fic: aquamarine, maybe
Rather belated birthday fic for shayzgirl!
Title: aquamarine, maybe
Rating: PG-13 for kissing, mpreg, implied sex, morning sickness
Word Count: 1,103
Summary/Notes: mpreg Michael, morning sickness, and confessions of love. Technically a sequel to looking for my creator, but you don’t really need to’ve read that one first.
“I hate this,” Michael says. “I hate this, and I hate food, and I hate everything.” And then promptly throws up again. For the third time. That morning.
James’s hand’s warm on his back. “Yeah, I got that the first five times you said so. Everything, huh?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know. Why aren’t you bothered by this? I threw up on your feet yesterday.”
“Just like pubs back home in Glasgow.” James hands over the bottle of water. Both the bottle and James are far too patient, Michael decides. Mocking him. He throws the bottle cap at the wall in a display of petulance that does nothing at all to said wall and equally nothing for his temper.
“I’d say I’m sorry,” James says, rubbing his back, “but I’m sort of not.”
“Oh, thanks very much.”
“You’re havin’ our baby. Fuckin’ amazing. Throw up on my feet all you want. I’ll even make you extra eggs so you can throw those up too.”
“I hate you,” Michael says, and rinses his mouth out, weakly. “Isn’t morning sickness supposed to stop at some point?”
“First trimester’s the worst, the books say.” James leans over to collect the bottle cap and tosses it with unerring aim into the trash. Takes the hand off Michael’s back very briefly, and maybe Michael’s imagining things but there seems to be a split-second’s hesitation before the touch returns. “Feeling better?”
“I’m just going to move into your loo,” Michael tells him. “Right here. On the floor. Step over me when you need to shower.”
“Can’t. Your stomach’s getting bigger than my legs.” James moves the hand again. Michael instantly wants it back. “Did you say green, for the baby’s room?”
“I thought you liked blue. And since when is that discussion not hypothetical, anyway.” He plops his head back onto the tile. James’s flat is lovely and kind and literary as its owner; science-fiction paperbacks and bundt pans and football jerseys decorate every available space including the spare-but-possibly-baby’s bedroom, and Michael has wanted for as long as he can remember, as long as he’s been friends with James, to move in and never leave.
They’ve put off that discussion time and time again. It’s come up-keeps coming up; James’s flat is more central for visits to renowned obstetricians and baby-supply stores-and every time he can’t handle the rawness of the open wound.
One giddy euphoric post-filming night, crackling chemistry and the two of them getting tipsy on wrap-party champagne and falling into bed, that’d been it. All it’d taken for the world to change, one seismic shift in the form of Michael’s sadistically quirky genetics.
He’s having James’s baby. He’s been in love with James, hopelessly and wholeheartedly, for over a decade. And now he has James, who’s promptly assumed the role of perfect devoted partner, flawlessly concerned and involved and supportive as hell.
Michael wants to scream. To break down the universe. To scratch his heart out with his fingernails until it’s too nonexistent to ache. Hell. Yes. Sapphire-eyed and generous and cruel as everything he’s ever wanted, twisted and served up sideways.
“I like both.” James’s voice sounds oddly small. “Green and blue. I only meant-whatever you want, okay? And maybe…I know you don’t want to…maybe it’s time we did think about living together? Not here if you don’t-I can move in with you.”
In Michael’s place. Which has never been properly unpacked and sorted out from the last move, boxes lurking guiltily in the corner. Which has cigarette packs stashed in secret places because he’d never quite had the strength of will to quit completely, unlike James.
He’s well and truly quit now. Hasn’t got around to unearthing them all and throwing them away.
He’s not said anything. James curls a leg underneath himself, preparatory to getting up. “I’ll just…just let me know if you want anything, maybe? I can get you more water.”
“Stop,” Michael says, not even aware that the word’s on the tip of his tongue until it’s out. “Just stop. Please.”
