Of course I d- her?" John looks from Jesse to the bassinet next to the bed. When Jesse nods, he goes over and picks her up.
Sure enough, it's a girl; John's mostly going by the pink blanket they have her swaddled in, but he's pretty sure he'll get confirmation the first time he goes to change a diaper. Her eyes are closed, so he can't tell what color they are, but her mouth and nose are Jesse's, and the wisps of hair peeking out look springy enough that he's pretty sure she'll have his hair. She scrunches up her face for a moment, then yawns and crams a tiny fist into her mouth.
It's not life-changing, exactly. It was life-changing when Jesse announced that he was knocked up; everything after that is kind of a milder slap in the face. It's not anything at all, except the realization that he'd do anything for her.
"She needs a name," John says quietly.
"Mommy needs a drink," Jesse murmurs.
"Not 'til you're done nursing," John says, leaning against the railing on the bed. He touches her forehead, smoothing out little lines. Those are his, too.
"You never listen when I bitch," Jesse says. He rolls onto his back. "That lactation coach said it wouldn't work on me, remember? Something about male nipples not developing the way they're supposed to for nursing. It's formula all the way."
"Then she'll be just like Mommy and learn to love the bottle."
"Fuck you," Jesse says, but he's smiling.
*
"Have you picked a name yet?" Michelle asks, looking at the baby. John thinks she looks way too put-together for someone meeting her born-of-two-dudes niece for the first time. Of course, that could be the sleep deprivation talking. The baby's apparently inherited Jesse's lungs, too.
"I like Kate," John says, "but Jesse's holding out for Rivera or Paloma."
Michelle looks at him. "Please tell me you're fucking kidding," she says.
John shakes his head. "The current frontrunner is Lauderdale."
"Lauderdale Nolan-Lacey," Michelle says in disbelief. "I don't know what shit they gave him at the hospital, but it's high-grade." She glances at Jesse, who's sitting on the sofa; he's been stationed there for three days now, wincing every time he moves. It looks uncomfortable as hell, but Dr. Crane swore that as long as there isn't any bleeding or signs of infection around the incision, he's fine to stay outpatient. "You hear that, Lacey? You are not naming my niece after a town in goddamn fucking Florida, of all places."
"Miami," Jesse says thoughtfully. "No, wait, Tampa."
"I'm going to change her," Michelle tells John. "Try not to let him near any atlases while I'm gone." She takes the baby out of the room, cooing as she goes. It's really fucking weird to hear out of Michelle, but John's hardly surprised anymore. This whole thing has been weird. At least Dr. Crane isn't going to write a paper; John had talked her out of that one.
Jesse rolls his head to look at John. "So when are you going to make an honest woman out of me, Nolan?"
John just looks at him. "What?"
"I'm not going to be a single parent," Jesse snorts. "Too much work. It might be too much work for me with another person, but I'd rather not try it alone. And I'd rather try it with you than anyone else. So."
John perches on the arm of the sofa. "Did you just propose to me, in your own Lacey-esque, half-assed way?"
"I'm not proposing marriage." Jesse looks irritated. "We're guys. Guys can't get married. I'm proposing you shack up with me and raise our miracle baby together."
John clasps his hands and simpers. "Just like out of a novel!" he gasps. "Except you don't own a ranch, and I'm not a spinster."
"By 'spinster', do you mean 'unmarried person who might die alone if he's not careful'?"
John kicks him in the leg.
"Okay," John says. Before Jesse can making baby noises or call him a pussy, he adds, "But you're teaching her to drive when she turns 16, and we're meeting the boys she brings home before she's allowed to go out with them."
"Not a bad deal." Jesse shrugs and leans against him a fraction. "Just think: right now, you could be stuck in a meeting with a wedding planner named Doris, deciding between rubbery chicken and bad salmon for the reception. You know, to whatshername. Your merch girl."
John cranes his neck and tries to look in the kitchen. Michelle is talking to someone -- probably her husband -- on the phone, tiny Lacey-Nolan in her arms. He's on his sofa with a stitched-up, cranky Jesse Lacey, who (John suspects) has spent the better part of nine months crafting awkward metaphors for male pregnancy that may or may not have to do with Jesus in some way.
"Yeah," he finally says, and smiles. "This is better."
