[Gundam 00] Unity
Title: Unity
Fandom: Gundam 00
Pairing: Allelujah/Marie
Rating: Light NC-17
Wordcount: 914
Notes: Written for the kinkmeme. Prompt was "sex while Marie is pregnant with Allelujah's child."
Summary: Starting a family is something foreign to Allelujah and Marie, but they'll try anyway.
Marie knows before she shows, of course. She can sense, the first time her cycle is off, that it's more than an aberration. It's all right: she welcomes the new life in her. She and Allelujah have decided that it's time, although she suspects he's not as ready as he says he is. He hesitated when they made the decision to try to conceive; she could tell that though he wanted this as much as she did, he was also scared. She could think of only one way to reassure him then, and that was to do it.
But she does not tell him yet. There is still too much reason to fear. Instead, she waits as she feels the new life coalesce inside her. In its own way, the child will be like them, she knows. Six weeks have passed, and she can feel the first fumbling staccato beats not of her child's heart, as would be normal given sophisticated and sensitive enough instruments, but of the quantum brain waves her child will one day control. They are still irregular, raw, undifferentiated in the most primitive way. All she can feel from them is life, and that only in short bursts.
A bare handful of weeks later, the rhythm settles. It is still raw and primitive, but it is constant. It's like sensing the quantum brain waves of the world itself. Not the people on it: just the world. She can no longer keep quiet, and she knows she shouldn't. She must share the joy.
Allelujah is as frightened as she expected. "You'll have to be very careful, Marie," he says. "There are so many things that could go wrong." He has all her trips into space for the next seven months canceled. She allows it, because she was going to do the same thing. They settle and prepare, as the child's precursor to a brain settled and prepared at the edge of Marie's awareness.
But still he hides from her, in some ways. He is too afraid of hurting her, too afraid she will be hurt by some nameless source and it will be his fault the same as if something within him has done it--as he always has been. The time of fighting her still lies heavy on him, and the child's presence magnifies it like a lens. He touches her, but too hesitantly. She knows he will be quick to catch her if she falls, but she will not fall. She still wants him with her, beside her, inside her, as she always has. It is the same thing, growing and changing only as she has grown and changed, no more and no less. It is the same for him, but though he has learned over the time they've had together, in some ways he still resists it.
It has been four months, and for the first time, Marie can feel the quantum waves in her child's brain reach out to her questingly instead of merely resting in a soft and reassuring hum. Something in her snaps. Allelujah is a distant protective figure now. They speak only of how to protect her and the child. They have not made love for weeks and weeks now. Marie feels Soma's anger at his reticence stir within her, and she calls on it.
Tonight, she demands he come to her. "Allelujah, I miss how it feels to lie with you," she says. "I've waited enough."
"I'll lie with you, Marie," he says. "But we can't do anything that would risk the baby."
She lets the anger lapse and smiles at him instead. "You're being silly," she says. "Making love won't risk anything."
All the same, he is so gentle when they hold each other that night. He enters her slowly, more hesitant than usual, and he presses rather than thrusts. He murmurs her name as he always does, but softer this time, as if he is afraid that even his voice could do harm to the life inside her.
She counters his hesitance with her own exuberance. "Allelujah, Allelujah," she cries out, as loud as ever. No, louder. She needs to make up for his quiet. "I'm still thankful. I'm still grateful. More than ever. Allelujah!"
He stays gentle, but he is, perhaps, a little less hesitant. "I am, too, Marie," he says against the side of her face. "For you, and for the child."
"I am grateful for us," she says. She stills him as he trembles and moans against her. "Listen." And at the one moment she always can for sure, she opens his mind--
--to the new and yearning waves that reach out from the life within her. They touch him, Marie knows, like the softest possible down.
"They're so different," he whispers. "Marie, what is this?"
"Our child is unbroken," she says. Marie says this, but Soma says it as well, for in that moment they remember a time when they were one. For them, for Allelujah and Hallelujah as well, it will never come again, not entirely. But for someone else... "Our child isn't like us. Our child is one whole being."
He clings to her in gratitude, and for a little while, even knowing that perhaps she shouldn't (as once he should not have shielded her), she shields him from any other thoughts of what may become of this child. All he needs to know for now is that the new life they've made is whole.
