Fic - Baby the Skies Will Be Blue
Nothing says Happy Valentine's Day like fluffy MPREG.

Baby the Skies Will Be Blue
Jon/Spencer
PG 13
11,314 words
Notes: MPREG, schmoop, blah blah blah. sweetrecovery was my beta and she did such a wonderful, thorough job. Thank you so much, Julie :)

Written as part of bandslash_usa. My state was Tennessee.

A while ago, I wrote this Jon and Spencer and a baby thing which was inspired by the aug 14 07 prompt at we_are_cities. This story sort of came out of that.





Spencer's sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed in a thin pair of sleep pants and one of Jon's old tour t-shirts. The baby's resting in the cradle of his folded legs, her head on his thigh, her tiny hands fisted in the air as Spencer feeds her from a bottle.

Jon comes out of the bathroom, turning off the overhead light. He crawls onto the bed, careful not to jostle them, and folds himself around Spencer's knees, propping his head in his hand, weight on his elbow.

"Hey little baby Walker," Jon murmurs, leaning down to press his mouth to her bare foot. 

Spencer rolls his eyes but he's smiling. His fingers sweep the babyfine hair off her damp forehead and her eyes, heavy with sleep, flutter shut. Her mouth's still moving, sucking, her little noises soothing in the quiet room.

Spencer tears his eyes away from her sweet face that looks so much like Jon and he's almost, though not quite, used to the way his breath catches when he lifts his head and Jon’s there, a small smile in his eyes. The look on his face is peaceful, calm, but there's joy radiating from him so strongly Spencer feels he can soak it in, like rays from the sun, drink in its warmth and energy.

Jon raises his eyes to Spencer's, catches him looking and smiles. "What?" he says quietly, careful not to disturb their daughter. 

Spencer raises Jon's hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to his palm.

"You," he says.


*



It started with the sex.

Of course it did, the trouble always starts with the sex.

If Spencer hadn't had sex - once, twice, repeatedly, over and over and over again, sometimes four times a day, lots and lots of sex; slow, dirty sex on his mom's bathroom floor, frantic post-show sex up against the wall with his legs wrapped around Jon's waist, lazy Sunday morning fucking with the sunshine streaming in and Jon pressed chest to back against him - if it hadn't been for the sex, none of this would have happened.

Spencer likes to get fucked. Every now and then they’d ditch the condom and sometimes, when Jon was pressed against him, skin to skin, every inch touching, he’d lose it a little and beg for Jon to come inside him. If he'd known, if only he'd fucking known, he might have thought twice about it.

It's hard to believe he'd have done anything differently.


*


It falls on a Wednesday the week after Halloween, their day of three years of being together.

Their anniversary.

Spencer refuses to use the word. It makes him feel old. As old as one can feel two months after turning twenty-three, but old. Also, it makes this claustrophobic, panicked feeling well up in his throat. So it's just their day of being together.

Spencer spends most of his time off at Jon’s apartment in Chicago because it’s easier than going back to an apartment he never finished moving into where it’s just him.

So it’s like being home when they stop in Chicago for three nights on their Four Letter World Tour in support of their third album.

It’s right that they’re here, in Jon’s apartment where Jon kissed him first, three falls ago with the rain landing sideways against the windows and Jon’s lips tasting like coke and whiskey. It’s good that they’re in Chicago where Jon met Spencer at the airport two winters ago at five in the morning after a last minute red eye, kissed the corner of his mouth and said, sleepy and soft, “Missed you, it’s not home with you gone.”

Brendon, Ryan and the rest of the band and crew are camped out downtown near the venue, at the Four Seasons, and it’s Spencer and Jon in Jon’s apartment with the wind blowing the leaves off the trees so they fall down like snow and Spencer wakes with Jon’s face pressed against his neck, his leg draped over Spencer’s hip.

They said no gifts, no making a big deal out of it. Mostly it was Spencer who said it, somewhere on Interstate 70 between Kansas City and St. Louis, Spencer who mumbled ,“It’s just a day,” as Jon nudged his nose against Spencer’s throat, his hands slipping down Spencer’s sides. And Jon who muttered, “Whatever you want,” his breath hot against Spencer’s skin.

Spencer listens to Jon’s breathing, measures the rhythm and pace of it against the sounds the wind makes as it knocks branches against the windows. He slips out from under Jon, turns the alarm to “off” and pulls on Jon’s sweatshirt, the one with the frayed neck and bleach stains that Jon wears around the house when it’s just them and they have no place to be.

He’s got the batter for blueberry pancakes mixed and a batch in the skillet when Jon tucks his chin over Spencer’s shoulder, kisses the corner of his mouth and hands him a little box with a gaudy pink sparkly bow taped to the top.

Spencer drops the spatula in the batter and pushes Jon back so he can turn around and glare at him.

“Just open it,” Jon says, grinning, pushing the box into Spencer’s hand before Spencer can get started on how they agreed and all that shit that Spencer feels very strongly about but knows Jon doesn’t care about.

Spencer lifts the lid of the box and it’s just a key on a silver key ring, but Spencer knows what it means and Jon’s looking pretty fucking pleased with himself when Spencer looks up.

Three years and a key and Spencer can’t say anything other than “You sentimental fuck,” but his cheeks are flushed with pleasure.

He cups the back of Jon’s neck, fingers in the soft hair at the nape, and presses his grin to Jon’s mouth.

Jon’s mouth is warm, the faint taste of cinnamon toothpaste still on his tongue and his beard scratches Spencer’s chin. Jon wraps his arm around Spencer’s waist, pulls their hips flush together, and licks into Spencer’s mouth.

They fuck on the kitchen floor, pancakes burning on the stove and a cell phone ringing somewhere back in the bedroom.

Jon presses Spencer into the tile, nudges his hips harder, forces grunts and gasps and an accidental moan from Spencer and comes inside him around the same time Spencer whispers, “Oh fuck,” and comes all over the linoleum.



*


Spencer doesn’t remember ever throwing up this much.

He thinks maybe it’s food poisoning, from the Japanese restaurant Jon took him to in Seattle where he’d insisted he didn’t want to try the octopus but Jon just waved it in his face, nagged him relentlessly until Spencer said, "For fuck's sake, give me that" and gave in.

He's throwing up one hour into the flight to Chicago, locked in the tiny bathroom. He’s clammy and flushed and thinks this might be what dying feels like.

When he comes out of the bathroom after trying to get the taste of vomit out of his mouth, Jon's leaning against the back row of seats.

Spencer groans and rests his forehead on Jon’s shoulder which probably isn’t a good idea, but feels too much like a reprieve to stop.

Jon touches gentle fingers to the back of Spencer’s neck. “Are you okay?” He says the words softly against Spencer’s ear, and Spencer shivers, shuddering a little as a wave of nausea hits and makes him press closer into Jon.

