[fic] Family
Title: Family
Author: creepy_crawly
Rating: Uh…PG-13?
Characters/Pairings: St John “Pyro” Allerdyce/Bobby “Iceman” Drake
Warnings: Slash. Boy-touching. like that will scare you away… Mentions of medical experimentation. …mpreg…
Disclaimer: Haha. No, really, I am Stan Lee. See all my pretty purple squirrels?
Summary: 15 months after being arrested for his actions, St John Allerdyce is about to become a very important medical landmark.
When we finally find Johnny, he’s been in a lab for a little over a year. Hank says that that’s the way the bureaucracy works. They pick up the criminals, and the mutant ones disappear, unless someone keeps looking for them, like Kitty and Scott and Jean and the Professor and I did. And in the meantime, they experiment on them.
He’s more than a little angry as he shows me how to make sure none of the needles in Johnny’s arms get pulled out. I’m the only one who can touch him, Jean explains. He’s normally warm to the touch to normal people, but right now, his metabolism is so fast, he’s down right hot. She helps lift him with her mind while I keep a cool hand on his forehead, and make sure all the tubes are still in place.
I try to ignore the large bump on his stomach. If it weren’t for the fact that he’s a guy (which is quite obvious, as he’s nude), I’d almost say he looked like a pregnant woman. But the bump is higher on his chest-it starts just under his pecs. Jean says it’s probably a growth of some sort. Hank gathers up his file, saying he’ll read it in the jet.
Carefully, we move him into the jet. Hank and I strap him into place, and then Scott starts take-off procedure. Storm comes back to sit with us, and her eyes go wide as she sees Johnny’s unconscious form. She lays a light hand on his stomach, wincing slightly with the heat. Then she turns to Jean.
“How-?”
Jean blinks. “Hank’s got his file,” she murmurs. “They were experimenting.”
Storm says something I don’t understand. I get the feeling that it’s a good thing that I don’t understand-it can’t be very nice. We all know how she feels about humans experimenting on mutants. And she’s always like Johnny. He was a good student, she says, if a little angry and scared.
“Oh, my stars and garters!” Hank breathes. Quickly, he stands up and hands Jean what he’s looking at. “That’s not a tumour, Jean.”
“Christ!” she breathes. Rushing to her own feet, she looks to where the bump seems to move under Storm’s hand. “Bobby, can you put a thin layer of ice on my hands?”
“Mine, too,” Storm murmurs.
They hold their hands out to me, and I carefully coat them in a thin layer of ice. Carefully, Jean places her hands on Johnny’s stomach. They leave a trail of water as they move, the ice melting from her skin. Her eyes go wide and she pales as the bump seems to push back at her hands.
Just as quickly as she stood up, she sits back down next to Hank. She flips through the large folder in his hands, muttering to herself under her breath.
“Dr Grey,” I ask, confused. “What’s wrong with him?”
Storm sits heavily next to me. “May I tell him, Jean?”
She nods, still poring over the thick stack of papers.
“Bobby,” Storm sighs. “St John’s…pregnant.”
I stare at her, dumbfounded, for a moment. Then I laugh. “That’s impossible, Ms Monroe,” I laugh. “Johnny’s a guy!”
“He’s actually a hermaphrodite,” Hank says, handing the file folder to Jean. “We’ve know that for a while. But his female system-his ovaries, uterus, and all of that-were underdeveloped, defunct. Whatever they did, Bobby, they did to try and reactivate that system. Unfortunately, they were successful in jump-starting his female reproductive system.”
He hands me a piece of paper. Shocked, I read it.
‘Subject P complains of tightness in the abdomen. Blood tests prove the presence of progesterone and oestrogen-which has been abnormally high in Subject P since the successful activation of female organs-have dropped once more. In a woman, this level would not be abnormal for two weeks prior to menstruation. In Subject P, this is an abnormally low level. It is expected that Subject P will experience menstruation within the week, thereby confirming fertility.’
“And he did,” Hank sighs as I hand the paper back to him. “So they impregnated him.” He looked to Jean. “I’ll run this second code through the system, see what I can find. I’ll see if we can put a name on that sperm sample.”
Uncomfortable, I turn back to where Johnny’s laying, breathing slowly, all but radiating heat. I keep my eyes on him as Jean wanders up to join Scott, calling the Professor on the com-link and requesting that he get the students out of the way. When we land, she says, we’ll rush him downstairs to the most secure of the medical labs. She’ll check him out, see how he’s doing. Hank says he’ll get in touch with some doctors who can be discreet.
----____----____----____----____----
Even when I’m conscious again, Dr Grey and Dr McCoy keep me downstairs, in the medlab. Dr Grey explains that I’m on bedrest, because I’m rather on the petite side, and this is “such an abnormal first pregnancy and all”. If her eyes didn’t dance quite so much when she’s teasing me, I might take offence.
It’s weird to see her alive again. In fact, it’s weird to see her and the Professor and Mr Summers alive again. But I don’t complain. They’re housing me, and feeding me, and keeping me clothed. And they don’t do strange things to me.
Compared to where I was, I rather like it here.
“Just a little bit longer,” Dr Grey says to me, using that comforting tone most people use on skittish animals. She smears the clear jelly on the ever-more shocking swell of my belly, getting the machinery ready with one hand. “I know you’re getting sick of this, but, let’s face it. This is probably the only chance I’m going to get to see something like this.”
I shoot her a look. “I am not having more children so that you can poke and prod,” I inform her archly. I might be more receptive to teasing, but I’m in the midst of what Ms Monroe says is the worst of the mood-swing stages. That, and I have to piss. You have to have a full bladder-a very full bladder-to get the ultrasound done to its best quality, and the damn baby seems to think that my bladder is its punching doll.
“Ooh, someone’s in a bad mood,” she laughs, not put out in the slightest. “Well, if it helps any, you’re almost done. According to the file, you’re a little over thirty-one weeks along right now. In a normal, standard pregnancy, that would mean nine more weeks. In your case, we’re looking at something more along the lines of six or seven more weeks.”
“Oh, joy, more almost two months,” I snarl, flopping back in the bed. “I’m so fucking hot!”
“I can get Bobby to come down here more frequently,” Dr Grey murmurs, her eyes focused on the ultrasound. “Most women don’t get that, you know. But I see no reason he can’t help out right now.” She smiles at me. “By the way, Hank found your AP scores online. You did really well, St John. I’m proud of you.”
I snort in disgust. “What, you think Magneto or the US government would let my education fall through the cracks? Ha.”
Dr Grey snorts as well. “Well, someone let their education fall through,” she growls under her breath, and I know she’s talking about the researchers. “Honestly. You were all of seventeen and a half when they started this.”
“It could have been worse,” I mutter. I try not to think of some of the things I saw going on in the same labs in which they kept me.
She snorts, but keeps quiet on the labs. “So,” she continues, changing the subject, “how have you been sleeping? I heard you moving around last night…and the night before that…”
I grin somewhat guiltily. I know I’ve been keeping her awake, but I can’t help it. I’ve been feeling like I need to be in a constant state of motion recently, but I’m not allowed out of bed except for things like going to the bathroom and standing up so they can do random things.
“I had to go to the bathroom,” I tell her.
“Not unusual,” Dr Grey murmurs. “Have you been having nightmares? Vivid dreams?”
I nod. When I can sleep, I’ve been having dreams so real I almost think that this is the dream.
“Again, that’s to be expected,” she sighs. “And you’re probably uncomfortable, too. I remember when I was pregnant…” she trails off as I stare at her, shocked. “Oh, but you didn’t know about that,” she adds, smiling sadly. “I didn’t even get as far as you have, but I got far enough to know what it’s like with way too much in the middle.” She places a comforting hand on my hip. “Have you tried pillows, like I suggested?”
“I tried, but it’s just not working,” I complain, filing her revelation away for perusal at a later time. “I feel…twitchy.”
She laughs. “That, St John, is what we call ADD.” She grins at my scowl. “Still, a lot of women do say that they feel “twitchy”. I’ll see what I can do, maybe see if I can get my hands on a maternity pillow. In the meantime, though, would you like to see your baby?”
“May I?” I ask, almost afraid. What if the baby isn’t normal? We still don’t know whose sperm they used to father my child. For all we know, it could be abnormal, malformed-inhuman.
“Of course,” Dr Grey says, smiling softly. “St John, if something was wrong, we would have told you before now.” Carefully, she turns the monitor so that I can see. “There you go. You can see two feet…oh, look, she’s turning.”
“I can tell,” I grumble, feeling the baby moving about. I’ve known for some time that it was a girl, but have yet to decide on a name. For the next while, she’s just Baby.
Dr Grey smiles at me, as if she sees through my bravado. “Looks like she wants to say hi to her daddy.”
Sure enough, I can make out a face and a hand. She scrunches up her face slightly, then pushes against my stomach. I can see my skin ripple slightly out of the corner of my eye.
“Somebody’s feisty,” she chuckles, watching me watch the monitor. “She’s going to be a little fighter, St John. You’ll have your hands full with her.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, staring at the screen.
----____----____----____----____----
When I come in, Jean is changing the sheets on the bed that Johnny’s been sleeping in. I wave at her, and she waves back.
“St John’ll be back in a second,” she tells me. “Why don’t you help me out? I’ve got something to propose to you.”
I help her start tugging a clean sheet over the bed. “What do you need?”
She smiles at me. “St John’s getting hot, so I was wondered if you would be willing to do some of your classwork down here so you can keep the temperature down.”
“No problem,” I say, adjusting the top sheet. “If he wants me here.”
“If you can keep me from roasting alive,” Johnny says from behind me, “I’ll tie you here.”
“That answers that,” I grin, turning and leaning against the bed as I smile at him. He looks better than when we first brought him in, though he doesn’t agree with me. He’s gained a lot of weight-Jean and Hank were adamant that he was too thin. His skin has its colour back, and he doesn’t seem to be in as much pain.
“Back in bed, St John,” Jean says, patting the bed, not batting an eyelash at the way Johnny and I scope each other out. I have no doubt that she knows we’re together-I’m fairly certain that she knew the first time, too-even though we don’t do anything in front of her.
