niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick
Jack didn't need twenty-first century pregnancy tests to tell that cells were multiplying somewhere in his guts, behind appendix and underneath the lungs, swimming between slick strands of muscle. He and Ianto had got off condoms and on bareback, and Ianto had quipped about pregnancies and babies as he'd taken him from behind, his idea of dirty talk.
"Fuck me. Harder!"
"Fucking you so hard you'll pop out twins," Ianto groaned, and Jack managed to look quizzical and what-the-fuck until Ianto reached for his cock.
Ianto's come had stayed safely in Jack's ass and he'd squeezed what hadn't trickled out into the toilet bowl later. Sperm didn't travel along membranes, sink through and find its way between intestines to make life in magical ways. Pregnancy wasn't metaphysical. It didn't travel on empath waves between brain and brain.
Jack scooped the semen from the toilet bowl with a ladle and injected it into his BreedPouch v1.5 (TM). He tried to be sanitary about it and no infection proved he had been. He didn't actually have an explanation for anything. It wasn't as if he'd be able to look at Ianto and say, 'It followed me home,' or 'Maybe we should have used better condoms'. This was premeditated, as surely as he'd poked holes in a raincoat (Lucia) or taken antibiotics whilst on the pill (Carin). Though when he'd asked Carin and Lucia why they'd done it, they'd just sort of narrowed their eyes and tilted their heads.
He waited the prerequisite two months to see if it would take hold (Mum had always said it was bad luck to talk about it until you were sure, and he's had three pouch aborts, god knows why. One of them was John's. Enough said there), and when he woke up in the dark in the middle of the night on a Tuesday and realised that he wanted to boot quite badly despite that there was nothing in his stomach, he ran for the toilet and it occurred to him that this was the sign he'd been waiting for. Somewhere in his head he'd imagined a sweeping moment like that scene where the angel appeared to Mary in the Bible, but alas, the advent of the Jones child was signaled with a mass of yellow stomach acids swirling in the bowl that once held half of hir genetic code.
"Rejoice," Jack muttered as he spit into the water.
Of course, he hadn't imagined how the whole thing would play out to Ianto, so he waited until there was a moment. Not a good moment, or a shite moment, just a moment in which they were on the verge of doing nothing, and then he spilled it.
Ianto was smart enough not to laugh and think it was a joke. In his imagination, Jack gave himself wings. LO! A child is conceived from your spunk! In his head, he made himself Mary (of course. He looked good in blue) and Ianto into Joseph, but with a hockey stick instead of that useless staff.
It would be easy to get sheep for the manger; they were in Wales.
This was all looking up. Except--
"So," Ianto said slowly, hands in his lap, fingers limp. "You did it on purpose." He opened and closed his mouth. Furrowed his brow. Stared at Jack's flat belly. "Why would you do that?"
Jack could feel his eyes narrow as he tilted his head.
We were awesome. We still are.