“I’m pretty sure I hate you for making me eat that crap,” he groans and it feels like he's pushing thorns out of his mouth, his throat raw.

Jon's hand is warm on Spencer's hip. "You think it's food poisoning?"

“Unless it’s the plague,” Spencer groans and with the way he’s feeling, that’s not an impossibility. "I don't know what else it could be," he mumbles.

Jon moves to kiss him and Spencer makes a face. "Vomit breath," he says, shrugging away.

Back in their seats, Spencer asks the flight attendant for a glass of water and Jon hands him a piece of gum. He falls asleep with his head against the window and prays it'll go away.


*


Spencer's spent the last three days in his sweats, reading books Ryan loaned him and watching crappy daytime television.

He hasn't showered and he can smell himself, rank and musty but every time he moves he feels like he's going to throw up all over himself.

Spencer wakes up from a nap on the couch to Jon shaking him gently and saying softly, "C'mon Spence, shower, let's go."

It’s late afternoon, already dark, the living room dimly lit.

Spencer makes a noise of protest and burrows deeper into the sofa cushions. "Hi, napping," he says, groggy and still half asleep.

Jon wraps his fingers gently around Spencer's wrist and pulls, arms coming around him as Spencer gets unsteadily to his feet. "You reek and you need a shower and food."

Spencer presses his face into Jon’s chest and makes a noise that sounds vaguely like a pitiful whine.

Jon ignores him and tugs him toward the bathroom. He turns the water on hot and pushes Spencer's t-shirt up over his head. Spencer shucks his sweatpants and gets into the shower, sighing as the hot water falls over him. A minute of standing still under the water and Jon's getting in behind him, pressing up against his back. His lips are soft against the side of his neck, and his hands feel good pressing flat against his stomach, the pressure helping ease the nausea a little.

Spencer’s completely drained of any desire to do anything but stand there but Jon seems content to do most of the work, pushing Spencer beneath the shower head, soaping him up and rinsing him clean.

It’s a lot like being drunk, this kind of exhaustion and when Jon turns Spencer to face him, Spencer stumbles, falling into Jon’s chest and pressing his open mouth to his collarbone in a startled breath. Jon just laughs and holds him up.


*


Five days later Spencer finally feels human again. The vomiting has mostly stopped and he’s sleeping normal hours again.

He's pulling on his favorite pair of jeans, the dark ones that sit low on his hips. They're tight, a lot tighter than they normally are and when he goes to zip them up, he can't. There's about two inches of space between the buttons.

"Fuck," he says, more loudly than he meant to.

"What?" Jon calls from the bedroom.

“Am I getting fat?" Spencer says, looking down at his stomach. "How is that even possible? I've thrown up everything I've eaten in the last two weeks."

From this angle, staring down, his stomach looks like it’s sticking out considerably more than it usually does.

Jon comes into the bathroom pulling a t-shirt over his head. He stops, leaning against the doorjamb. He looks at Spencer, shirtless in his girl jeans that won't button and looks like he's thinking of laughing.

Spencer just looks at him, frowning.

"Maybe a little," Jon says, appraisingly. "You have a girly stomach.” Jon comes over behind Spencer, places his palm flat against the subtle curve of Spencer's stomach that definitely wasn't there a month ago. Jon kisses the corner of his mouth. "You kind of look pregnant," Jon mumbles, shoulders shaking with laughter.

Spencer goes completely still. “Shut up,” he says weakly and shoves Jon, half-heartedly trying to push him away.

"Hey now," Jon says, his voice teasing and light. "It's pretty hot," he says, and his fingers trail over Spencer's stomach to the open fly and cup Spencer through the thin material of his underwear.

Spencer shudders and sighs and lets Jon push him to the floor.


*


It’s ridiculous and paranoid but Spencer can’t shake what Jon said, the huge, scary pregnant bouncing around in his head. If Spencer was a girl, he’d have no doubt he was pregnant, he’s got all the symptoms. There’s no logical explanation for why he’s gained weight in the last few weeks or why he can’t stop throwing up and suddenly his lower back aches all the time.

Spencer can’t stop thinking about it. Of course Jon was just playing around but there’s the enormously freaked out part of Spencer that wonders if it’s possible he’s a medical miracle, like babies born with two heads or flippers for arms. What if he was born with some kind of freaky male uterus and now he’s pregnant.

“Oh god, shut up,” Spencer says out loud, to himself. He’s in the bathroom, in just his underwear, staring at his reflection in the mirror and focusing on the swell of his stomach.

What if I am pregnant? hits him so hard Spencer loses his breath for a moment, staring at his wide-eyed reflection.

He’s not small like he was when he was a teenager but he likes the way he looks now and he’s pretty sure a pregnant stomach would mess that up.

“You’re not pregnant,” he says but the face in the mirror is not the slightest bit reassured.

He takes a deep breath to see how it feels and it stutters a little in his chest, reminiscent of the one and only panic attack he had, back when he was eighteen and they were realizing Brent wasn’t going to be sticking around.

He tries to remember the breathing exercises the therapist his mom made him see taught him but it doesn’t help. His head is swimming with pictures of little babies and swollen stomachs and diapers.

He rushes out into the bedroom, throwing on whatever clothes he finds, grabs his keys and wallet and practically runs past Jon who’s on the couch, looking sleepy and just-fucked and says, “Going out, back in a bit.”

It takes him three attempts to get the car started, his hands shaking and his breathing rushed but he makes it to the drugstore in one piece.

He tries to make himself invisible, pulls the hood of his sweatshirt up and manages to find the aisle with the feminine hygiene products and the little section of pregnancy tests.

This is so fucking stupid, he thinks but he’s not going to get any sleep until he can shut that what if voice off.

He grabs four different tests, barely looks at the elderly woman checking him out and rushes home to lock himself in the bathroom.

Spencer’s in there for an hour and the results are all the same, little pink plus signs, double lines, circles. He’s pregnant.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” he yells and storms out of the bathroom.

“This is a joke,” he says, breathing heavy, waving the four different sticks. “Tell me this is a goddamn fucking joke!”

Jon’s sitting on the sofa, the television muted, staring slightly alarmed at Spencer who shoves the tests in front of Jon.

“Um,” is all Jon says at first, looking between the four pieces of plastic and cardboard. “You’re pregnant,” he says after a bit, looking a little pale and a lot shellshocked.

Spencer sort of loses his shit after that, stomping around the living room. "There's no such thing!" he yells waving his arms. “I’m a guy. Fuck, guys don’t get pregnant.”

“Actually,” Jon says, dazed and quiet, “it can happen, has happened a few times. I read somewhere that there’s been several cases of guys giving birth.”