“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” Johnny says sarcastically. I help him into bed, and Jean teasingly tucks him in before slipping out the door. I pull up a stool, and begin weaving a net of cooler air around Johnny’s pregnant body. He sighs happily, reaching up to grab my hand and place it on his forehead.
“Feel better?” I ask, smiling softly.
“You have no idea,” he says, impassioned. Tugging my hand down, he presses a kiss to my palm. “How was your day?”
“Long,” I tell him. “Boring. Yours?”
“I’ve been stuck in bed except to take a piss,” he answers. “What do you think?” He twists and turns for a moment, then finally settles, a pillow under his stomach and a pillow between his knees. “I got to see Baby, though.”
“Did you?” I ask, carefully weaving the cooler air currents in the room to wrap around him. “Is she cute?”
“Not really,” he answers. “She looks like a little baby-they’re not really cute for a while, I guess. But she looks human.”
“That’s good,” I whisper. I know how worried Johnny’s been. He’s been terrified, really. Leaning over, I kiss his forehead, leaving a frosty imprint behind for a few seconds before it melts.
“You’re not getting away with just that,” he purrs, tugging me in closer. He kisses me hungrily, tongue darting along my lips. I eagerly let him in, loving the feel of his hot tongue against my own, cooler one. Everyone else has complained about my mouth being cold, but not Johnny. He’s never had a problem with it.
Thank god. I could make out with him for hours.
…and I have.
Johnny winces suddenly, breaking the kiss.
“Johnny? What’s wrong?” I ask. Worried, I brush a hand through his bangs.
“Baby’s kicking the shit out of my intestines,” he grunts, one hand on his swollen belly.
I put mine next to his. Even knowing that it’s not the most fun thing for him, I love it when Baby’s moving around. I’ve known since I was twelve that I am gay, and so early on, I ruled out every having children. Even though Baby’s not mine, Johnny’s going to need help, and I feel kind of like she’s mine, because I’m getting to experience everything. When Ronnie was born, it was nothing like this.
With Baby, I feel like I’m actually a part of this.
“She likes you,” Johnny whispers suddenly, watching his stomach ripple slightly. “Punching is how she says, “hi”. I think she thinks she’s gangsta.”
I grin at him. “Maybe you should name her Shanaenae, then,” I tease, leaning in and kissing him warmly. He threads his arms about me, pulling me closer and deepening the kiss. For a long time, the only thing that exists for me is the heat of his lips, and the warmth of his hand on my back.
When we break the kiss, he smirks up at me, lips swollen and dark. “Check this out,” he breathes, then kisses me, hard, sucking in my surprised breath. Breaking away, he breathes out, slowly. A foggy cloud escapes, and he grins.
“Loser,” I tease him.
He sticks his tongue out. “For reference, no child of mine is being named Shanaenae.”
“What have you been thinking, then?” I ask. “I mean, we can’t call her Baby for her whole life…”
He frowns. “I was thinking naming her Sarah,” he admits. “Or maybe Nessa.”
“Nessa?” I ask, confused.
Johnny smirks up at me. “Hebrew,” he explains. “Means…” he yawns, “miracle. And you have to admit, she is kind of miraculous.”
“She is that,” I answer, gently rubbing his shoulder. I pause for a moment, thinking. “Hey, Johnny?”
“Yeah?” he asks, eyes fluttering as he swallows another yawn.
“Being Jewish…that passes through the mother, right?”
He nods, head on his pillow.
“So…since you’re Baby’s mother…does that mean she’s Jewish?”
His eyes flutter open. “Christ,” he groans. “What’s the betting I can get a laptop in here?”
“What for?” I ask, ignoring his use of profanity. Johnny and I long ago came to an agreement-I don’t rag him about using the name of one of my holy figures as a curse, he doesn’t tell anyone that I lost my virginity to the next-door-neighbour when I was twelve.
…my male next-door-neighbour.
“I need to email Mrs Pryde,” he sighs, reaching up and rubbing his eyes. “She can ask Rabbi Rayow.”
“Kitty’s mum?” I ask, surprised. “You know Kitty’s mum?”
“Leah? Yeah, I know her,” he answers. He grins slightly. “She thinks I’ll convince Kitty to learn Yiddish. Anyway, she’s discreet. I need her to ask Rabbi Rayow for me. He’s fairly on the “open to anything” side-he’s the one who published the article saying that mutants are still people, and that we should be allowed to become rabbis, too. He says it’s part of Tikun Olam.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I promise him. “Now, go to sleep.”
“Yessir,” he slurs, closing his eyes.
Johnny’s asleep in seconds.
----____----____----____----____----
Mrs Pryde comes by almost as soon as I email her. Jean brings her downstairs, to where I am, where I am immediately covered in 5’3” of excited mother. Leah Pryde has considered me as one of her own children for years now, ever since she came to pick up Kitty for synagogue for Rosh Hoshanah, and saw me in my kippah. Every year since that until I left with Magneto, I have celebrated the holy days with the Prydes.
“St John,” she breathes, stepping back and looking at me. “Oh, child…shalom aleycham.”
“Aleycham shalom,” I answer, smiling back at her. As Dr Grey stands in the corner, watching in unabashed amusement, we slip into the fast, dirty flow of Yiddish.
»How are you?«
»I’ve been better,« I answer. »You got my question?«
She nods. »I called Rabbi Rayow that night, too. He says he’s fairly certain you are the only person this question will come up for, but he’s doing some reading and poking around. We’ll have an answer for you before the little one is born, I promise.« Perching on the edge of the bed, she rests her hands on my stomach.
Baby chooses that moment to kick.
Leah laughs. »She likes to say hello?«
I nod, wincing slightly. »Leah, out of curiosity-I know I’m in an awkward position regarding halacha…is there anything I have to observe, considering the fact that I’m pregnant?«
She giggles slightly. »You mean, are you going to be considered yoledet?«
»Exactly.«
»Let me ask you a question. How orthodox was your family?« she asks, face serious.
»My mother observed niddah status,« I answer, searching my memory. »But my family…we tended to follow my father’s ways.«
She raises an eyebrow at me.
I smirk, and clarify. »Of the 613 mitzvot, I think he followed only those enumerated under Leviticus 18. And only because he never got the opportunity.«
»Reform, then,« she says lightly, hiding a laugh behind her hand. »In that instance, I’d say you’re fine. You’re not married, anyway. But if your mother followed niddah…« She frowns. »You may wish, merely to feel clean in spirit, to observe yoledet status. You’re having a baby girl?«
I nod again.
»Then just know you’ll have to wait fourteen days, not twelve.« She smiles at me. »In all honesty, though, if you’re Reform it shouldn’t even come into question. Now, you’re going to have to plan Simchat Bat,« she sighs.
I sigh heavily, closing my eyes. »As if there weren’t enough to do already…«
»You know, dear, I could help you,« she murmurs. »I mean, I’m not trying to replace your own mother or anything, but I’d like to think that if I were no longer here, someone would help Kitty with all of this.«
I smile at her. »Would you?«
»Of course,« she answers. “Now, do you want me to call Rabbi Rayow and warn him?”
I nod. “That would be lovely, yes.”
“Do you know what you’re going to name her?” she asks me.
Dr Grey, I notice, is paying more attention now that we’re speaking English again. I close my eyes and think. “I’m not sure, not yet. I was thinking Sarah or Nessa.”
“Lovely names,” she says, beaming. “What was your mother’s Hebrew name? You’re going to need to give her a Hebrew name, you know.”
“My mother? Let me think…she was…Sara in English, and…” I frown, concentrating. “Sarah. Her Hebrew name was Sarah.”
“That’s perfect, then, if you’re naming her for your mother, and quite convenient, too,” Leah says. “I named Kitty for my grandmother.” With the soft smile I’m coming to associate with women staring at my belly these days, she leans forward and kisses my forehead. “You will, of course, bring her to synagogue? And celebrate the holy days? And keep Shabbat?”
I nod. “Everything I do now, I will do for her,” I promise. Unconsciously, I begin to stroke the curve of my stomach, soothing the calming-down Baby.
Leah smiles.
----____----____----____----____----
“And then Mother was here,” Kitty says in disgust, rolling her eyes. “She’s up to something, I swear. I haven’t seen this much of a flourish of Jewish activity since my grandmother was dying.”
I blink. “What?”
“My mum,” she repeats. “She’s been here twice in three days. And the other day, when I was on phone duty, Rabbi Rayow-he’s the rabbi close to here-called and asked to speak to Xavier. And Mother emailed me and said that Rabbi Rayow will be visiting this coming Shabbat, and she hoped I’d do the proper thing and join them for services.” She frowns. “Honestly. The only other practising Jew here is John. And he’s still down in the…” she trails off, eyes wide.
“Kitty?” I ask.
“Bobby, what if John’s sick, and that’s why Mother and Rabbi Rayow are suddenly coming here?” she demands.
My eyes, too, go wide. Not even bothering to excuse myself, I go tearing downstairs. I race into the medlab, where Johnny is curled around a long, fluffy blue pillow, fast asleep.
“Johnny!” I hiss, shaking his shoulder lightly. “Johnny!”
He wakes up slowly. “Bobby? Wha’?”
“Are you sick?” I demand. “Please, tell me you’re not…”
“What?” he asks, looking at me. “No, Bobby, other than the fact that I’m eight months pregnant, I’m fine. Why?” He reaches up and strokes the side of my face.
“Kitty,” I murmur, leaning in to his comforting touch. “She says her mother and the rabbi have been coming here…she said the only time she saw them like this was when her grandmother was sick…”
Johnny laughs quietly. “Oh, Bobby, it’s nothing like that. If I were female, or if Kitty knew that I was pregnant…she’d recognise that we’re just getting ready for Baby to be born.” He slips a hand around my neck and tugs me down to his level, kissing me deeply. “Don’t worry, Bobby,” he whispers, lips still against mine. “Baby and I are fine.”
“I’m holding you to that, you know,” I whisper before kissing him again.
We kiss lazily for a long time. I can feel the tension of the past few days passing from his muscles as he relaxes under my touch, giving in to me being there. I know that beneath his warm hands, my cold shoulders are relaxing bit by bit, my skin slowly warming to be closer to normal courtesy of his current superheated state.
It’s times like this when I’m happiest.