Fandom: Gundam 00
Pairing: Allelujah/Marie
Rating: Light NC-17
Wordcount: 914
Notes: Written for the kinkmeme. Prompt was "sex while Marie is pregnant with Allelujah's child."
Summary: Starting a family is something foreign to Allelujah and Marie, but they'll try anyway.
Marie knows before she shows, of course. She can sense, the first time her cycle is off, that it's more than an aberration. It's all right: she welcomes the new life in her. She and Allelujah have decided that it's time, although she suspects he's not as ready as he says he is. He hesitated when they made the decision to try to conceive; she could tell that though he wanted this as much as she did, he was also scared. She could think of only one way to reassure him then, and that was to do it.
But she does not tell him yet. There is still too much reason to fear. Instead, she waits as she feels the new life coalesce inside her. In its own way, the child will be like them, she knows. Six weeks have passed, and she can feel the first fumbling staccato beats not of her child's heart, as would be normal given sophisticated and sensitive enough instruments, but of the quantum brain waves her child will one day control. They are still irregular, raw, undifferentiated in the most primitive way. All she can feel from them is life, and that only in short bursts.
A bare handful of weeks later, the rhythm settles. It is still raw and primitive, but it is constant. It's like sensing the quantum brain waves of the world itself. Not the people on it: just the world. She can no longer keep quiet, and she knows she shouldn't. She must share the joy.
Allelujah is as frightened as she expected. "You'll have to be very careful, Marie," he says. "There are so many things that could go wrong." He has all her trips into space for the next seven months canceled. She allows it, because she was going to do the same thing. They settle and prepare, as the child's precursor to a brain settled and prepared at the edge of Marie's awareness.
But still he hides from her, in some ways. He is too afraid of hurting her, too afraid she will be hurt by some nameless source and it will be his fault the same as if something within him has done it--as he always has been. The time of fighting her still lies heavy on him, and the child's presence magnifies it like a lens. He touches her, but too hesitantly. She knows he will be quick to catch her if she falls, but she will not fall. She still wants him with her, beside her, inside her, as she always has. It is the same thing, growing and changing only as she has grown and changed, no more and no less. It is the same for him, but though he has learned over the time they've had together, in some ways he still resists it.
It has been four months, and for the first time, Marie can feel the quantum waves in her child's brain reach out to her questingly instead of merely resting in a soft and reassuring hum. Something in her snaps. Allelujah is a distant protective figure now. They speak only of how to protect her and the child. They have not made love for weeks and weeks now. Marie feels Soma's anger at his reticence stir within her, and she calls on it.
Tonight, she demands he come to her. "Allelujah, I miss how it feels to lie with you," she says. "I've waited enough."
"I'll lie with you, Marie," he says. "But we can't do anything that would risk the baby."
She lets the anger lapse and smiles at him instead. "You're being silly," she says. "Making love won't risk anything."
All the same, he is so gentle when they hold each other that night. He enters her slowly, more hesitant than usual, and he presses rather than thrusts. He murmurs her name as he always does, but softer this time, as if he is afraid that even his voice could do harm to the life inside her.
She counters his hesitance with her own exuberance. "Allelujah, Allelujah," she cries out, as loud as ever. No, louder. She needs to make up for his quiet. "I'm still thankful. I'm still grateful. More than ever. Allelujah!"
He stays gentle, but he is, perhaps, a little less hesitant. "I am, too, Marie," he says against the side of her face. "For you, and for the child."
"I am grateful for us," she says. She stills him as he trembles and moans against her. "Listen." And at the one moment she always can for sure, she opens his mind--
--to the new and yearning waves that reach out from the life within her. They touch him, Marie knows, like the softest possible down.
"They're so different," he whispers. "Marie, what is this?"
"Our child is unbroken," she says. Marie says this, but Soma says it as well, for in that moment they remember a time when they were one. For them, for Allelujah and Hallelujah as well, it will never come again, not entirely. But for someone else... "Our child isn't like us. Our child is one whole being."
He clings to her in gratitude, and for a little while, even knowing that perhaps she shouldn't (as once he should not have shielded her), she shields him from any other thoughts of what may become of this child. All he needs to know for now is that the new life they've made is whole.