James’s face goes absolutely white. As if that heart-scratching metaphor’s real after all, and in his chest instead of Michael’s. “What-what’re you asking-”
“Don’t pretend.” And, oh, his eyes’re blurring, and his mouth tastes disgusting, and the bottle of water’s clutched in his left hand because James brought it for him. “I know you don’t-you didn’t want this, you never wanted-just tell me the truth, right, you hate me for this, for making you do this-everything-when you only wanted one night of fun-I know that, I knew that, don’t ask me if I want you to move in with me, fuck-”
“You fucking idiot,” James hisses, and that tone’s sufficiently unusual from that lochs-and-sunrise accent that Michael stops both talking and crying, out of sheer surprise.
James glares at him. Mutters once more, “You absolute-” and then leans in and puts both hands on Michael’s face and pulls him into a kiss, right there on the bathroom floor.
Michael’s shocked enough that his brain can only come up with wait, what? and I must taste terrible and oh God that’s James kissing me, and those three thoughts collide and spin around in dizzying eddies.
James’s mouth tastes like coffee and raspberry-ginger syrup and cream. James kisses with unquestionable firmness, not hard but determined to banish all doubt. James’s fingers are warm on his face the same way they’d been warm earlier, rubbing his back.
James stops kissing him to demand, “Why the fuck d’you think I don’t want you? Or this? When have I ever said anything to-I fucking love you!”
“You do?”
This time it’s James who stops, speechless. And then splutters, “Oh, God…I’ve never said that, have I, fuck…oh, God, I’ve just said that for the first time while we’re on the floor of the fucking loo, I can’t believe I-yes, I love you!”
“Well, good!” Michael snaps back, “because I love you!”
“You do?”
“Yes!”
“Since when?”
“Since always!”
“Please move in with me,” James says, eyes huge, “please, I’ve hated every morning you’ve ever left and I want to wake up next to you and teach our kid about football and I only got that drunk at the wrap party because I was so damn nervous about finally asking you up to my room and then you were sort of drunk too and I never knew if it meant anything to you and-”
“Everything,” Michael says, “it meant everything,” and James, still cupping his cheek with one hand, says, “Yes.”
Title: aquamarine, maybe
Rating: PG-13 for kissing, mpreg, implied sex, morning sickness
Word Count: 1,103
Summary/Notes: mpreg Michael, morning sickness, and confessions of love. Technically a sequel to looking for my creator, but you don’t really need to’ve read that one first.
“I hate this,” Michael says. “I hate this, and I hate food, and I hate everything.” And then promptly throws up again. For the third time. That morning.
James’s hand’s warm on his back. “Yeah, I got that the first five times you said so. Everything, huh?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know. Why aren’t you bothered by this? I threw up on your feet yesterday.”
“Just like pubs back home in Glasgow.” James hands over the bottle of water. Both the bottle and James are far too patient, Michael decides. Mocking him. He throws the bottle cap at the wall in a display of petulance that does nothing at all to said wall and equally nothing for his temper.
“I’d say I’m sorry,” James says, rubbing his back, “but I’m sort of not.”
“Oh, thanks very much.”
“You’re havin’ our baby. Fuckin’ amazing. Throw up on my feet all you want. I’ll even make you extra eggs so you can throw those up too.”
“I hate you,” Michael says, and rinses his mouth out, weakly. “Isn’t morning sickness supposed to stop at some point?”
“First trimester’s the worst, the books say.” James leans over to collect the bottle cap and tosses it with unerring aim into the trash. Takes the hand off Michael’s back very briefly, and maybe Michael’s imagining things but there seems to be a split-second’s hesitation before the touch returns. “Feeling better?”
“I’m just going to move into your loo,” Michael tells him. “Right here. On the floor. Step over me when you need to shower.”
“Can’t. Your stomach’s getting bigger than my legs.” James moves the hand again. Michael instantly wants it back. “Did you say green, for the baby’s room?”
“I thought you liked blue. And since when is that discussion not hypothetical, anyway.” He plops his head back onto the tile. James’s flat is lovely and kind and literary as its owner; science-fiction paperbacks and bundt pans and football jerseys decorate every available space including the spare-but-possibly-baby’s bedroom, and Michael has wanted for as long as he can remember, as long as he’s been friends with James, to move in and never leave.