----____----____----____----____----
I’ve been getting Braxton-Hicks contractions for a while now, which Dr Grey told me not to worry about. So I don’t, and instead focus on going about my life as best I can. I’ve recently been granted permission to move about the medlab to do minor things, like check my email, because Dr Grey and Dr McCoy feel confident that Baby has finally settled down some. And besides, I’m only at the thirty-third week.
So I don’t think much of the tight pains until I’m hit by one strong enough to make me literally fall over.
----____----____----____----____----
Jean’s pager goes off in the middle of class, and that’s when I know something’s wrong. She’s had it on whenever she’s not in the medlab, so that Hank can get her if he needs to. She looks away from the whiteboard, peering down at it, and her face goes whiter than the board itself.
“Bobby,” she says tightly, nodding towards the door. “Meet Dr McCoy downstairs, now. Kitty, please go call your mother and tell her it’s started.” Her eyes go slightly hazy as she ushers me out the door, a sure sign that she’s in mental contact with the Professor.
The instant she’s focussed again, still ushering me down the hall, I turn to her. “Jean, what’s wrong? It’s Johnny, isn’t it? Is he okay?”
“Right now he is,” she says, shoving me into the elevator. “He’s just hurting a lot.”
“What happened?” I demand.
“He went into labour,” she admits, sighing as she reaches up and pulls her hair into a bun. “We weren’t expecting that for at least five more weeks. Hank says his temperature just went through the roof. He can’t even get close to him, and we need to get an epidural in, at the least.”
“Oh,” I say quietly. “So I’m the AC?”
She nods. “And you’re going to be the AC for the next while. I can’t risk knocking St John out right now, and his internal temperature is a good ten degrees Celsius hotter than his skin temperature.”
I wince. Johnny-type heat is not something to be joked about.
We race into the medlab, and I am hit by an immediate wave of heat, like stepping into an oven. For me to feel a temperature, it has to be incredibly high. I look at Jean, and immediately begin chilling the room as quickly as I can.
“Try and cool St John down some, Bobby!” Hank calls to me, already conferring with Jean about how they’re going to do whatever it is they’re going to do.
I walk over to where Johnny lays, one hand curled weakly around his stomach. He seems to be in a lot of pain, but he isn’t sweating at all. Then again, Johnny can’t sweat, at least not the same way most people do. He doesn’t need to, usually. But right now, he really does need his temperature lowered. Placing a hand on his forehead, I send a sheet of ice down his naked body.
Heaving a deep sigh, Johnny shivers slightly. “Thanks, Bobby,” he tells me, voice somewhat rough.
“Any time, baby, any time,” I whisper. Leaning over, I kiss him chastely, more comfort than flirt. Screw being seen by Jean or Hank. Johnny is a very physical person, much like Remy. Though his powers don’t make it quite as necessary, Johnny still needs a lot of physical reassurance. “How are you doing?”
“Not too good,” he admits, smiling bitterly. “It’s a good thing I’m not Orthodox.”
“Why’s that?” I ask, trying to distract him from the discomfort.
“Because…” he begins. Suddenly, he cries out, his entire body tensing as he curls around his swollen belly. His one arm clamps tightly around it, the other reaching out to hold my hand. When he squeezes it, I swear I can feel bones grating together.
Jean and Hank don’t do much, just watch the monitors and scrawl things on papers. Jean murmurs something to Hank, who responds by showing her a sheaf of paper. In moments, Johnny’s pain is forgotten by all but me and him.
He relaxes slowly after the pain passes, panting heavily. I brush his bangs out of his face, sitting on the edge of the bed so that he can lean back against me. He rolls slightly to do so, still holding my hand tightly. At this point, though, he’s using it more as an ice block than a ground, so I send another thin sheet of ice down his body.
“Thanks,” he breathes. “Needed that.”
“So I can feel,” I murmur. And I can. He’s physically hot to my touch, which means he has to be at least 102 degrees Celsius. “So…why are you glad you’re not Orthodox, huh?” I ask, trying to distract him again as I continue to sweep my icy hands down his body.
“Because if I were, first of all, I wouldn’t be allowed to have sex with you, and that would suck,” he laughs dryly. “Secondly, I wouldn’t be allowed to touch you right now.” Quietly, he tugs my hand up to cup his face, and then whispers, “and I want you here.”
“Then I’m here,” I whisper.
----____----____----____----____----
My world is nothing more than a constant blur of pain, a haze of too much heat and cramping, stabbing pains. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt hot, let alone too hot.
Bobby’s there, a cooling, soothing presence. He keeps his hands on my forehead, on my face, my shoulders, even as Dr Grey gets me positioned so that she can slide a needle into my back to start the epidural. Her hands are surprisingly cool, and I realise that Bobby’s icing her hands up so she can touch me without getting burned.
If I’m so warm that an adult can’t touch my skin, how is the baby, exposed to my internal temperatures and so sensitive to temperature, going to survive?
“St John! Calm down!” Dr McCoy says sharply. “You don’t need to panic. There’s nothing to panic about. You’re fine, I swear.”
“Baby…” I gasp. “Baby…hot…”
“She’s fine, Johnny,” Bobby whispers, leaning over and kissing my forehead, breathing ice across my body. It evaporates into steam the instant it touches my skin. “Baby’s fine, I promise.”
I squeeze his hand tightly as another contraction hits.
----____----____----____----____----
It takes no time at all for Jean and Hank to get pain medications running into Johnny’s body. He’s very much out of it, and Jean looks worried as she checks various monitors around his body. Even I know that this is much too early.
A pair of women comes rushing in through the doors. One I recognise as Kitty’s mother. The other is unfamiliar to me, though she hugs Hank and smiles at him. He leads her over to where he and Jean were discussing their plans, showing her what they’ve got worked out. She frowns for a moment, looking over the paper.
“Are we good, Mirele?” Jean asks, one hand resting on Johnny’s stomach.
The woman nods. “We should be good. I’ll just get washed up, then. You say there’s abnormal temperature?”
“St John’s a thermokinetic mutant,” Hank says, handing her a plastic bag that I recognise as sterile scrubs. “He’s been registering well above his baseline for most of the pregnancy, but he went hyperthermic when he went into labour.”
“This’ll be a new experience,” the woman laughs, disappearing into the office. “As for the orientation of the uterus…”
“Forward presentation,” Hank supplies. “He’s got two full sets. That’s why no one ever thought anything of it-he doesn’t have standard hermaphroditic presentation.”
The woman blinks, emerging from the office, hands held out in front of her. “Two testicles?”
“Fully descended,” Hank confirms. “And both ovaries in full, working order.”
“This is gonna be fun,” the woman says, grinning wickedly as she starts to wash her hands.
----____----____----____----____----
Bobby ices up Leah’s hands so that she can touch me. She holds one of my hands cradled in her own, and strokes my face with her free hand. She coos softly to me, singing an old Yiddish lullaby that my own mother used to sing quite frequently. I haven’t heard it since her death, and it does a lot to steady my mind.
“Just hang in there, St John,” she whispers.
I can feel dull pressure as the first incision is made. Rather than think about what Jean and this strange doctor are doing to me, I focus on Bobby and Leah.
----____----____----____----____----
Even though I’m only in the room so that I can keep it cool, I think Johnny feels better with me there. He keeps looking over at me, eyes hazy and just barely focussed. I sweep my hands over his skin, cooling him by direct contact even as I exude a general chill around the room.
On Johnny’s other side, Kitty’s mum is holding his hand and singing to him. I wonder briefly how her hands aren’t dreadfully painful right now-no one else can stand to touch Johnny very long without ice on their hands. Johnny chooses that moment to start whimpering again, though, and I’m distracted as I try to calm him down.
----____----____----____----____----
By the time I hear a baby wailing, I’m so far out of it, I barely remember my own name. Cool air keeps sweeping over my body, and I can feel my temperature falling for a few short moments. It rises again, though, and the cool air dances over me once more.
People are whispering around me, but I’m too tired to bother with it right now. Squeezing both hands holding mine, I let the darkness claim me.
----____----____----____----____----
“Well, he’ll be out of it a while yet, if this world has any mercy,” Jean mutters, focussing on where she’s stitching Johnny back together. The other woman is cradling Baby, cooing to her as she tries to calm her down. Hank stands beside her, grinning down at the tiny baby as he writes something down.
“How is she?” I ask, looking to where Hank is now wrapping Baby in a soft blanket.
“She’s a little cold,” he tells me, tucking the blanket around her. “Remember, she’s been used to St John’s internal temperature for the past nine months. Other than that, she’s just like any other preemie.” He looks over to the other woman. “Mirele, is the incubator ready?”
She nods firmly, and Hank carries Baby over to the large, grey-and-white plastic structure that appeared in the room earlier in the week. He lays Baby down inside it, then grabs a small plastic bag from a nearby cart. Opening it, he removes a tube and settles it around Baby’s face. As he starts taping it in place, Mirele hooks it up to a large machine that I hadn’t noticed earlier.
“CPAP in place,” she murmurs, standing up on tiptoe to flick on the light over the thing Baby’s lying in. “Warmer on.”
“Alright,” Hank murmurs. Carefully, he threads a tiny tube into Baby’s stomach, right where they cut her umbilical cord.
I don’t watch. I’m not sure I want to know what they’re doing to her, and it looks like it hurts.
“Hey there,” Mirele murmurs to Baby, calming her whimpering and thrashing. “We’re almost done, sweetheart. Then you can sleep, huh?”
“Umbilical catheter is in place,” Hank tells her, accompanied by the sound of tape tearing. “You want to start on the PAL? I’ll start monitoring oxygen and temperature.”
“Sure thing,” Mirele says, and I can hear her moving around.
I notice that Kitty’s mum is determinedly not looking over to where the two doctors are working on Baby. She smiles tightly at me, still holding Johnny’s hand.
“Hi, Bobby,” she says quietly.
“Hi, Mrs Pryde,” I answer. “Are your hands hurting? I can cool them…”
“I’m fine,” she tells me, pushing sweaty tendrils of Johnny’s hair off of his face. “Well, this’ll back things up a little.” Her half-smile is more sad than humorous, and I quietly look away.
“He’s fine, Bobby,” Jean whispers to me, pressing past to check on Johnny. “He’ll hurt for a little while, but he’ll be over it soon, I promise. He’s just tired.”