*
dear internet: if you're going to write mpreg, please don't involve things like "delivering the baby via your asshole". because in addition to being wrong -- which is kind of moot, because MPREG -- it's. your asshole is not meant to deliver children the same way the vagina is. it's science, kids! and by "science", i mean "please don't be like that juc story i read where the civil war was still going on in present day and biological warfare had wiped out all the women, so men have been genetically modified to have babies, and did i mention the phrase 'teen breeder' was used? more than once?" also, jesse lacey, babymomma? COMEDY GOLD.
this was originally bunnied/co-written with callsigns; all credit for the good bits belongs to her. title taken from deb talan, “a kinder columbus”.
All the Way In
by iphignia939 and callsigns
SUMMARY: "Hear that, baby? Daddy thinks you're unbelievable."
If there's a more horrifying concept than marrying Jesse Lacey, John doesn't know what it is. Except for this.
"I can't believe you're pregnant," he hisses.
Jesse pats his belly. "Hear that, baby? Daddy thinks you're unbelievable."
*
Contrary to what the entire goddamn fucking internet thought, it only happened once.
Jesse had shown up, a little drunk (for Jesse, anyway, which meant "borderline alcohol poisoning" for most other people), and started slurring out a congratulations on John's upcoming nuptials. Or possibly calling him a cuntface. John wasn't sure which; Jesse'd been slurring pretty hard by then.
"Why are you being such a bitch?" he'd asked, sitting down on the sofa. Jesse was sprawled in his lap, clutching his bottle of Jack Daniels like a binkie.
"Because," Jesse had said, "my fucking best friend is fucking getting married, and I had to find out through ADAM GODDAMN LAZARRA."
John winced. He still wasn't sure how Adam had found out before literally everyone else he knew, except Michelle, but he wasn't surprised. People just told Adam things, always had. "I'm sorry! But you had to know I wasn't going to just up and tell you, 'oh, by the way, I'm getting married.' You'd freak out. And oh! Look what you're doing!"
"It's not that you're getting married," Jesse had said, sounding insulted. He'd pushed himself up on one elbow. "I don't care that you're getting married, Nolan, Jesus. That's -- you know, whatever, I'll buy you a toaster. 's fine."
John had looked at him. "So why--"
"You're marrying a merch girl," Jesse'd said, all wounded dignity, and all John could do was laugh.
"Fucking class snob," John had said, still laughing, and leaned in to kiss Jesse's cheek.
Nothing he hadn't done a hundred times. Except Jesse'd turned his head at the last second and got John's mouth instead, and somehow that had turned into drunken making out, and John had finished off Jesse's bottle and gone down on him. And somewhere in there he'd fucked Jesse, something Jesse had insisted on, as "a goodbye present, Nolan, because if you think I'm going to break the goddamn sanctity of marriage for you you're out of your fucking tree."
That had been five months ago. Jesse hadn't said a word to him since.
Until ten minutes ago, when Jesse had showed up with something he called second-trimester belly and a shirt emblazoned with "Not the Babydaddy" written on it.
*
"How did this happen?" John says, staring at Jesse.
"Well, when two men love each other very much--"
"Fuck you," John says, "you're a guy. And unless I learned wrong in seventh grade biology -- which, by the way, I did not -- men do not have babies."
"Then I'm a miracle," Jesse says blandly.
John opens his mouth to start yelling.
"Look, I don't know, okay?" Jesse snaps. "I started throwing up every morning, but I thought it was just a hangover. And then I *kept* throwing up, even when I stopped drinking, and I didn't want to eat anything but soda water and Saltines, and my chest started hurting, and my ankles felt fucking huge, and I went to the doctor and he read the test results about ten times and told me I was having a baby and *he* was writing a paper." He crosses his arms over his chest and shifts uncomfortably.
John just looks at him. "You're not joking," he says slowly. "You're really -- you're having a baby."
"I am a man and I am with child." Jesse nods. "Yes."
"*My* baby."
"No, the baby of the OTHER guys I've been fucking!" Jesse chucks a picture frame at his head. "Listen, asshole--"
"I'm sorry!" John yells, ducking. "It's an honest question, okay?"
"It's an honest question if you think I'm some kind of fucking slut!" John opens his mouth; Jesse points at him. "Don't fucking say it, Nolan. No."
"Didn't say a word," John says honestly, because he hadn't managed to before Jesse'd cut him off. "So, okay. You're pregnant." He takes a breath. "What do you want to do?"