“Where’d you read that, the National Enquirer?” Spencer bites out, fuming.

“Spence, calm down,” Jon says. He gets up, sets the tests down on the coffee table and comes over, one hand on Spencer’s hip.

“Fuck, I need to get out of here.” Spencer ignores the look on Jon’s face, grabs his keys and lets the door slam behind him.

It’s four degrees out, biting cold, but Spencer walks, ducks his head against the wind and heads up the block.

There’s some truth to what Jon says, logically Spencer gets that, it’s just. Not possible. Having a baby was never in the cards for him and Jon. Spencer’s not sure he wants it to be.


*


It’s late when he gets back and the apartment’s dark. When he crawls into bed, Jon rolls to face him.

"Just tell me," Spencer mumbles into the dark. "Tell me how this works." Where would we live? What about the band? How the fuck do we raise a baby?

"We'll figure it out." Jon doesn’t sound as sure as Spencer wants him to be, but in a weird way it’s reassuring, that Spencer’s not the only one freaking out.

Jon reaches out, touches Spencer’s stomach beneath the cotton of his t-shirt. It feels weird. Spencer thinks he could have three thousand days to get used to the idea, and it wouldn't be enough. Jon's fingers rub circles on Spencer's skin, soothing and gentle. It feels nice.


*


In the morning, it’s new all over again, the reality of a baby and Spencer pregnant. Jon’s sitting on the edge of the bed, and he looks up, eyes a little unfocused but bright. He says, “We're going to have a baby" like it just occurred to him. The look on his face does nothing for the panic welling up in Spencer's throat. It takes him a second, and no, that's not panic, and he bolts for the bathroom.

Everything in his stomach comes up, his eyes tearing at the corners with the force of it, and heaves until there's nothing left and it's just dry convulsions. He gasps and shudders and when he’s done, presses his cheek to the cool linoleum floor.

Jon doesn’t hesitate, just follows Spencer in and rubs his back through it.


*


Jon finds the doctor on the internet, then calls her office to make sure she’s for real. Apparently there are only a handful of doctors specializing in male pregnancies. She practices in Evanston which is convenient considering Spencer’s not willing to leave the house much less get on a plane. Jon makes the appointment for tomorrow.

Jon’s been doing a lot of research on male pregnancy. Spencer feels like maybe he should help or get involved but mostly he lies around, staring at the ceiling feeling like he’s twelve all over again.

In the morning they drive the twenty minutes to her office. Her name is Diane Grace and she works with two other doctors in a nice enough office building.

She's nice, in her early forties with a pleasant face and blonde hair cut short. "You must be Spencer," she says encouragingly, holding out her hand.

"Yeah, um, hi, nice to meet you." He shakes her hand and feels more awkward than he's ever felt in his life. Spencer takes a look around. It looks like the doctor's office his mom used to drag him to for his sister's check ups when she was a baby. It looks normal.

Dr. Grace shakes Jon's hand and invites them back into an examination room.

"Have a seat, please, Mr. Smith," she says, gesturing to the table.

Jon helps Spencer get up on the table and takes a seat in the armchair against the wall.

Dr. Grace sits on an office chair and opens a folder with Spencer's name on it. "Okay," she says cheerfully, looking at Spencer, her face open and friendly. "I'm sure you have tons of questions, concerns, fears."

"Yeah, um. How did this happen?"

She goes into a long, rambling drawn out thing about genes and extra chromosomes and at one point, his head pounding and his palms sweating, Spencer interrupts her to say "Wait, sorry, what? So you're saying I'm like a freaking mutant? Like in fucking X Men?"

Jon puts his hand on Spencer's knee. "Spence," Jon says but the doctor interrupts him. "No, it's okay, Mr. Walker, it's fine. I can only imagine what you must be feeling, both of you. If you want, I can put you in touch with some men, your age and a little older, who've been through the same thing. It can help to have a support group."

Spencer bites his lip and scowls at his hands in his lap. That's the last thing he wants.

"To answer your question, Mr. Smith, basically, yes. You are one of maybe a thousand men, that we know of, with the gene that allows for male pregnancy."

The longer she talks, the more real, frighteningly, mindblowingly real the whole thing becomes. Spencer can hardly hear over the rush of blood in his head and Jon's hand on his knee is steady and barely holding Spencer together.

Spencer’s been mostly listening to her, drifting in and out and trying not to focus on the enormity of everything.

“If you don’t have any more questions right now, we’ll go ahead and do a sonogram,” the doctor says, getting up from the desk. “Spencer, if you’ll just lie down on the table, get as comfortable as you can, and I’m just going to call the nurse in here and we’ll get the machine set up.”

Spencer nods weakly and she disappears down the hall. “Shit shit shit,” Spencer whispers, staring at his knees.

Spencer takes a shaky breath and turns to look at Jon. They stare at each other for a panicked beat.

“It’s going to be fine,” Spencer says automatically because it’s his turn. He doesn’t really believe it but Jon’s been good about reassuring Spencer, Spencer feels maybe it’s his turn. Jon squeezes Spencer’s knee and gives him a small, unsure smile.

When Dr. Grace comes back into the room, Spencer’s laying on the table next to some strange looking machine with a television monitor.

She goes about getting everything set up and says, “It's too early to determine the sex of your baby, but we're just going to take a look and make sure everything's as it should be. Just relax; this is the painless part."

The gel is cool, startling at first as she rubs it into his skin.

“I know it’s cold, sorry,” Dr. Grace says, smiling apologetically when Spencer jumps slightly, startled.

She places the smooth, rounded edge of the machine on Spencer’s stomach, over the slight swell of his belly. Jon’s fingers are cool and gentle on Spencer’s wrist, his cheek brushing Spencer’s shoulder as he leans past the doctor to see the screen.

She presses gently down, putting pressure on Spencer’s stomach. There's some static and fuzz and then, the steady, unmistakable thump of a heart.

“There it is,” Dr. Grace is smiling. She points to the screen, to a blurred shape on the screen. “There’s your baby.”

Spencer feels Jon exhale sharply, feels him go completely still, and Spencer has to force himself to keep from getting the fuck out of there, running away from this whole fucked-up mess.

It takes a minute for Spencer's breath to come back to him and he stares unblinkingly at the monitor and the grainy image of their baby, not much bigger than the size of a peanut.

Spencer swallows around the lump in his throat and reaches shaky fingers out to touch the screen.

Dr. Grace is talking and pointing, explaining how the next time they take a sonogram they’ll be able to see the baby’s arms and legs and all Spencer can focus on is the panic in his chest.

“Here you go Spencer.” Dr. Grace hands Spencer a photo, the photo of the baby. His baby. Spencer takes it, speechless and just stares down at it for a moment, trying to think something beyond “oh fuck.”