“What about Baby?” I ask, turning to look at her.
She sighs, not meeting my eyes.
I can feel worry rising higher in my throat. “Jean?”
“She…well, Bobby, she’s early, even for what we were expecting,” she tells me. “There’s a lot of complicated things involved in your first week of being alive, and she’s not completely ready for most of them.” Taking my hand, she gently pulls me over to where Hank and Mirele are still working.
She ties a new mask over her face, and then ties one over my nose and mouth. Handing me a pair of gloves, she snaps her own on and continues to explain.
“We’ve put her in something called an infant care bed, so we can do the stuff she can’t, or won’t. this,” she points up, “is to keep her warm. She’s not ready to handle her own body temperature yet, and she’s been used to St John’s. Compared to where she’s been, it’s downright cold out here.” Her eyes smile at me. “We’ll keep her a little warmer than most babies for a while, and then slowly walk her down to normal temperature. Babies don’t do any better at sudden changes than Scott does.”
I smile tightly beneath the mask.
“This is called an umbilical catheter,” she says, pointing to the teeny-tiny tube that has been taped down over the stump of Baby’s umbilical cord. “It’s to make sure she gets the right fluids and nutrients, and any medicines we need to give her. That,” and she points to the tube Mirele has put in Baby’s arm, taped down with a bright red sticker, “is called a peripheral arterial line-PAL. That way, we can draw blood if we need to. Also, if we need to get medicine to her faster, we’ll swap the PAL for a PIC line. That’s just like this, only it goes to her heart.”
“This,” Mirele murmurs, pointing to something next to her, “is for phototherapy. There’s a few things that her body is making that she can’t handle yet, so we use light to break it down for her.” She holds up something fuzzy and white. “Don’t worry, she gets these stylish sunglasses, too.” She winks at me.
Hank grins at her. “Alright, my turn, ladies? Okay, this, Bobby, is to measure her temperature. These,” and he points to three stickers and tubes, “measure everything that has anything to do with her circulation. This is the world’s tiniest blood pressure cuff, intended for preemies and Barbie dolls.” He smiles at me, and points to a brightly glowing something on Baby’s foot. “This is a pulse oximeter, which measures how much oxygen she’s got. That makes it so the machines know how much oxygen to give her with the CPAP tube.”
“That’s the Continuous Positive Airway Pressure tube,” Jean says helpfully. “It allows her to breath on her own, but keeps a constant amount of air and pressure in her lungs, to make it easier for her. When she’s breathing a little better, we’ll move her to just a cannula, like we’ve used on you before.”
“Only smaller,” Mirele says, smiling at me. “I know this all looks really scary. But don’t worry, it’s just because we want to be able to say we brought the first hermaphroditically delivered child into the world, and we did it perfectly.”
Hank raises an eyebrow at her, then turns to me. “Can you tell she’s a total anarchist?”
I nod, amused despite my worry.
----____----____----____----____----
The first couple of times I wake up, I slip back into the stream of consciousness within seconds, courtesy of nice, strong painkillers and sedatives. It leaves me with no doubt that Dr Grey wants me asleep and still, and will not hesitate to go to any lengths to ensure that I remain that way.
I only start to worry the time I drift in to consciousness to hear Dr McCoy cursing under his breath.
“Breathe, child, breathe,” he hisses. “Come on, it’s not so hard, I promise. You need to live to see your daddy…”
Amid the sounds of alarms starting to go off, I pass out once more.
----____----____----____----____----
“We need to seriously consider taking St John off the drugs, Jean,” Hank sighs, head in hands.
We are all seated around the small table in the small room off the main medlab. It’s glassed in, so we can see Johnny, laying absolutely still on the large bed, and Mirele carefully changing Baby’s diaper.
“There’s no guarantee that it will work,” Jean warns him. “If…if she’s not going to survive, I don’t want to get his hopes up. He’s suffered enough.”
“What, exactly, is wrong with her?” I ask. They haven’t given me a straight answer on it yet. Every time one of them starts to tell me, the other contradicts some minor detail and another argument starts.
But it seems my luck is in, today. Hank looks at Jean, then sighs and looks at me.
“Well, we’re certain that it’s because she’s St John’s child, but…well, you know how we told you that premature babies can’t control their own temperatures very well?”
I nod.
“Most premature babies get cold,” he tells me. “And for the first couple of days, she was cold. But…well, right now it seems that she can’t get cool enough. She’s too hot.”
“We think it’s because she’s exhibiting signs of a thermokinetic mutation early,” Jean explains. “For instance, if she were your baby, instead of St John’s, then she’d probably be all but freezing.”
I think for a moment, and then smile at them. “Did you seriously not consider what you just said?”
Jean stares at me, confused for a moment, and then stares, open-mouthed, at Hank.
“Of course…”
“With his skin temperature…”
“…it would balance hers, no doubt…”
“And St John’s never suffered ill effects from touching him…”
“…so she wouldn’t either…”
“Why didn’t we think of this?” Jean asks, shaking her head.
“Sometimes, it just takes another mind,” Hank sighs. He claps a fuzzy blue hand on my shoulder. “Come on, Bobby. I’m going to introduce you to the concept of kangaroo care…”
----____----____----____----____----
When I finally manage to struggle out of my medicated fog, I look around the room slowly. I can see the thing that Hank brought for when Baby was born. It’s empty, though, and I keep looking.
In the corner of the room, I can see the back of a rocking chair. As I watch, it starts to rock back and forth slightly, not enough to make the tubes attached to the IV pump sway, but enough to draw my eyes to the legs visible beneath the chair.
“Bobby?” I ask, voice rough.
“Johnny?” he asks quietly, not turning to look at me. “How do you feel?”
“Drugged,” I answer slowly. “Where…Bobby, where’s Baby?”
“She’s right here,” he answers soothingly. “I’d get up and show you, but she just fell asleep…and besides, I’m not supposed to move too much while I’m doing this.”
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Hank calls it kangaroo care,” he tells me. “She was getting too warm, and I’m nice and chilly, so…skin to skin contact.” He laughs quietly. “She seems to like sleeping on top of me as much as you do.”
I smile tiredly. “What day is it?”
“How long have you been out of it, you mean?” he shoots back. “It’s Tuesday, so…a little over a week. Jean’ll be down soon…cuddle time’s almost up for Baby. We can see about getting you up and moving then.”
Standing behind him, I grin. “Little late to say that, Bobby,” I whisper.
He stares in shock. “Johnny! God, sit down. You look like…death.”
“Don’t I feel sexy,” I snark at him, nevertheless flopping loosely in Hank’s rolly chair and rolling over, being sure to bring my IV with me. Quietly, I get a good look at both my lover and my daughter.
He’s shirtless, skin pale enough to let me know he’s consciously controlling his temperature. Probably in response to hers, I figure, watching his hand stroking slowly down her back. A bright light glows from beneath one of her feet, and there’s a veritable army of tubes seeming to jut from where she lays on her stomach against his chest. They’re taped to his shoulder and the chair, I notice.
Beneath her tiny knit hat-purple, with tiny cat ears-I can see dark curls. I look to Bobby, who has noticed me watching.
“Hank is fascinated with her hair,” he admits. “They all say that she shouldn’t have as much hair as she does, not born so early. Guess that she’s inherited your vanity.”
“Loser,” I inform him. I watch Baby quietly for a moment. “M…may I touch her?” I ask.
“Of course you can,” he whispers. “Just…careful. She’s kinda on the warm side.”
Tentatively, I stretch out a hand. Slowly, so carefully that I’m almost not touching her, I feather a finger down her spine. Confident, as she hasn’t fallen apart yet, I gently keep stroking her back, making small detours down her legs and arms. She fidgets slightly, but Bobby smiles encouragingly at me.
When the door whisks open, all three of us look over in surprise. Jean stares back at us, shocked to see me out of bed and moving around.
“St John!” she gasps. “My god…how are you feeling?”
“Drugged,” I answer, smiling slightly at her. “Don’t worry; Bobby’s playing mommy to both of us over here.”
She rolls her eyes as she untapes Bobby from the chair. “Can you put her down, Bobby?” she whispers, trying not to wake Baby, who is watching her with sleepy eyes. “I want to check over St John really quickly.”
“No problem,” he answers, standing up carefully. “Come on, Baby,” he coos, “naptime, okay? You sleepy? I know I am…”
As I watch him gently lay her down, Jean frowns at me. “Can you stand up?” she asks.
I nod and do so, careful of my still-aching abdomen.
“Alright, get your ass on that bed,” she sighs. When I am seated, she pushes me back carefully, and then pushes up the scrubs top I am wearing, and then tugs the bottoms down slightly. A few moments later, she pushes them back where they belong. “Well, the incision is healing well. I’ll have to take those stitches out soon.” She frowns at me. “As long as you promise to take it easy, I’ll get that IV out…and that catheter, too.”
“Thank you ever so,” I answer, shooting her a sarcastic smile.
She sneers at me for a second, and then smiles. Leaning over, she whispers in my ear. “If you behave, I’ll let Bobby cuddle with you…”
----____----____----____----____----
“I love you, Johnny,” I whisper, curled against his back. The lights in the medlab are as low as they go, but I know he’s still awake. Calmly, I slip a hand down over his chest, stroking his stomach lightly. “I love you so much.”
He twists in my grasp and kisses me lightly. “I know,” he whispers back. He weaves his fingers with my own, squeezing them lightly. He cuddles against me, folding his smaller body against my chest, pulling my arm tightly around him.
We fall asleep like that.
Much credit goes to AboutKidsHealth for their information on preemies (all of it idiot friendly, thank god) and to this site for information on anything special happening to celebrate baby girls that exists in Judaism. Also, many thanks to Tsatske for bullying all my information into line so that St John can be (believably) Jewish. And also, thanks for not laughing at my Yiddish. Oy vey! :D
A thank you is also due in the direction of my lovely Beta, Amber…who beta’d this at, like, midnight. All other mistakes are mine.
I extend blame for the fact that I am actually publishing mpreg in the direction of the fans on dry_ice, especially ehhtrashkid. Without this, I NEVER would have revisited this old, mostly-done mpreg, and I most certainly would NOT have finished it and then posted it. So, thanks. And this is all your fault.