"What I want," Jesse snaps, "is to not be pregnant and drinking like a fish right now. What I am doing is telling the father of my child that he's going to be a dad in four months, craving a cheesesteak smothered in carrots and Thousand Island dressing -- don't fucking laugh -- and trying not to freak out."
John looks at him for a long moment.
"I -- Jesse," he finally says. "Whatever you need from me, I'm here. You know that, right?"
Jesse shrugs. "Yeah," he said, in a way that clearly meant "no, but I do *now*."
"Okay." John hesitates, then reaches out and squeezes Jesse's hand.
"You're such a 'mo," Jesse mutters, but he doesn't move away. John sort of counts that as a win.
*
John tells his fiance, because he can't not, and because it's kind of rude not to tell someone she's going to be a stepmom by the time they get married. It's only fair.
Also only fair: her dubious expression, followed by a little speech he mentally dubs John, Honestly, It's Okay If You Have Cold Feet -- So Do I -- But If You Feel You Have to Resort to Things Like Lying to Me, It'd Probably Be Best If We Call the Whole Thing off.
Weirdly enough, the name of the speech is longer than the actual speech. John doesn't know whether to be disappointed or not; he splits the difference and goes with "mildly upset, but dulling the pain with Cuervo".
*
"Hey," he tells Jesse that night. "I'm not getting married, okay? You can breathe easy."
"Whatever." Jesse flips through Cosmo. This is not pregnancy-related; he's had a weird thing for women's magazines since junior high. John blames the sex tips. "I mean, I'm not surprised, because she totally wasn't going to be woman enough to handle your manliness, but. You know. Sorry."
Wonder of wonders, he actually seems a little regretful. It's very weird to hear, coming out of Jesse Lacey's mouth. The only time John's ever heard Jesse regret anything is on hungover mornings when he solemnly swears he will never, ever drink that much again.
"It's okay," John says, and corrects himself: "It'll be okay. In a while."
"It will," Jesse says, quietly, and goes back to reading Cosmo in silence.
*
No one's really surprised by the news. John's decided not to tell their parents yet; when the kid's a few months old, he'll explain that Jesse adopted a kid. He doesn't know exactly how he'll explain that he's the other parent of record, but he's still got a few months to figure that out.
Michelle bursts out laughing for ten full minutes.
"'chelle, come on," John says, "it's not fucking funny, okay? Jesse's having a goddamned baby."
"Of course he is," Michelle giggles. Sometimes, his sister is a total bitch. "Because if there's one man who could co-opt the miracle of birth, it's Lacey."
"Michelle, I swear to God--"
"Listen, jackass," Michelle says, interrupting. "You've been half in love with him since the seventh grade. He's been in love with you since at least then, if not longer. The freaky part isn't that you're having a baby, it's that Jesse's being the mature one and dealing with it while you're still stuck on 'oh em gee, genetically impossible'."
"He's had longer to get used to it," John mutters.
"Yeah, exactly, because he's having your baby," Michelle says. "So just man up and deal with it, and decide if you want to be in the baby's life or whatever. And you'd better say yes, asshole, because I really want to be a fucking aunt. Even if the kid *is* half Jesse."
And sometimes, John thinks, his sister is okay.
*
Jesse watches Dr. Crane smear gel on his belly and start running the ultrasound machine over it. "So am I going to deliver this baby out my ass, or what?"
Dr. Crane looks at him. "Are you high?" she finally asks. "Because that's not good for the baby, I don't care what parts you have."
"No, seriously. I read this story--"
"Mr. Lacey, for the tenth time, male pregnancy fanfiction on the internet is not a viable source of information for your condition." Now she sounds long-suffering. "No. We're going to deliver the baby via C-section."
John smacks Jesse upside the head. "Ow!"
"Delivering a baby out your ass," John mutters, rolling his eyes.
"Technically," Dr. Crane says, peering at the monitor, "I'm legally bound to report all incidents of spousal abuse."
"What?" Jesse yells. "It's a fair question! I have a really tiny asshole!"
"On second thought," she says, "smack him again."
*
Whenever Jesse has a craving, he blames the baby. Which is fine when he wants pears and bacon, but John's pretty sure it isn't the baby who wants the blowjob.
"No, seriously," Jesse says, "the baby doesn't think I should have this much sperm."