Spencer hands the photo to Jon and he takes it with a blank expression on his face, just stares at it like he’s looking but not really seeing.

Jon looks up at Spencer and he looks the way Spencer feels, like he was just sucker punched.

“Okay, everything looks good here,” Dr. Grace says and turns the machine off. She pushes back from the table, the wheels of her chair rolling loudly across the sterile linoleum floor. She reaches for her prescription pad.

“I’m going to give you a prescription for pre-natal vitamins and on your way out, please make an appointment to come back in a month.”

She comes over, hands Spencer the slip of paper and holds out her hand to shake his. “Call me, anytime, with any questions,” she says, squeezing a little. She has the sympathetic mom face on.

Spencer offers a weak smile. “Thanks.”

Jon gets up and shakes the doctor’s hand. “Thank you.”


*


They leave with a stack of pamphlets. Jon drives and neither of them says anything. When they get home, it’s quiet and awkward and Spencer feels like the silence might suffocate him.

"Do you want to eat something?" Jon asks eventually. Spencer's sitting in the armchair, his feet tucked underneath him, his chin on the armrest. He's been staring out the window for close to an hour, knows it’s snowing, that there are people on the street below, cars passing by, but he’s not really seeing anything.

Things are strained and awkward. They have been for weeks now and Spencer can't quite find the strength to reach out and fix it.

He shakes his head and makes a face when Jon says, “You should eat.”

“Fine.”

Jon doesn’t say anything else for a beat and then he’s coming over and sitting on the arm of the chair.

“There are a million things we have to talk about,” Jon says, leaning his head back, eyes closed.

Spencer exhales, shaky and tired, and folds his fingers around Jon’s where his hand his resting against his thigh.

“Yeah, okay,” Spencer says. He presses his lips to Jon’s arm and says, “Let’s talk.”


*


It’s late, but in Las Vegas it’s not yet ten, so they call Ryan first and then Brendon. Jon puts the phone on speaker, tells them each, “We have something to tell you and it’s pretty important, so either you come out here, or me and Spence’ll come to Vegas.”

Ryan doesn’t ask questions, says, “I’ll call you with my flight information.”

With Brendon it’s a little more complicated, fielding questions and pleas to just tell him now.

“You’re fucking freaking me out,” Brendon says and Spencer apologizes but it doesn’t feel like enough.

It’s early evening the following day when everyone’s at the apartment, Ryan and Brendon tucked next to each other on the loveseat across from Spencer and Jon.

There’s no easy way to say it so Spencer just says it, opens his mouth and lets the words tumble out. “I’m pregnant and we’re having a baby.”

There’s a beat of dead silence and then Brendon cracks up, and Ryan’s smiling.

Spencer sighs, reaches in the pocket of his sweatshirt for the picture and shoves it into Ryan’s hands.

The laughter dies on Brendon's face. He looks over Ryan's shoulder at the grainy sonogram photo.

“Brendon,” Jon says, voice quiet, soft. “You’re freaking out.”

Brendon stands up and starts pacing, hands pulling at the hem of his t-shirt, bangs falling forward. “Fuck. Fuck. How are you not freaking out?”

Spencer doesn’t answer.

“We’ve had some time.” Jon’s voice is quiet, his face not showing anything but exhaustion.

“Brendon,” Ryan says sharply, wrapping his fingers around Brendon’s wrist and pulling until Brendon stumbles and falls to the edge of the sofa, half in Ryan’s lap. “Stop.”

Ryan keeps his hand on Brendon’s.

Spencer’s never felt more awkward or uncomfortable in his life. He reaches for the crumpled sonogram photo, pulls it out of Ryan’s grip and tries to smooth it out. He stares down at the fuzzy shape of his baby, their baby, until it’s nothing but blurred shades of black and white.

“It’s done,” Spencer says, looking up, forcing himself to look at Ryan and Brendon. “We’re having a baby” and I can’t take it back. Spencer’s throat closes around the words and he coughs, tries to force them out stronger, louder. Spencer’s stomach rolls, the nausea building. He gets to his feet, one hand on his stomach, trying to calm it. “I guess I should say I’m sorry,” he says, pausing at the bathroom door, “or something, for fucking things up.”

He lets the door shut behind him and falls to the floor, hunched over the toilet. Everything he’s eaten comes up, violently, and his eyes tear at the corners with the force of his heaving.

He hears the door open and then Ryan’s sliding down to the floor to kneel next to him, his palm warm when it slides under his t-shirt to press against his lower back.


*


As band meetings go, it sucks. It takes them three hours of arguing and basically getting nowhere to postpone the tour and do it after the baby's born.

"We'll get a second bus, if we need to," Ryan says, rubbing his hands over his face.

"We can get a nanny, Spence," Jon says, putting his hand on Spencer's knee. It's not ideal, but it makes the most sense. No one's willing to give up the band, and Spencer doesn't want to stop touring. If Faith Hill and Tim McGraw made it work, so can they.


*


Spencer can't help feeling like he has something to apologize for, like maybe all this, the baby, is his fault.

It's late, the green light of the bedside clock says it's past one, but Spencer can't sleep, and he can feel Jon move restlessly beside him, his breathing uneven.

Spencer's voice feels loud in his ears but it's barely a whisper when he says, "I'm sorry I got you into this mess."

There's nothing for while, and he thinks Jon maybe didn't hear him. And then Jon's rolling to his side and they're face to face.

"Hey, Spence, no. That's not. No." Jon touches his fingers to Spencer's cheek. "It's not a mess." His other hand presses flat to the curve of Spencer's belly. Spencer can feel Jon's breath against his lips and he doesn't know how to make this better, how to make it right.

"Whatever this is," Jon says, "it's not a mess. And we're in it together. You didn't get me into anything."



*


Of all the decisions ahead of them, the choices and compromises to make, the easiest for Spencer is where they’re going to live. Spencer’s attachment to Las Vegas is Brendon and Ryan and his family. His mother’s already promised to come out for the first weeks after the baby is born and Spencer’s pretty sure Ryan and Brendon will go wherever Spencer and Jon are.

“I don’t want to live in the city,” Spencer says, sitting cross legged in the middle of the bed, several real estate listings spread out in front of him. Jon’s got his laptop on his knees, leaning back against the pillows.

“I want our kid to feel safe.” Spencer grew up playing Kick the Can in the middle of the street, water fights in late summer, setting off fireworks and chasing after dogs. He hasn’t thought much about this kid beyond right now, but he does know he wants that for his son or daughter, that freedom to run and play and be a kid. And if he or she is lucky enough, there will be a Ryan of their own down the block.

“So, we’ll live in Wilmette, or Glenview. I can do suburbia.” Jon tucks his chin over Spencer’s shoulder.