Author: creepy_crawly
Rating: Uh…PG-13?
Characters/Pairings: St John “Pyro” Allerdyce/Bobby “Iceman” Drake
Warnings: Slash. Boy-touching. like that will scare you away… Mentions of medical experimentation. …mpreg…
Disclaimer: Haha. No, really, I am Stan Lee. See all my pretty purple squirrels?
Summary: 15 months after being arrested for his actions, St John Allerdyce is about to become a very important medical landmark.
When we finally find Johnny, he’s been in a lab for a little over a year. Hank says that that’s the way the bureaucracy works. They pick up the criminals, and the mutant ones disappear, unless someone keeps looking for them, like Kitty and Scott and Jean and the Professor and I did. And in the meantime, they experiment on them.
He’s more than a little angry as he shows me how to make sure none of the needles in Johnny’s arms get pulled out. I’m the only one who can touch him, Jean explains. He’s normally warm to the touch to normal people, but right now, his metabolism is so fast, he’s down right hot. She helps lift him with her mind while I keep a cool hand on his forehead, and make sure all the tubes are still in place.
I try to ignore the large bump on his stomach. If it weren’t for the fact that he’s a guy (which is quite obvious, as he’s nude), I’d almost say he looked like a pregnant woman. But the bump is higher on his chest-it starts just under his pecs. Jean says it’s probably a growth of some sort. Hank gathers up his file, saying he’ll read it in the jet.
Carefully, we move him into the jet. Hank and I strap him into place, and then Scott starts take-off procedure. Storm comes back to sit with us, and her eyes go wide as she sees Johnny’s unconscious form. She lays a light hand on his stomach, wincing slightly with the heat. Then she turns to Jean.
“How-?”
Jean blinks. “Hank’s got his file,” she murmurs. “They were experimenting.”
Storm says something I don’t understand. I get the feeling that it’s a good thing that I don’t understand-it can’t be very nice. We all know how she feels about humans experimenting on mutants. And she’s always like Johnny. He was a good student, she says, if a little angry and scared.
“Oh, my stars and garters!” Hank breathes. Quickly, he stands up and hands Jean what he’s looking at. “That’s not a tumour, Jean.”
“Christ!” she breathes. Rushing to her own feet, she looks to where the bump seems to move under Storm’s hand. “Bobby, can you put a thin layer of ice on my hands?”
“Mine, too,” Storm murmurs.
They hold their hands out to me, and I carefully coat them in a thin layer of ice. Carefully, Jean places her hands on Johnny’s stomach. They leave a trail of water as they move, the ice melting from her skin. Her eyes go wide and she pales as the bump seems to push back at her hands.
Just as quickly as she stood up, she sits back down next to Hank. She flips through the large folder in his hands, muttering to herself under her breath.
“Dr Grey,” I ask, confused. “What’s wrong with him?”
Storm sits heavily next to me. “May I tell him, Jean?”
She nods, still poring over the thick stack of papers.
“Bobby,” Storm sighs. “St John’s…pregnant.”
I stare at her, dumbfounded, for a moment. Then I laugh. “That’s impossible, Ms Monroe,” I laugh. “Johnny’s a guy!”
“He’s actually a hermaphrodite,” Hank says, handing the file folder to Jean. “We’ve know that for a while. But his female system-his ovaries, uterus, and all of that-were underdeveloped, defunct. Whatever they did, Bobby, they did to try and reactivate that system. Unfortunately, they were successful in jump-starting his female reproductive system.”
He hands me a piece of paper. Shocked, I read it.
‘Subject P complains of tightness in the abdomen. Blood tests prove the presence of progesterone and oestrogen-which has been abnormally high in Subject P since the successful activation of female organs-have dropped once more. In a woman, this level would not be abnormal for two weeks prior to menstruation. In Subject P, this is an abnormally low level. It is expected that Subject P will experience menstruation within the week, thereby confirming fertility.’
“And he did,” Hank sighs as I hand the paper back to him. “So they impregnated him.” He looked to Jean. “I’ll run this second code through the system, see what I can find. I’ll see if we can put a name on that sperm sample.”
Uncomfortable, I turn back to where Johnny’s laying, breathing slowly, all but radiating heat. I keep my eyes on him as Jean wanders up to join Scott, calling the Professor on the com-link and requesting that he get the students out of the way. When we land, she says, we’ll rush him downstairs to the most secure of the medical labs. She’ll check him out, see how he’s doing. Hank says he’ll get in touch with some doctors who can be discreet.
----____----____----____----____----
Even when I’m conscious again, Dr Grey and Dr McCoy keep me downstairs, in the medlab. Dr Grey explains that I’m on bedrest, because I’m rather on the petite side, and this is “such an abnormal first pregnancy and all”. If her eyes didn’t dance quite so much when she’s teasing me, I might take offence.
It’s weird to see her alive again. In fact, it’s weird to see her and the Professor and Mr Summers alive again. But I don’t complain. They’re housing me, and feeding me, and keeping me clothed. And they don’t do strange things to me.
Compared to where I was, I rather like it here.
“Just a little bit longer,” Dr Grey says to me, using that comforting tone most people use on skittish animals. She smears the clear jelly on the ever-more shocking swell of my belly, getting the machinery ready with one hand. “I know you’re getting sick of this, but, let’s face it. This is probably the only chance I’m going to get to see something like this.”
I shoot her a look. “I am not having more children so that you can poke and prod,” I inform her archly. I might be more receptive to teasing, but I’m in the midst of what Ms Monroe says is the worst of the mood-swing stages. That, and I have to piss. You have to have a full bladder-a very full bladder-to get the ultrasound done to its best quality, and the damn baby seems to think that my bladder is its punching doll.
“Ooh, someone’s in a bad mood,” she laughs, not put out in the slightest. “Well, if it helps any, you’re almost done. According to the file, you’re a little over thirty-one weeks along right now. In a normal, standard pregnancy, that would mean nine more weeks. In your case, we’re looking at something more along the lines of six or seven more weeks.”
“Oh, joy, more almost two months,” I snarl, flopping back in the bed. “I’m so fucking hot!”
“I can get Bobby to come down here more frequently,” Dr Grey murmurs, her eyes focused on the ultrasound. “Most women don’t get that, you know. But I see no reason he can’t help out right now.” She smiles at me. “By the way, Hank found your AP scores online. You did really well, St John. I’m proud of you.”
I snort in disgust. “What, you think Magneto or the US government would let my education fall through the cracks? Ha.”
Dr Grey snorts as well. “Well, someone let their education fall through,” she growls under her breath, and I know she’s talking about the researchers. “Honestly. You were all of seventeen and a half when they started this.”
“It could have been worse,” I mutter. I try not to think of some of the things I saw going on in the same labs in which they kept me.
She snorts, but keeps quiet on the labs. “So,” she continues, changing the subject, “how have you been sleeping? I heard you moving around last night…and the night before that…”
I grin somewhat guiltily. I know I’ve been keeping her awake, but I can’t help it. I’ve been feeling like I need to be in a constant state of motion recently, but I’m not allowed out of bed except for things like going to the bathroom and standing up so they can do random things.
“I had to go to the bathroom,” I tell her.
“Not unusual,” Dr Grey murmurs. “Have you been having nightmares? Vivid dreams?”
I nod. When I can sleep, I’ve been having dreams so real I almost think that this is the dream.
“Again, that’s to be expected,” she sighs. “And you’re probably uncomfortable, too. I remember when I was pregnant…” she trails off as I stare at her, shocked. “Oh, but you didn’t know about that,” she adds, smiling sadly. “I didn’t even get as far as you have, but I got far enough to know what it’s like with way too much in the middle.” She places a comforting hand on my hip. “Have you tried pillows, like I suggested?”
“I tried, but it’s just not working,” I complain, filing her revelation away for perusal at a later time. “I feel…twitchy.”
She laughs. “That, St John, is what we call ADD.” She grins at my scowl. “Still, a lot of women do say that they feel “twitchy”. I’ll see what I can do, maybe see if I can get my hands on a maternity pillow. In the meantime, though, would you like to see your baby?”
“May I?” I ask, almost afraid. What if the baby isn’t normal? We still don’t know whose sperm they used to father my child. For all we know, it could be abnormal, malformed-inhuman.
“Of course,” Dr Grey says, smiling softly. “St John, if something was wrong, we would have told you before now.” Carefully, she turns the monitor so that I can see. “There you go. You can see two feet…oh, look, she’s turning.”
“I can tell,” I grumble, feeling the baby moving about. I’ve known for some time that it was a girl, but have yet to decide on a name. For the next while, she’s just Baby.
Dr Grey smiles at me, as if she sees through my bravado. “Looks like she wants to say hi to her daddy.”
Sure enough, I can make out a face and a hand. She scrunches up her face slightly, then pushes against my stomach. I can see my skin ripple slightly out of the corner of my eye.
“Somebody’s feisty,” she chuckles, watching me watch the monitor. “She’s going to be a little fighter, St John. You’ll have your hands full with her.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, staring at the screen.
----____----____----____----____----
When I come in, Jean is changing the sheets on the bed that Johnny’s been sleeping in. I wave at her, and she waves back.
“St John’ll be back in a second,” she tells me. “Why don’t you help me out? I’ve got something to propose to you.”
I help her start tugging a clean sheet over the bed. “What do you need?”
She smiles at me. “St John’s getting hot, so I was wondered if you would be willing to do some of your classwork down here so you can keep the temperature down.”
“No problem,” I say, adjusting the top sheet. “If he wants me here.”
“If you can keep me from roasting alive,” Johnny says from behind me, “I’ll tie you here.”
“That answers that,” I grin, turning and leaning against the bed as I smile at him. He looks better than when we first brought him in, though he doesn’t agree with me. He’s gained a lot of weight-Jean and Hank were adamant that he was too thin. His skin has its colour back, and he doesn’t seem to be in as much pain.
“Back in bed, St John,” Jean says, patting the bed, not batting an eyelash at the way Johnny and I scope each other out. I have no doubt that she knows we’re together-I’m fairly certain that she knew the first time, too-even though we don’t do anything in front of her.