"The baby is roughly the size of the palm of my hand," John says, not looking up from the list he's making. It's not so much the cost that's giving him hives; it's the sheer amount of crap they have to buy. Babies require more shit than Jesse does, even, not that that's surprising. Jesse Lacey is a pissy bitch, but he's a low-maintenance-in-regards-to-stuff pissy bitch. "I'm guessing he doesn't have an opinion about how much you're whacking it."
"She," Jesse says quietly. John looks at him. "I. Um. I think it's a she, not a he. So."
John blinks. "Huh," he says, just as quiet, and puts the list down. "--okay, one blowjob, but that's all."
*
Jesse insists on John putting the crib together. They picked it out at IKEA; while John brought the car around, Jesse ate seven helpings of Swedish meatballs. It's small and neat and white, with a duck mobile hanging over it. Jesse bitched about that fairly loudly, until John pointed out that they could make the ducks little members of Bad Religion or something, give them tiny guitars.
"What the fuck, Nolan," Jesse had said, "like ducks can hold guitars? They don't have fingers." But he'd looked a little mollified, which was enough for John.
The nursery as a whole looks pretty good. Besides the crib and the mobile, everything's in place: dressers, toys, baby monitor, everything. The room is done in blue and white, even though Jesse's convinced he's having a girl, and the shelves are lined with stuffed animals. It's actually kind of soothing, considering that the baby's got half of Jesse Lacey's genetic material. John hopes it's enough.
It's not as weird as it could be, really. Jesse hasn't left the house since he got there, claiming it's getting harder to explain the bulge -- "not even a beer belly gets this bad this quick, Nolan" -- and AP's already talking about Jesse Lacey going back to wander in the desert for another 40 days for the next Brand New album. He's just weird enough that it makes sense.
*
Five months turns into six months, which turns into seven, which rams smack into eight like a drunk saying hi to a tree. The next thing John knows, it's 3:45 in the goddamn morning and Jesse's elbow is slamming into his ribs. "Ow!" he bellows. "Lacey, what the fuck--"
"Shut the fuck up and get the bag," Jesse says, in a tight voice John's never heard before, not ever. It's just terrifying enough that he gets out of bed and puts a shirt on without asking any questions. "I'm in labor."
"How do you know?" John asks. He fumbles on the dresser for his car keys and wallet. "We're supposed to, are you counting contractions? It might be--"
"My goddamn fucking water just broke," Jesse says, still in that tight, scary voice. "I think that fucking counts as labor, Nolan."
John just nods and puts his shoes on. "It's going to be okay," he says quietly, reaching out in the dark and squeezing Jesse's hand.
Jesse doesn't answer. He's too busy doing Lamaze breathing.
John takes three seconds to wonder when the hell Jesse took Lamaze classes -- it sure as hell wasn't with him -- then moves to help Jesse out of bed.
*
Labor takes 29 hours. John isn't allowed in -- at Jesse's insistence, according to the nurse, who looks very sorry to have to tell him that Mr. Lacey "says that you're a cocksucking motherfucker, sir, and if you come in, he's going to brain you". Which isn't surprising, really; it's very similiar to how Jesse used to react when they were in ninth grade and John woke him up to go to school.
He's a little surprised how much it sucks, though. Not being there.
*
He falls asleep on a tiny, cramped sofa in the waiting room, six-month-old copy of Newsweek on his lap, and doesn't wake up 'til someone shakes his arm and says, "Mr. Nolan?"
John stirs a little, sits up. "Mmn?" He yawns into his hand and blinks sleepily.
The nurse smiles at him. "You can see them now."
That shocks John the rest of the way away. He scrubs at his face and tries to smooth his hair down, isn't sure why. "Thank you," he says.
She gives him a scrub gown and a little hat to wear over his clothes, escorts him down the hall. "Just be quiet," she says, opening the door. "Mr. Lacey's still a little groggy from the medication, but the baby's -- there we are."
Jesse's dozing in bed, an IV in his arm and circles under his eyes. He's pale and smiling, though John thinks that might be the drugs as much as anything else. "Hey," he whispers. "You want to see her?"
"Of course I d- her?" John looks from Jesse to the bassinet next to the bed. When Jesse nods, he goes over and picks her up.
Sure enough, it's a girl; John's mostly going by the pink blanket they have her swaddled in, but he's pretty sure he'll get confirmation the first time he goes to change a diaper. Her eyes are closed, so he can't tell what color they are, but her mouth and nose are Jesse's, and the wisps of hair peeking out look springy enough that he's pretty sure she'll have his hair. She scrunches up her face for a moment, then yawns and crams a tiny fist into her mouth.