Patrick emails Jon the name of the real estate agent who helped him get his house. “He’s a very cool guy, won’t ask questions, I told him to expect your call.”

Spencer’s ready for all of this to calm down, to feel like a human again instead of some sort of freak. He doesn’t know if buying a house is a step in the right direction, or not, but they need more space. And he wants this done as soon as possible.

On Monday, they meet Patrick’s agent, Derek, at his office. He’s young, in his late twenties maybe.

“You must be Spencer,” Derek says when they walk in, holding out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

He’s got a firm grip. “Thanks for meeting with us,” Spencer says.

“I’m Jon,” Jon says, shaking Derek’s hand and pulling out a chair. Spencer scowls when Jon gestures for him to sit and Jon just grins and shrugs apologetically.

Over the next week, Derek shows them more than fourteen houses.

“Are you being difficult on purpose?” Jon asks on Friday afternoon, as they’re driving home from yet another house Spencer didn’t like.

Spencer bristles. “There’s a reason I was the last one to get a place of my own.” Spencer slides down in the seat, rests his heels on the dashboard.

“I’m just saying, if you don’t want to do this, we don’t have to. We don’t have to buy a house.”

Spencer slips the hood of his sweatshirt over his eyes. “This is a big deal,” he mutters to himself but Jon hears, looks over. He puts his hand on Spencer’s thigh.

“Yeah, Spence, it’s a huge deal. I’m sorry, we don’t have to rush this.”

At home, Spencer grabs a pad of paper and a couple of pens, and they sit at the coffee table and make a list of the houses they’ve seen. There are a couple that Spencer liked enough to consider, the one in Cloverdale, in the cul de sac, with the big backyard and the bonus room over the garage.

“I like the Craftsman on Raleigh Court,” Spencer says, drawing a star next to it on the list.


*


They close on the little three bedroom Craftsman house with the unpainted picket fence and large backyard the day Spencer begins his second trimester.

They meet Derek at the house where he hands them the keys and they drink apple cider in plastic champagne glasses. Derek doesn’t ask why it’s not champagne and Spencer’s glad that’s one lie he doesn’t have to tell.

Derek leaves them in the empty house and Jon and Spencer stand in the kitchen, looking out into the rest of the first floor.

“Holy shit,” Jon says. Spencer agrees.

“Yup,” is all he says and they stand there in dumbstruck silence.

The awkwardness between the two of them is not as strong these days, buying a house together has sort of cemented the reality of the situation and while Spencer’s not a hundred percent comfortable with everything that’s happened, he’s started to accept it.

Spencer closes the space between him and Jon, tucks his fingers in Jon’s waistband and his face in against the warm skin of Jon’s neck. He rests his cheek on Jon’s shoulder and Jon’s hand comes up automatically, rubbing Spencer’s lower back.

“This is okay,” Spencer says, and he believes it.

*


It takes a week to pack and get everything moved over to the house. Jon’s parents help, his mother hovering as Spencer unpacks books in the living room.

“You’re feeling okay?” She asks, putting CD’s on the shelves by the window.

It’s uncomfortable talking about this pregnancy with anyone, let alone Jon’s mom, but she’s so earnest and eager to be a part of it that Spencer grudgingly tells her, “The morning sickness is mostly gone, but I’m hungry all the time.”

She smiles sympathetically. “I remember that. When I was pregnant with Jon it felt like I was always eating. How I managed to only gain forty pounds I’ll never understand.”

Spencer helps her arrange the DVD’s in the entertainment unit.

“I know this is weird for you,” she says after a bit, reaching out to place a hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “It is for all of us. But if you ever want to talk, or ask questions, anything.”

She doesn’t finish but Spencer gives her a small smile and says “Thank you.”


*


Spencer feels like, so far, he’s made a huge effort to accept the reality that he and Jon are going to have a baby. Mostly, though, it’s just an abstract thing that doesn’t feel real.

Things change during their first birthing class. It’s Monday night and Spencer and Jon are in a classroom at Dr. Grace’s office building, along with five other couples. Spencer’s the only pregnant guy. Of course he is. But nobody stares at him or asks him questions and Spencer reminds himself to thank the doctor.

The woman leading the class is a doula, and she looks like she spends a lot of time talking to trees and being one with nature. Her name’s Gwen and she’s nice enough, if a little overbearing.

“Good evening, parents-to-be, and welcome.”

She hands out a folder with pages of information, goes over details about breathing and natural births versus C-sections.

“Even if you’re planning on having a C-section,” she says, smiling in Jon and Spencer’s direction, “it’s important to remember the proper breathing to keep you and your baby safe.”

After an hour or so of answering questions and going into the details of Lamaze breathing, Gwen says, “Okay, let’s practice. Daddies, help the mommies to the mats.”

Jon helps Spencer get down on the floor and the plastic mat that reminds him of fifth grade gym class.

“Okay, daddies, sit behind your partner and let her lean back against you.”

Spencer makes a face at her choice of pronouns but does as instructed. Jon follows the lead of the other men and places his hands on Spencer’s stomach.

Spencer lays his head back against Jon’s shoulder. “This is really weird,” he says quietly, watching the women in their pretty flowery pregnancy clothes and their happy faces.

“Not so weird,” Jon says, lips warm against Spencer’s ear.

Spencer tilts his head up and Jon’s looking at him like he can’t quite believe this is real. He’s smiling.

“Okay everyone,” Gwen says, clapping her hands like she’s teaching kindergarten. “Let’s practice.”

For the next thirty minutes the room is filled with the sounds of twelve people gasping and breathing “hee hee hee hoo.”

It’s sort of ridiculous but Spencer’s not laughing. He’s got his palms flat on his stomach, Jon’s hands covering his, and for the first time since all of this happened, Spencer thinks he’s ready.

He’s pretty sure it’s Jon’s fault.



*


At the end of their third week of birthing class, Spencer says, “I think it’s time.”

Jon just looks at Spencer. “Are you sure?”

Spencer nods. He’s thought about it and now’s the right time.

“Okay, then,” Jon says, grinning. He helps Spencer into the car and they drive the twenty minutes to Babies R Us.

Spencer almost changes his mind as they walk through the doors and are bombarded with aisles of bottles and diapers and clothes and baby cribs and rocking chairs.

“Oh god,” Spencer says, feeling little panicked. “Where do we even start?”

Jon looks as lost as Spencer feels. “Um. We need a crib, right?”

Spencer nods, relieved. “A crib, yes, good. Gotta get a crib.”

Spencer has no idea why there are so many choices. Buying a bed for a baby should not be this dififcult.

Jon drags Spencer to a gorgeous dark cherry crib, made with classic Winnie the Pooh bedding. “This one’s nice,” Jon says, shrugging.