“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” Johnny says sarcastically. I help him into bed, and Jean teasingly tucks him in before slipping out the door. I pull up a stool, and begin weaving a net of cooler air around Johnny’s pregnant body. He sighs happily, reaching up to grab my hand and place it on his forehead.
“Feel better?” I ask, smiling softly.
“You have no idea,” he says, impassioned. Tugging my hand down, he presses a kiss to my palm. “How was your day?”
“Long,” I tell him. “Boring. Yours?”
“I’ve been stuck in bed except to take a piss,” he answers. “What do you think?” He twists and turns for a moment, then finally settles, a pillow under his stomach and a pillow between his knees. “I got to see Baby, though.”
“Did you?” I ask, carefully weaving the cooler air currents in the room to wrap around him. “Is she cute?”
“Not really,” he answers. “She looks like a little baby-they’re not really cute for a while, I guess. But she looks human.”
“That’s good,” I whisper. I know how worried Johnny’s been. He’s been terrified, really. Leaning over, I kiss his forehead, leaving a frosty imprint behind for a few seconds before it melts.
“You’re not getting away with just that,” he purrs, tugging me in closer. He kisses me hungrily, tongue darting along my lips. I eagerly let him in, loving the feel of his hot tongue against my own, cooler one. Everyone else has complained about my mouth being cold, but not Johnny. He’s never had a problem with it.
Thank god. I could make out with him for hours.
…and I have.
Johnny winces suddenly, breaking the kiss.
“Johnny? What’s wrong?” I ask. Worried, I brush a hand through his bangs.
“Baby’s kicking the shit out of my intestines,” he grunts, one hand on his swollen belly.
I put mine next to his. Even knowing that it’s not the most fun thing for him, I love it when Baby’s moving around. I’ve known since I was twelve that I am gay, and so early on, I ruled out every having children. Even though Baby’s not mine, Johnny’s going to need help, and I feel kind of like she’s mine, because I’m getting to experience everything. When Ronnie was born, it was nothing like this.
With Baby, I feel like I’m actually a part of this.
“She likes you,” Johnny whispers suddenly, watching his stomach ripple slightly. “Punching is how she says, “hi”. I think she thinks she’s gangsta.”
I grin at him. “Maybe you should name her Shanaenae, then,” I tease, leaning in and kissing him warmly. He threads his arms about me, pulling me closer and deepening the kiss. For a long time, the only thing that exists for me is the heat of his lips, and the warmth of his hand on my back.
When we break the kiss, he smirks up at me, lips swollen and dark. “Check this out,” he breathes, then kisses me, hard, sucking in my surprised breath. Breaking away, he breathes out, slowly. A foggy cloud escapes, and he grins.
“Loser,” I tease him.
He sticks his tongue out. “For reference, no child of mine is being named Shanaenae.”
“What have you been thinking, then?” I ask. “I mean, we can’t call her Baby for her whole life…”
He frowns. “I was thinking naming her Sarah,” he admits. “Or maybe Nessa.”
“Nessa?” I ask, confused.
Johnny smirks up at me. “Hebrew,” he explains. “Means…” he yawns, “miracle. And you have to admit, she is kind of miraculous.”
“She is that,” I answer, gently rubbing his shoulder. I pause for a moment, thinking. “Hey, Johnny?”
“Yeah?” he asks, eyes fluttering as he swallows another yawn.
“Being Jewish…that passes through the mother, right?”
He nods, head on his pillow.
“So…since you’re Baby’s mother…does that mean she’s Jewish?”
His eyes flutter open. “Christ,” he groans. “What’s the betting I can get a laptop in here?”
“What for?” I ask, ignoring his use of profanity. Johnny and I long ago came to an agreement-I don’t rag him about using the name of one of my holy figures as a curse, he doesn’t tell anyone that I lost my virginity to the next-door-neighbour when I was twelve.
…my male next-door-neighbour.
“I need to email Mrs Pryde,” he sighs, reaching up and rubbing his eyes. “She can ask Rabbi Rayow.”
“Kitty’s mum?” I ask, surprised. “You know Kitty’s mum?”
“Leah? Yeah, I know her,” he answers. He grins slightly. “She thinks I’ll convince Kitty to learn Yiddish. Anyway, she’s discreet. I need her to ask Rabbi Rayow for me. He’s fairly on the “open to anything” side-he’s the one who published the article saying that mutants are still people, and that we should be allowed to become rabbis, too. He says it’s part of Tikun Olam.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I promise him. “Now, go to sleep.”
“Yessir,” he slurs, closing his eyes.
Johnny’s asleep in seconds.
----____----____----____----____----
Mrs Pryde comes by almost as soon as I email her. Jean brings her downstairs, to where I am, where I am immediately covered in 5’3” of excited mother. Leah Pryde has considered me as one of her own children for years now, ever since she came to pick up Kitty for synagogue for Rosh Hoshanah, and saw me in my kippah. Every year since that until I left with Magneto, I have celebrated the holy days with the Prydes.
“St John,” she breathes, stepping back and looking at me. “Oh, child…shalom aleycham.”
“Aleycham shalom,” I answer, smiling back at her. As Dr Grey stands in the corner, watching in unabashed amusement, we slip into the fast, dirty flow of Yiddish.
»How are you?«
»I’ve been better,« I answer. »You got my question?«
She nods. »I called Rabbi Rayow that night, too. He says he’s fairly certain you are the only person this question will come up for, but he’s doing some reading and poking around. We’ll have an answer for you before the little one is born, I promise.« Perching on the edge of the bed, she rests her hands on my stomach.
Baby chooses that moment to kick.
Leah laughs. »She likes to say hello?«
I nod, wincing slightly. »Leah, out of curiosity-I know I’m in an awkward position regarding halacha…is there anything I have to observe, considering the fact that I’m pregnant?«
She giggles slightly. »You mean, are you going to be considered yoledet?«
»Exactly.«
»Let me ask you a question. How orthodox was your family?« she asks, face serious.
»My mother observed niddah status,« I answer, searching my memory. »But my family…we tended to follow my father’s ways.«
She raises an eyebrow at me.
I smirk, and clarify. »Of the 613 mitzvot, I think he followed only those enumerated under Leviticus 18. And only because he never got the opportunity.«
»Reform, then,« she says lightly, hiding a laugh behind her hand. »In that instance, I’d say you’re fine. You’re not married, anyway. But if your mother followed niddah…« She frowns. »You may wish, merely to feel clean in spirit, to observe yoledet status. You’re having a baby girl?«
I nod again.
»Then just know you’ll have to wait fourteen days, not twelve.« She smiles at me. »In all honesty, though, if you’re Reform it shouldn’t even come into question. Now, you’re going to have to plan Simchat Bat,« she sighs.
I sigh heavily, closing my eyes. »As if there weren’t enough to do already…«
»You know, dear, I could help you,« she murmurs. »I mean, I’m not trying to replace your own mother or anything, but I’d like to think that if I were no longer here, someone would help Kitty with all of this.«
I smile at her. »Would you?«
»Of course,« she answers. “Now, do you want me to call Rabbi Rayow and warn him?”
I nod. “That would be lovely, yes.”
“Do you know what you’re going to name her?” she asks me.
Dr Grey, I notice, is paying more attention now that we’re speaking English again. I close my eyes and think. “I’m not sure, not yet. I was thinking Sarah or Nessa.”
“Lovely names,” she says, beaming. “What was your mother’s Hebrew name? You’re going to need to give her a Hebrew name, you know.”
“My mother? Let me think…she was…Sara in English, and…” I frown, concentrating. “Sarah. Her Hebrew name was Sarah.”
“That’s perfect, then, if you’re naming her for your mother, and quite convenient, too,” Leah says. “I named Kitty for my grandmother.” With the soft smile I’m coming to associate with women staring at my belly these days, she leans forward and kisses my forehead. “You will, of course, bring her to synagogue? And celebrate the holy days? And keep Shabbat?”
I nod. “Everything I do now, I will do for her,” I promise. Unconsciously, I begin to stroke the curve of my stomach, soothing the calming-down Baby.
Leah smiles.
----____----____----____----____----
“And then Mother was here,” Kitty says in disgust, rolling her eyes. “She’s up to something, I swear. I haven’t seen this much of a flourish of Jewish activity since my grandmother was dying.”
I blink. “What?”
“My mum,” she repeats. “She’s been here twice in three days. And the other day, when I was on phone duty, Rabbi Rayow-he’s the rabbi close to here-called and asked to speak to Xavier. And Mother emailed me and said that Rabbi Rayow will be visiting this coming Shabbat, and she hoped I’d do the proper thing and join them for services.” She frowns. “Honestly. The only other practising Jew here is John. And he’s still down in the…” she trails off, eyes wide.
“Kitty?” I ask.
“Bobby, what if John’s sick, and that’s why Mother and Rabbi Rayow are suddenly coming here?” she demands.
My eyes, too, go wide. Not even bothering to excuse myself, I go tearing downstairs. I race into the medlab, where Johnny is curled around a long, fluffy blue pillow, fast asleep.
“Johnny!” I hiss, shaking his shoulder lightly. “Johnny!”
He wakes up slowly. “Bobby? Wha’?”
“Are you sick?” I demand. “Please, tell me you’re not…”
“What?” he asks, looking at me. “No, Bobby, other than the fact that I’m eight months pregnant, I’m fine. Why?” He reaches up and strokes the side of my face.
“Kitty,” I murmur, leaning in to his comforting touch. “She says her mother and the rabbi have been coming here…she said the only time she saw them like this was when her grandmother was sick…”
Johnny laughs quietly. “Oh, Bobby, it’s nothing like that. If I were female, or if Kitty knew that I was pregnant…she’d recognise that we’re just getting ready for Baby to be born.” He slips a hand around my neck and tugs me down to his level, kissing me deeply. “Don’t worry, Bobby,” he whispers, lips still against mine. “Baby and I are fine.”
“I’m holding you to that, you know,” I whisper before kissing him again.
We kiss lazily for a long time. I can feel the tension of the past few days passing from his muscles as he relaxes under my touch, giving in to me being there. I know that beneath his warm hands, my cold shoulders are relaxing bit by bit, my skin slowly warming to be closer to normal courtesy of his current superheated state.
It’s times like this when I’m happiest.