It's not life-changing, exactly. It was life-changing when Jesse announced that he was knocked up; everything after that is kind of a milder slap in the face. It's not anything at all, except the realization that he'd do anything for her.
"She needs a name," John says quietly.
"Mommy needs a drink," Jesse murmurs.
"Not 'til you're done nursing," John says, leaning against the railing on the bed. He touches her forehead, smoothing out little lines. Those are his, too.
"You never listen when I bitch," Jesse says. He rolls onto his back. "That lactation coach said it wouldn't work on me, remember? Something about male nipples not developing the way they're supposed to for nursing. It's formula all the way."
"Then she'll be just like Mommy and learn to love the bottle."
"Fuck you," Jesse says, but he's smiling.
*
"Have you picked a name yet?" Michelle asks, looking at the baby. John thinks she looks way too put-together for someone meeting her born-of-two-dudes niece for the first time. Of course, that could be the sleep deprivation talking. The baby's apparently inherited Jesse's lungs, too.
"I like Kate," John says, "but Jesse's holding out for Rivera or Paloma."
Michelle looks at him. "Please tell me you're fucking kidding," she says.
John shakes his head. "The current frontrunner is Lauderdale."
"Lauderdale Nolan-Lacey," Michelle says in disbelief. "I don't know what shit they gave him at the hospital, but it's high-grade." She glances at Jesse, who's sitting on the sofa; he's been stationed there for three days now, wincing every time he moves. It looks uncomfortable as hell, but Dr. Crane swore that as long as there isn't any bleeding or signs of infection around the incision, he's fine to stay outpatient. "You hear that, Lacey? You are not naming my niece after a town in goddamn fucking Florida, of all places."
"Miami," Jesse says thoughtfully. "No, wait, Tampa."
"I'm going to change her," Michelle tells John. "Try not to let him near any atlases while I'm gone." She takes the baby out of the room, cooing as she goes. It's really fucking weird to hear out of Michelle, but John's hardly surprised anymore. This whole thing has been weird. At least Dr. Crane isn't going to write a paper; John had talked her out of that one.
Jesse rolls his head to look at John. "So when are you going to make an honest woman out of me, Nolan?"
John just looks at him. "What?"
"I'm not going to be a single parent," Jesse snorts. "Too much work. It might be too much work for me with another person, but I'd rather not try it alone. And I'd rather try it with you than anyone else. So."
John perches on the arm of the sofa. "Did you just propose to me, in your own Lacey-esque, half-assed way?"
"I'm not proposing marriage." Jesse looks irritated. "We're guys. Guys can't get married. I'm proposing you shack up with me and raise our miracle baby together."
John clasps his hands and simpers. "Just like out of a novel!" he gasps. "Except you don't own a ranch, and I'm not a spinster."
"By 'spinster', do you mean 'unmarried person who might die alone if he's not careful'?"
John kicks him in the leg.
"Okay," John says. Before Jesse can making baby noises or call him a pussy, he adds, "But you're teaching her to drive when she turns 16, and we're meeting the boys she brings home before she's allowed to go out with them."
"Not a bad deal." Jesse shrugs and leans against him a fraction. "Just think: right now, you could be stuck in a meeting with a wedding planner named Doris, deciding between rubbery chicken and bad salmon for the reception. You know, to whatshername. Your merch girl."
John cranes his neck and tries to look in the kitchen. Michelle is talking to someone -- probably her husband -- on the phone, tiny Lacey-Nolan in her arms. He's on his sofa with a stitched-up, cranky Jesse Lacey, who (John suspects) has spent the better part of nine months crafting awkward metaphors for male pregnancy that may or may not have to do with Jesus in some way.
"Yeah," he finally says, and smiles. "This is better."
*
dear internet: if you're going to write mpreg, please don't involve things like "delivering the baby via your asshole". because in addition to being wrong -- which is kind of moot, because MPREG -- it's. your asshole is not meant to deliver children the same way the vagina is. it's science, kids! and by "science", i mean "please don't be like that juc story i read where the civil war was still going on in present day and biological warfare had wiped out all the women, so men have been genetically modified to have babies, and did i mention the phrase 'teen breeder' was used? more than once?" also, jesse lacey, babymomma? COMEDY GOLD.
this was originally bunnied/co-written with callsigns; all credit for the good bits belongs to her. title taken from deb talan, “a kinder columbus”.