It doesn’t make much of a difference to Spencer, at least he doesn’t think so, until they see a hideous oak crib with intricate carvings and rails.

So it turns out he does have an opinion on what he wants their baby sleeping in. It takes an hour of looking at each of the cribs and comparing prices before they settle on the first one they saw.

Afterwards, Spencer makes Jon buy him tacos. “I deserve it,” he mumbles as they walk out with a receipt and a delivery slip. Jon tucks an arm around his waist, pulls him close and kisses him, soft and open-mouthed.

“You really do,” Jon whispers when they pull back.



*



Spencer wants to paint the baby's room. He doesn't have any ideas yet, but he wants to get his hands sticky with paint and listen to music with the windows open and be a part of the whole process. Jon thinks they should hire someone to do it.

"You shouldn't be around the paint fumes," Jon says, loading the dishwasher. Spencer's sitting on the kitchen counter, his bare feet slapping against the cabinets. He's dipping carrot sticks into a jar of Nutella and rubbing his stomach.

"They make nontoxic paint, Jon," Spencer says, like he knows all about it. He doesn't, not really, he just thinks he remembers hearing something about it somewhere . "It'll be fine. We can go to the Home Depot and be all domestic and shit and argue over paint colors." He's smiling, he knows he must look goofy, but he can't help it -- the whole idea makes him giddy.

Jon wipes his hands on a dishtowel and closes the dishwasher. "On one condition. You never let me see you eating that shit again," he waves a hand towards Spencer's jar of Nutella and makes a face.

"Shut up, it's delicious." Spencer dips a carrot into the jar and waves it in front of Jon's face.

Jon laughs. "Couldn't you have a normal craving, like peanut butter and pickles?"

Spencer makes a face. "Pickles make me nauseous."

Jon steps between Spencer's legs and Spencer wraps them around Jon's waist. He dips his finger in the jar of Nutella and paints it across Jon's lips.

Jon makes a face, but before he can say anything, Spencer leans in and licks the chocolate from his mouth.

"Mmm," he says, grinning.


*


They argue for three weeks about whether or not to find out the sex of the baby.

Jon wants to know, can’t wait to find out if they’re having a little Jon or Spencer junior or a little girl with his eyes and Spencer’s mouth.

Spencer doesn’t want to know, he wants to wait, to be surprised at the delivery.

There’s a list on the bathroom mirror Jon made of all the reasons to know, even though Spencer tears it down every time he sees it.


*


Spencer wakes up in the middle of the night most nights, pain in his lower back, unable to get comfortable.

Tom’s in Nashville these days, writing songs with a guy he met on the road. Tom was the third person to know about the baby, the first person Jon called after the dust had settled with Brendon and Ryan. He calls every day, asking questions and giving them pieces of advice he’s picked up from the internet or TV or his friend’s wife who has twins.

Spencer’s itchy and restless, so Jon suggests they take a road trip down to see him.

“I don’t know,” Spencer mumbles from under a pile of blankets. His voice is muffled when he says “What if the baby comes?”

Jon, cheeks rosy pink from being outside, peeks under the sheet. “Spence,” he says, obviously trying not to laugh, “You’re only six months along. The baby’s not going to come.”

Spencer scowls. “You don’t know,” he says. He’s regressed a good ten years since this whole pregnancy thing, but he figures if he has to carry around a baby in a body that was never meant for it, he’s entitled to a little moodiness, a little petulance.

Jon nudges his way under the blankets until he and Spencer are pressed front to front against each other, the covers pulled up over their heads like they’re kids, hiding under a tent.

“It’s not snowing in Nashville,” Jon says, his forehead pressed against Spencer’s. Spencer mostly just wants to lie here forever until the baby comes, moping about how fat he is and how unfair life is. But Jon wants to go and Spencer doesn’t mind admitting, to himself anyway, that he doesn’t want to be away from Jon.

Spencer sighs. “Will you buy me roadtrip food?”

Jon grins and kisses the corner of Spencer’s mouth. “I’ll buy you whatever you want.”


*


GPS says it takes a little over seven hours to get to Nashville. The baby and Spencer’s bladder insist it takes closer to nine.

Spencer sleeps a lot, his head against the window, one leg curled under him, the other propped up on the dashboard. Jon’s music drifts in and out of dreams about babies with big Brendon heads running around dressed as pumpkins.

They stop at a Cracker Barrel just south of the Indiana-Kentucky border as the dinner rush is beginning.

“I’m starving,” Spencer says, unfolding himself from the car. He aches everywhere, but that’s normal for these days. He stretches, arms over his head, arching until he feels his back crack. It’s almost dark, the blur of headlights passing by on I-65 like some sort of carnival ride.

There’s snow on the ground, covering the grass, weighing down branches, but it’s not Chicago cold and Spencer breathes in the cool air, feeling human for the first time in weeks.

Jon keeps his hand on Spencer’s lower back as they walk into the restaurant despite the looks furtively tossed their way. Spencer hunches in on himself, trying to minimize his stomach; at the same time he jerks his chin up, eyes focused on anyone who has anything to say.

There’s a ten-minute wait, and Spencer pulls Jon off to look at the hideously tacky cookie jars shaped like chickens, and sweatshirts with embroidered cats.

Jon holds up a pitcher shaped like a cow, with the spout as the cow’s mouth. “We have to have this,” he says gleefully, tilting the pitcher to watch as the mouth opens automatically, accompanied by an obnoxious moo sound.

Spencer laughs, mostly at the look of pure amusement on Jon’s face. Jon wanders off to look at a quilt sewn in the University of Kentucky colors and Spencer takes the pitcher up to the cash register.

Their name is called and Spencer hands the Cracker Barrel bag to Jon who takes it looking bewildered.

“It’s worth it for the look on your face,” Spencer says, hiding his grin.

The waitress is a girl who looks like she can’t be more than seventeen. She’s got a pretty face and looks like she spends a lot of time in Hot Topic. When she comes over to their table, a look of recognition passes over her face. Her smile is nervous and a little embarrassed. She doesn’t say anything about it, though, just offers them the specials of the day and takes their drink orders.

“I want chocolate chip pancakes,” Spencer says when she’s disappeared, looking down at the menu. It’s just dinner.

“Ask her when she gets back,” Jon says with a grin. “I bet she can get them for you.”

Spencer is not above using his celebrity if it means he gets chocolate chip pancakes.

The Cracker Barrel is noisy, families talking over one another, the sound of silverware knocking against plates and glasses.

“I’ve always wanted to eat at a Cracker Barrel,” Spencer says, kicking his feet against the old wooden chair.

Jon looks at him in disbelief for a second.