----____----____----____----____----
I’ve been getting Braxton-Hicks contractions for a while now, which Dr Grey told me not to worry about. So I don’t, and instead focus on going about my life as best I can. I’ve recently been granted permission to move about the medlab to do minor things, like check my email, because Dr Grey and Dr McCoy feel confident that Baby has finally settled down some. And besides, I’m only at the thirty-third week.
So I don’t think much of the tight pains until I’m hit by one strong enough to make me literally fall over.
----____----____----____----____----
Jean’s pager goes off in the middle of class, and that’s when I know something’s wrong. She’s had it on whenever she’s not in the medlab, so that Hank can get her if he needs to. She looks away from the whiteboard, peering down at it, and her face goes whiter than the board itself.
“Bobby,” she says tightly, nodding towards the door. “Meet Dr McCoy downstairs, now. Kitty, please go call your mother and tell her it’s started.” Her eyes go slightly hazy as she ushers me out the door, a sure sign that she’s in mental contact with the Professor.
The instant she’s focussed again, still ushering me down the hall, I turn to her. “Jean, what’s wrong? It’s Johnny, isn’t it? Is he okay?”
“Right now he is,” she says, shoving me into the elevator. “He’s just hurting a lot.”
“What happened?” I demand.
“He went into labour,” she admits, sighing as she reaches up and pulls her hair into a bun. “We weren’t expecting that for at least five more weeks. Hank says his temperature just went through the roof. He can’t even get close to him, and we need to get an epidural in, at the least.”
“Oh,” I say quietly. “So I’m the AC?”
She nods. “And you’re going to be the AC for the next while. I can’t risk knocking St John out right now, and his internal temperature is a good ten degrees Celsius hotter than his skin temperature.”
I wince. Johnny-type heat is not something to be joked about.
We race into the medlab, and I am hit by an immediate wave of heat, like stepping into an oven. For me to feel a temperature, it has to be incredibly high. I look at Jean, and immediately begin chilling the room as quickly as I can.
“Try and cool St John down some, Bobby!” Hank calls to me, already conferring with Jean about how they’re going to do whatever it is they’re going to do.
I walk over to where Johnny lays, one hand curled weakly around his stomach. He seems to be in a lot of pain, but he isn’t sweating at all. Then again, Johnny can’t sweat, at least not the same way most people do. He doesn’t need to, usually. But right now, he really does need his temperature lowered. Placing a hand on his forehead, I send a sheet of ice down his naked body.
Heaving a deep sigh, Johnny shivers slightly. “Thanks, Bobby,” he tells me, voice somewhat rough.
“Any time, baby, any time,” I whisper. Leaning over, I kiss him chastely, more comfort than flirt. Screw being seen by Jean or Hank. Johnny is a very physical person, much like Remy. Though his powers don’t make it quite as necessary, Johnny still needs a lot of physical reassurance. “How are you doing?”
“Not too good,” he admits, smiling bitterly. “It’s a good thing I’m not Orthodox.”
“Why’s that?” I ask, trying to distract him from the discomfort.
“Because…” he begins. Suddenly, he cries out, his entire body tensing as he curls around his swollen belly. His one arm clamps tightly around it, the other reaching out to hold my hand. When he squeezes it, I swear I can feel bones grating together.
Jean and Hank don’t do much, just watch the monitors and scrawl things on papers. Jean murmurs something to Hank, who responds by showing her a sheaf of paper. In moments, Johnny’s pain is forgotten by all but me and him.
He relaxes slowly after the pain passes, panting heavily. I brush his bangs out of his face, sitting on the edge of the bed so that he can lean back against me. He rolls slightly to do so, still holding my hand tightly. At this point, though, he’s using it more as an ice block than a ground, so I send another thin sheet of ice down his body.
“Thanks,” he breathes. “Needed that.”
“So I can feel,” I murmur. And I can. He’s physically hot to my touch, which means he has to be at least 102 degrees Celsius. “So…why are you glad you’re not Orthodox, huh?” I ask, trying to distract him again as I continue to sweep my icy hands down his body.
“Because if I were, first of all, I wouldn’t be allowed to have sex with you, and that would suck,” he laughs dryly. “Secondly, I wouldn’t be allowed to touch you right now.” Quietly, he tugs my hand up to cup his face, and then whispers, “and I want you here.”
“Then I’m here,” I whisper.
----____----____----____----____----
My world is nothing more than a constant blur of pain, a haze of too much heat and cramping, stabbing pains. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt hot, let alone too hot.
Bobby’s there, a cooling, soothing presence. He keeps his hands on my forehead, on my face, my shoulders, even as Dr Grey gets me positioned so that she can slide a needle into my back to start the epidural. Her hands are surprisingly cool, and I realise that Bobby’s icing her hands up so she can touch me without getting burned.
If I’m so warm that an adult can’t touch my skin, how is the baby, exposed to my internal temperatures and so sensitive to temperature, going to survive?
“St John! Calm down!” Dr McCoy says sharply. “You don’t need to panic. There’s nothing to panic about. You’re fine, I swear.”
“Baby…” I gasp. “Baby…hot…”
“She’s fine, Johnny,” Bobby whispers, leaning over and kissing my forehead, breathing ice across my body. It evaporates into steam the instant it touches my skin. “Baby’s fine, I promise.”
I squeeze his hand tightly as another contraction hits.
----____----____----____----____----
It takes no time at all for Jean and Hank to get pain medications running into Johnny’s body. He’s very much out of it, and Jean looks worried as she checks various monitors around his body. Even I know that this is much too early.
A pair of women comes rushing in through the doors. One I recognise as Kitty’s mother. The other is unfamiliar to me, though she hugs Hank and smiles at him. He leads her over to where he and Jean were discussing their plans, showing her what they’ve got worked out. She frowns for a moment, looking over the paper.
“Are we good, Mirele?” Jean asks, one hand resting on Johnny’s stomach.
The woman nods. “We should be good. I’ll just get washed up, then. You say there’s abnormal temperature?”
“St John’s a thermokinetic mutant,” Hank says, handing her a plastic bag that I recognise as sterile scrubs. “He’s been registering well above his baseline for most of the pregnancy, but he went hyperthermic when he went into labour.”
“This’ll be a new experience,” the woman laughs, disappearing into the office. “As for the orientation of the uterus…”
“Forward presentation,” Hank supplies. “He’s got two full sets. That’s why no one ever thought anything of it-he doesn’t have standard hermaphroditic presentation.”
The woman blinks, emerging from the office, hands held out in front of her. “Two testicles?”
“Fully descended,” Hank confirms. “And both ovaries in full, working order.”
“This is gonna be fun,” the woman says, grinning wickedly as she starts to wash her hands.
----____----____----____----____----
Bobby ices up Leah’s hands so that she can touch me. She holds one of my hands cradled in her own, and strokes my face with her free hand. She coos softly to me, singing an old Yiddish lullaby that my own mother used to sing quite frequently. I haven’t heard it since her death, and it does a lot to steady my mind.
“Just hang in there, St John,” she whispers.
I can feel dull pressure as the first incision is made. Rather than think about what Jean and this strange doctor are doing to me, I focus on Bobby and Leah.
----____----____----____----____----
Even though I’m only in the room so that I can keep it cool, I think Johnny feels better with me there. He keeps looking over at me, eyes hazy and just barely focussed. I sweep my hands over his skin, cooling him by direct contact even as I exude a general chill around the room.
On Johnny’s other side, Kitty’s mum is holding his hand and singing to him. I wonder briefly how her hands aren’t dreadfully painful right now-no one else can stand to touch Johnny very long without ice on their hands. Johnny chooses that moment to start whimpering again, though, and I’m distracted as I try to calm him down.
----____----____----____----____----
By the time I hear a baby wailing, I’m so far out of it, I barely remember my own name. Cool air keeps sweeping over my body, and I can feel my temperature falling for a few short moments. It rises again, though, and the cool air dances over me once more.
People are whispering around me, but I’m too tired to bother with it right now. Squeezing both hands holding mine, I let the darkness claim me.
----____----____----____----____----
“Well, he’ll be out of it a while yet, if this world has any mercy,” Jean mutters, focussing on where she’s stitching Johnny back together. The other woman is cradling Baby, cooing to her as she tries to calm her down. Hank stands beside her, grinning down at the tiny baby as he writes something down.
“How is she?” I ask, looking to where Hank is now wrapping Baby in a soft blanket.
“She’s a little cold,” he tells me, tucking the blanket around her. “Remember, she’s been used to St John’s internal temperature for the past nine months. Other than that, she’s just like any other preemie.” He looks over to the other woman. “Mirele, is the incubator ready?”
She nods firmly, and Hank carries Baby over to the large, grey-and-white plastic structure that appeared in the room earlier in the week. He lays Baby down inside it, then grabs a small plastic bag from a nearby cart. Opening it, he removes a tube and settles it around Baby’s face. As he starts taping it in place, Mirele hooks it up to a large machine that I hadn’t noticed earlier.
“CPAP in place,” she murmurs, standing up on tiptoe to flick on the light over the thing Baby’s lying in. “Warmer on.”
“Alright,” Hank murmurs. Carefully, he threads a tiny tube into Baby’s stomach, right where they cut her umbilical cord.
I don’t watch. I’m not sure I want to know what they’re doing to her, and it looks like it hurts.
“Hey there,” Mirele murmurs to Baby, calming her whimpering and thrashing. “We’re almost done, sweetheart. Then you can sleep, huh?”
“Umbilical catheter is in place,” Hank tells her, accompanied by the sound of tape tearing. “You want to start on the PAL? I’ll start monitoring oxygen and temperature.”
“Sure thing,” Mirele says, and I can hear her moving around.
I notice that Kitty’s mum is determinedly not looking over to where the two doctors are working on Baby. She smiles tightly at me, still holding Johnny’s hand.
“Hi, Bobby,” she says quietly.
“Hi, Mrs Pryde,” I answer. “Are your hands hurting? I can cool them…”
“I’m fine,” she tells me, pushing sweaty tendrils of Johnny’s hair off of his face. “Well, this’ll back things up a little.” Her half-smile is more sad than humorous, and I quietly look away.
“He’s fine, Bobby,” Jean whispers to me, pressing past to check on Johnny. “He’ll hurt for a little while, but he’ll be over it soon, I promise. He’s just tired.”