They’ve put off that discussion time and time again. It’s come up-keeps coming up; James’s flat is more central for visits to renowned obstetricians and baby-supply stores-and every time he can’t handle the rawness of the open wound.
One giddy euphoric post-filming night, crackling chemistry and the two of them getting tipsy on wrap-party champagne and falling into bed, that’d been it. All it’d taken for the world to change, one seismic shift in the form of Michael’s sadistically quirky genetics.
He’s having James’s baby. He’s been in love with James, hopelessly and wholeheartedly, for over a decade. And now he has James, who’s promptly assumed the role of perfect devoted partner, flawlessly concerned and involved and supportive as hell.
Michael wants to scream. To break down the universe. To scratch his heart out with his fingernails until it’s too nonexistent to ache. Hell. Yes. Sapphire-eyed and generous and cruel as everything he’s ever wanted, twisted and served up sideways.
“I like both.” James’s voice sounds oddly small. “Green and blue. I only meant-whatever you want, okay? And maybe…I know you don’t want to…maybe it’s time we did think about living together? Not here if you don’t-I can move in with you.”
In Michael’s place. Which has never been properly unpacked and sorted out from the last move, boxes lurking guiltily in the corner. Which has cigarette packs stashed in secret places because he’d never quite had the strength of will to quit completely, unlike James.
He’s well and truly quit now. Hasn’t got around to unearthing them all and throwing them away.
He’s not said anything. James curls a leg underneath himself, preparatory to getting up. “I’ll just…just let me know if you want anything, maybe? I can get you more water.”
“Stop,” Michael says, not even aware that the word’s on the tip of his tongue until it’s out. “Just stop. Please.”
James’s face goes absolutely white. As if that heart-scratching metaphor’s real after all, and in his chest instead of Michael’s. “What-what’re you asking-”
“Don’t pretend.” And, oh, his eyes’re blurring, and his mouth tastes disgusting, and the bottle of water’s clutched in his left hand because James brought it for him. “I know you don’t-you didn’t want this, you never wanted-just tell me the truth, right, you hate me for this, for making you do this-everything-when you only wanted one night of fun-I know that, I knew that, don’t ask me if I want you to move in with me, fuck-”
“You fucking idiot,” James hisses, and that tone’s sufficiently unusual from that lochs-and-sunrise accent that Michael stops both talking and crying, out of sheer surprise.
James glares at him. Mutters once more, “You absolute-” and then leans in and puts both hands on Michael’s face and pulls him into a kiss, right there on the bathroom floor.
Michael’s shocked enough that his brain can only come up with wait, what? and I must taste terrible and oh God that’s James kissing me, and those three thoughts collide and spin around in dizzying eddies.
James’s mouth tastes like coffee and raspberry-ginger syrup and cream. James kisses with unquestionable firmness, not hard but determined to banish all doubt. James’s fingers are warm on his face the same way they’d been warm earlier, rubbing his back.
James stops kissing him to demand, “Why the fuck d’you think I don’t want you? Or this? When have I ever said anything to-I fucking love you!”
“You do?”
This time it’s James who stops, speechless. And then splutters, “Oh, God…I’ve never said that, have I, fuck…oh, God, I’ve just said that for the first time while we’re on the floor of the fucking loo, I can’t believe I-yes, I love you!”
“Well, good!” Michael snaps back, “because I love you!”
“You do?”
“Yes!”
“Since when?”
“Since always!”
“Please move in with me,” James says, eyes huge, “please, I’ve hated every morning you’ve ever left and I want to wake up next to you and teach our kid about football and I only got that drunk at the wrap party because I was so damn nervous about finally asking you up to my room and then you were sort of drunk too and I never knew if it meant anything to you and-”
“Everything,” Michael says, “it meant everything,” and James, still cupping his cheek with one hand, says, “Yes.”