Spencer shrugs. “No Cracker Barrels on the West Coast.”

The waitress comes back to take their orders and her cheeks are bright red. “Have y’all decided what you want to eat?” she asks in a thick accent.

“Is there any way I can have the chocolate chip pancakes. Please?” Spencer uses his best good boy expression and doesn’t feel at all guilty when she flushes harder and ducks her head. “I’ll uh, I’ll see what I can do. Maybe they can make an exception.”

“Thank you,” he says, beaming and she barely remembers to take Jon’s order before tripping over her feet and practically running back to the kitchen.

“You should be ashamed,” Jon says, laughing.

“It’s for the baby,” Spencer says, but he can’t say it with a straight face.


*


They get to Nashville a little before ten. Tom’s renting an old house in East Nashville, five minutes from Music Row where he’s living with three other songwriters.

Jon’s just pulled up to the curb when the door opens and Tom’s running out in bare feet, despite the rain.

He’s smiling, big and happy and not for the first time Spencer sees why he and Jon are best friends.

Tom wraps Spencer in a hug and pulls back to press his face against Spencer’s stomach. “Hi baby,” Tom says softly.

Spencer laughs because it’s sort of cute to see a grown man get excited about a baby.

“It’s about time you came to visit,” Tom says, straightening up and pulling Jon against him.

They hang out for an hour in the living room with Tom’s roommates, everyone but Spencer drinking beer, until Spencer stars to drift off, his cheek against Jon’s shoulder.

“Come on,” Tom says, standing up, “I’ll show you where you’re sleeping.”



On the second day, Tom gives them a bunch of maps and suggests they drive to Gatlinburg if they want a true Smoky Mountain experience.

There’s a whole lot of nothing on the stretch of I-40 heading East between Nashville and Pigeon Forge.

Spencer’s bored thirty minutes outside of Nashville.

“Let’s play Twenty Questions,” he says, only it turns into As Many Questions As It Takes because Jon insists on picking things like Mcdonald’s Chicken Nuggets and Mama Cass.

In Gatlinburg, they park in an empty lot on Main Street and head off in search of lunch. The Pancake Pantry serves thirty-seven different kinds of pancakes and doesn’t care that it’s lunchtime.

Spencer orders chocolate milk and cornmeal pancakes and steals Jon’s homefries off his plate.

Jon snaps at his fingers and Spencer laughs, ducks his head and feels like he’s fifteen.


*


Afterwards, they walk around Main Street for a bit, bumping shoulders and laughing at the absurdity of it all.

Spencer’s about to suggest they think about getting back on the road before it gets too late when Jon stops at a little patch of grass and a sign that says “Heart of Gold Wedding Chapel.”

Spencer opens his mouth to ask what Jon’s doing but Jon breaks in, says, “Let’s get married.”

Spencer stares, open-mouthed and unblinking at Jon who looks like he’s serious.

“You can’t be serious,” Spencer says, looking from the filmy white gauze hanging from the old fashioned lanterns to the big guy in suspenders and work boots who’s watching them from his rusted pick up truck.

They agreed, someday. Someday they would get married. Spencer was thinking maybe when the baby was five. Or ten. Ten’s a good, round number.

“None of our friends are here,” Spencer says, not to mention their parents. Spencer’s pretty sure his mom would kill him if he got married without her there.

“We can do it for real with everyone.” Jon puts his hand on Spencer’s hip. “Spencer. I want to marry you. I want us to get married. But if you don’t want to do this now, that’s okay. It doesn’t have to be now.” He smiles a little, and Spencer believes him.

Jon’s other hand is warm against the small of his back, his fingertips just barely dipping beneath the waist of Spencer’s jeans, and Spencer leans into it a bit, trying to relieve a bit of the pressure that’s always a dull sort of pain these days.

The sound of the water rushing beneath the pedestrian bridge is calming, the leaves rustling in the slight, warm breeze.

A lot has changed in six months. And in all the ups and downs, there are some things that have remained the same. Jon’s there, he’s always there, when Spencer’s tired and pissed off because his body was never meant to go through what he’s forcing it to go through. When Spencer wakes up in the middle of the night, sweating and panicked, because holy shit, he’s pregnant and they’re going to have a baby. When Spencer feels sick with guilt, like he fucked everything up, like this is his fault. Jon’s always there, touching his fingertips to Spencer’s cheek, rubbing circles into his back, talking low and reassuring into the dark. He’s always there.

Spencer folds his fingers in Jon’s and pulls him just enough so their foreheads touch.

“Yes,” Spencer whispers, forces himself to look at Jon. “Yes, let’s get married,” he breathes and feels like he might have to sit down in a second because Jon’s grin is bright and wide and he curls his fingers in Spencer’s hair and presses their mouths together, right there in the middle of redneck country.

It’s a civil commitment, really, but when they’re standing in that tiny old chapel with the white flowers hanging from the windowsills and Jon can’t stop grinning and reaching out to touch Spencer, it doesn’t matter.


*


There's an inn back towards I-40 and it's getting late when they rent a room with a king sized bed and a wall of windows looking out toward the mountains.

Spencer can't stop glancing down at his hand, at the simple band on his ring finger. Oh my god, we're married. Spencer says the words in his head, repeats them to see how they feel. There's a momentary swell of panic and then Jon comes out of the bathroom, barefooted, hair hanging in his eyes, and the feeling disappears.

“I can’t believe we did that,” Spencer half laughs into Jon’s mouth, feeling a little giddy.

Jon touches his thumb to Spencer’s lower lip and mumbles something that sounds like a promise into Spencer’s mouth.

Sex with a beach ball for a belly is weird but they’ve figured out it’s easiest with Spencer on top and it’s weirdly hot in a vaguely perverse way, Spencer’s belly jutting out in front of him, obscuring the view of his dick so it’s all he sees.

“Fuck, Spencer, “ Jon says, head back on the pillow, sweat-soaked bangs in his eyes. “That’s just, fuck, that’s hot,” he mumbles and comes, pushing up hard and sudden so that Spencer shudders and hunches in on himself, coming all over Jon’s chest.


*


Spencer wakes up to Jon pressed snug behind him, his arm draped over his hip. It’s dark, the red lights on the digital clock blinking three am. He shifts to his back, blinking into the dark, trying to figure out what woke him.

It takes a second and then he realizes the baby’s moving, kicking and shifting.

Spencer gasps and presses his hand low on his stomach and there it is again, the barest of pressure, but it’s there.

“Oh my god,” Spencer half laughs into the quiet, a whisper mostly.

Spencer doesn’t want to wake Jon up but he knows Jon would want him to.

Jon’s cheek is pressed to Spencer’s shoulder and his breath is warm against Spencer’s skin. “Holy shit,” Jon breathes, pressing his fingers to the place where they felt the baby kick.