“What about Baby?” I ask, turning to look at her.
She sighs, not meeting my eyes.
I can feel worry rising higher in my throat. “Jean?”
“She…well, Bobby, she’s early, even for what we were expecting,” she tells me. “There’s a lot of complicated things involved in your first week of being alive, and she’s not completely ready for most of them.” Taking my hand, she gently pulls me over to where Hank and Mirele are still working.
She ties a new mask over her face, and then ties one over my nose and mouth. Handing me a pair of gloves, she snaps her own on and continues to explain.
“We’ve put her in something called an infant care bed, so we can do the stuff she can’t, or won’t. this,” she points up, “is to keep her warm. She’s not ready to handle her own body temperature yet, and she’s been used to St John’s. Compared to where she’s been, it’s downright cold out here.” Her eyes smile at me. “We’ll keep her a little warmer than most babies for a while, and then slowly walk her down to normal temperature. Babies don’t do any better at sudden changes than Scott does.”
I smile tightly beneath the mask.
“This is called an umbilical catheter,” she says, pointing to the teeny-tiny tube that has been taped down over the stump of Baby’s umbilical cord. “It’s to make sure she gets the right fluids and nutrients, and any medicines we need to give her. That,” and she points to the tube Mirele has put in Baby’s arm, taped down with a bright red sticker, “is called a peripheral arterial line-PAL. That way, we can draw blood if we need to. Also, if we need to get medicine to her faster, we’ll swap the PAL for a PIC line. That’s just like this, only it goes to her heart.”
“This,” Mirele murmurs, pointing to something next to her, “is for phototherapy. There’s a few things that her body is making that she can’t handle yet, so we use light to break it down for her.” She holds up something fuzzy and white. “Don’t worry, she gets these stylish sunglasses, too.” She winks at me.
Hank grins at her. “Alright, my turn, ladies? Okay, this, Bobby, is to measure her temperature. These,” and he points to three stickers and tubes, “measure everything that has anything to do with her circulation. This is the world’s tiniest blood pressure cuff, intended for preemies and Barbie dolls.” He smiles at me, and points to a brightly glowing something on Baby’s foot. “This is a pulse oximeter, which measures how much oxygen she’s got. That makes it so the machines know how much oxygen to give her with the CPAP tube.”
“That’s the Continuous Positive Airway Pressure tube,” Jean says helpfully. “It allows her to breath on her own, but keeps a constant amount of air and pressure in her lungs, to make it easier for her. When she’s breathing a little better, we’ll move her to just a cannula, like we’ve used on you before.”
“Only smaller,” Mirele says, smiling at me. “I know this all looks really scary. But don’t worry, it’s just because we want to be able to say we brought the first hermaphroditically delivered child into the world, and we did it perfectly.”
Hank raises an eyebrow at her, then turns to me. “Can you tell she’s a total anarchist?”
I nod, amused despite my worry.
----____----____----____----____----
The first couple of times I wake up, I slip back into the stream of consciousness within seconds, courtesy of nice, strong painkillers and sedatives. It leaves me with no doubt that Dr Grey wants me asleep and still, and will not hesitate to go to any lengths to ensure that I remain that way.
I only start to worry the time I drift in to consciousness to hear Dr McCoy cursing under his breath.
“Breathe, child, breathe,” he hisses. “Come on, it’s not so hard, I promise. You need to live to see your daddy…”
Amid the sounds of alarms starting to go off, I pass out once more.
----____----____----____----____----
“We need to seriously consider taking St John off the drugs, Jean,” Hank sighs, head in hands.
We are all seated around the small table in the small room off the main medlab. It’s glassed in, so we can see Johnny, laying absolutely still on the large bed, and Mirele carefully changing Baby’s diaper.
“There’s no guarantee that it will work,” Jean warns him. “If…if she’s not going to survive, I don’t want to get his hopes up. He’s suffered enough.”
“What, exactly, is wrong with her?” I ask. They haven’t given me a straight answer on it yet. Every time one of them starts to tell me, the other contradicts some minor detail and another argument starts.
But it seems my luck is in, today. Hank looks at Jean, then sighs and looks at me.
“Well, we’re certain that it’s because she’s St John’s child, but…well, you know how we told you that premature babies can’t control their own temperatures very well?”
I nod.
“Most premature babies get cold,” he tells me. “And for the first couple of days, she was cold. But…well, right now it seems that she can’t get cool enough. She’s too hot.”
“We think it’s because she’s exhibiting signs of a thermokinetic mutation early,” Jean explains. “For instance, if she were your baby, instead of St John’s, then she’d probably be all but freezing.”
I think for a moment, and then smile at them. “Did you seriously not consider what you just said?”
Jean stares at me, confused for a moment, and then stares, open-mouthed, at Hank.
“Of course…”
“With his skin temperature…”
“…it would balance hers, no doubt…”
“And St John’s never suffered ill effects from touching him…”
“…so she wouldn’t either…”
“Why didn’t we think of this?” Jean asks, shaking her head.
“Sometimes, it just takes another mind,” Hank sighs. He claps a fuzzy blue hand on my shoulder. “Come on, Bobby. I’m going to introduce you to the concept of kangaroo care…”
----____----____----____----____----
When I finally manage to struggle out of my medicated fog, I look around the room slowly. I can see the thing that Hank brought for when Baby was born. It’s empty, though, and I keep looking.
In the corner of the room, I can see the back of a rocking chair. As I watch, it starts to rock back and forth slightly, not enough to make the tubes attached to the IV pump sway, but enough to draw my eyes to the legs visible beneath the chair.
“Bobby?” I ask, voice rough.
“Johnny?” he asks quietly, not turning to look at me. “How do you feel?”
“Drugged,” I answer slowly. “Where…Bobby, where’s Baby?”
“She’s right here,” he answers soothingly. “I’d get up and show you, but she just fell asleep…and besides, I’m not supposed to move too much while I’m doing this.”
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Hank calls it kangaroo care,” he tells me. “She was getting too warm, and I’m nice and chilly, so…skin to skin contact.” He laughs quietly. “She seems to like sleeping on top of me as much as you do.”
I smile tiredly. “What day is it?”
“How long have you been out of it, you mean?” he shoots back. “It’s Tuesday, so…a little over a week. Jean’ll be down soon…cuddle time’s almost up for Baby. We can see about getting you up and moving then.”
Standing behind him, I grin. “Little late to say that, Bobby,” I whisper.
He stares in shock. “Johnny! God, sit down. You look like…death.”
“Don’t I feel sexy,” I snark at him, nevertheless flopping loosely in Hank’s rolly chair and rolling over, being sure to bring my IV with me. Quietly, I get a good look at both my lover and my daughter.
He’s shirtless, skin pale enough to let me know he’s consciously controlling his temperature. Probably in response to hers, I figure, watching his hand stroking slowly down her back. A bright light glows from beneath one of her feet, and there’s a veritable army of tubes seeming to jut from where she lays on her stomach against his chest. They’re taped to his shoulder and the chair, I notice.
Beneath her tiny knit hat-purple, with tiny cat ears-I can see dark curls. I look to Bobby, who has noticed me watching.
“Hank is fascinated with her hair,” he admits. “They all say that she shouldn’t have as much hair as she does, not born so early. Guess that she’s inherited your vanity.”
“Loser,” I inform him. I watch Baby quietly for a moment. “M…may I touch her?” I ask.
“Of course you can,” he whispers. “Just…careful. She’s kinda on the warm side.”
Tentatively, I stretch out a hand. Slowly, so carefully that I’m almost not touching her, I feather a finger down her spine. Confident, as she hasn’t fallen apart yet, I gently keep stroking her back, making small detours down her legs and arms. She fidgets slightly, but Bobby smiles encouragingly at me.
When the door whisks open, all three of us look over in surprise. Jean stares back at us, shocked to see me out of bed and moving around.
“St John!” she gasps. “My god…how are you feeling?”
“Drugged,” I answer, smiling slightly at her. “Don’t worry; Bobby’s playing mommy to both of us over here.”
She rolls her eyes as she untapes Bobby from the chair. “Can you put her down, Bobby?” she whispers, trying not to wake Baby, who is watching her with sleepy eyes. “I want to check over St John really quickly.”
“No problem,” he answers, standing up carefully. “Come on, Baby,” he coos, “naptime, okay? You sleepy? I know I am…”
As I watch him gently lay her down, Jean frowns at me. “Can you stand up?” she asks.
I nod and do so, careful of my still-aching abdomen.
“Alright, get your ass on that bed,” she sighs. When I am seated, she pushes me back carefully, and then pushes up the scrubs top I am wearing, and then tugs the bottoms down slightly. A few moments later, she pushes them back where they belong. “Well, the incision is healing well. I’ll have to take those stitches out soon.” She frowns at me. “As long as you promise to take it easy, I’ll get that IV out…and that catheter, too.”
“Thank you ever so,” I answer, shooting her a sarcastic smile.
She sneers at me for a second, and then smiles. Leaning over, she whispers in my ear. “If you behave, I’ll let Bobby cuddle with you…”
----____----____----____----____----
“I love you, Johnny,” I whisper, curled against his back. The lights in the medlab are as low as they go, but I know he’s still awake. Calmly, I slip a hand down over his chest, stroking his stomach lightly. “I love you so much.”
He twists in my grasp and kisses me lightly. “I know,” he whispers back. He weaves his fingers with my own, squeezing them lightly. He cuddles against me, folding his smaller body against my chest, pulling my arm tightly around him.
We fall asleep like that.
Much credit goes to AboutKidsHealth for their information on preemies (all of it idiot friendly, thank god) and to this site for information on anything special happening to celebrate baby girls that exists in Judaism. Also, many thanks to Tsatske for bullying all my information into line so that St John can be (believably) Jewish. And also, thanks for not laughing at my Yiddish. Oy vey! :D
A thank you is also due in the direction of my lovely Beta, Amber…who beta’d this at, like, midnight. All other mistakes are mine.
I extend blame for the fact that I am actually publishing mpreg in the direction of the fans on dry_ice, especially ehhtrashkid. Without this, I NEVER would have revisited this old, mostly-done mpreg, and I most certainly would NOT have finished it and then posted it. So, thanks. And this is all your fault.