*


The seventh month means Spencer doesn’t leave the house much. People are always around though, and Brendon and Ryan have taken over the guest room, refusing to leave.

Pete comes over when he’s in town, the first time showing up with a onesie that says “I <3 my uncle Pete.”

Dr. Grace tells him the nesting is normal, the desire to stay around the house in his slippers, going through baby clothes and obsessively reading and re-reading the notes in the pregnancy journal.

“But, fuck. I’m a guy,” he says over the phone on his weekly check-in with her. Jon’s cooking dinner and Spencer’s sitting at the table with the baby folder, which has grown to almost three inches of paper and notes and clippings. Spencer’s doodling on the cover, writing out names, crossing them out, circling and starring the ones he likes.

“Yes, so you’ve said, many times, Spencer.” Dr. Grace is long suffering, the way Spencer’s mom sounds but she also has affection in her voice that Spencer finds comforting.

“I know none of this is normal to you, but believe me, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to make a place for you and Jon and the baby.”

Spencer lets out a sigh and slides lower in the chair, kicking his feet up onto the empty one across from him. “It’s just. It’s so. Fuck, it’s just girly,” Spencer says, biting his lip.

Jon lets out a laugh, a sharp sound that turns into a genuine burst of laughter, high and delighted, and Spencer ducks his head, grinning.

“Yes, I’d have to agree with you, Spencer, having a baby is very girly.” The doctor’s voice is dry, and Spencer can picture her rolling her eyes.

They talk for a few more minutes. She makes sure he’s checking his blood pressure daily and taking his pre-natal vitamins and they confirm next week’s appointment for another sonogram.


*

Wednesday morning after his one-on-one prenatal yoga class with Gwen, Jon and Spencer drive out to Evanston for their monthly check in.

“How are you feeling?” Dr. Grace asks when she comes into the examination room.

“Not terrible,” Spencer says with a smile. “I feel like I’m always tired or hungry or both.”

“Well, good, that’s where you should be,” she says with a laugh.

After doing a brief check up of Spencer’s health she says, “Let’s take a look and see how your baby’s doing.”

They go through the process of hooking up the machine and this time is different from that first visit, this time when the heartbeat comes out loud from the monitors, Spencer’s smiling.

“Oh my god, she got so big,” Jon says breathlessly. There on the screen is what their baby looks like, little arms and legs, her face.

“Wow,” is all Spencer says.

When they get home Jon scans the sonogram picture, titles it Little Baby Walker.jpg and emails it to everyone he’s ever met.


*



They’re still mostly in that state of disbelief, constantly, though the house has been taken over by baby things, furniture, clothes, toys.

The thing about having a baby and not being a woman means there are less decisions to make. He doesn't have to struggle with "to breast feed" or "not to breast feed" and he doesn't have to weigh the pros and cons of a natural birth versus a C-section. He takes the good where he can get it, small as it may be, because never in his high school health class had he ever been told he'd have to worry about getting pregnant.

Dr. Grace sent a list of baby formulas in the latest update, along with lengthy articles on each, citing the health benefits and drawbacks of each brand.

"I'm not genetically predisposed to care about or understand any of this," Spencer says in frustration. He's sitting at the kitchen table under the skylight where the sun hits and casts everything in a glow. Jon's standing on a ladder changing the lightbulbs. He looks over his shoulder and grins. "Don't forget the bit about not being genetically predisposed to giving birth."

"There’s that," Spencer says, grinning at him.



*


Dr. Grace told them to be prepared for delivery at eight months since the possibility of a premature birth is high in male pregnancies. Spencer thinks they’ve read everything they can about babies, he and Jon call the doctor at least once a day with a question or concern. They’re as prepared as they’re going to get. Still, Spencer has strange, frightening dreams and wakes up sweating and panting in the middle of the night every now and then and he can tell from the circles under Jon’s eyes that he’s going through the same thing.


*


Jon’s written three songs for the baby and he plays them while Spencer drifts in and out of sleep, tucked into the pillows on the sofa. He’s always tired these days, barely has energy for showering which is fine because Jon drags him into the sunken bathtub and lets him doze.


*


At the end of the eighth month, the list on the refrigerator is narrowed to five names, four girls’ and one boy’s.


*

Spencer wakes up gasping, his eyes stinging as pain shoots through his stomach, down his back, worse than when he had appendicitis. He tries to sit up but the baby has shifted down and he can’t move.

He’s panicking, a million thoughts running through his head about how he’s not ready to be a dad, he wants a take back, he can’t handle this.

He forces himself to take a deep breath and count slowly to three, the way the birthing coach taught him. He does it a few more times until he doesn’t feel like he’s going to hyperventilate or pass out.

“Jon,” he says loudly. Jon jerks awake suddenly, sits up. He’s mumbling, voice rough with sleep and disoriented but he reaches over and turns the bedside lamp on.

“What? Spence, are you okay?” Jon pushes his arm underneath Spencer’s shoulder and helps him sit up so he’s leaning against the pillows.

There’s a rush of pain, severe and sharp shooting through his lower stomach suddenly and Spencer hisses, sweating. He shakes his head and breathes through his nose, tries to remember the information from their lamaze classes.

When he can breathe again without feeling like he’s going to pass out he says, “Dr. Grace, call the doctor, Jon.”

Jon’s eyes are wide, his face pale. “You. You’re in labor?”

Spencer nods. “Shit, shit,” he says as another contraction hits, harder and sharper this time.

Jon moves then, stumbles out of bed, reaching for his jeans with one hand, the phone with the other.

“Don’t move, Spence, let me take care of it.”

Jon calls the doctor and she gives him instructions to meet her at the hospital.

“I changed my mind,” Spencer says suddenly as the contractions hit again, only he shouts it, freaked out. “I don’t want a baby, oh god, take it back, take it back!” Spencer’s slumped in against the pillows in an awkward, painful position. Jon climbs in next to him and helps him sit up.

“Hey,” he says softly, his lips against Spencer’s temple. “Are you freaking out?” He reaches for the glass of water sitting on the bedside table and presses it to Spencer’s lips. “You can’t freak out, that’s my job,” Jon says.

Spencer takes a sip and gives Jon a half smile. “God, what are we doing?” He’s hot all over, sweating, the pain making him lightheaded.

“We’re having a baby,” Jon’s smile is a little strained but no less genuine. “Come on, we’ve got to get going.”

Jon helps Spencer up out of bed, and they make sure he’s got shoes and pants on. Spencer’s had a suitcase packed for the last month and Jon grabs it as they head out the front door.

“Oh shit,” Spencer says when they’re on the road, ten minutes from the hospital. “We gotta call Brendon and Ryan. And my mom. And your parents. And Tom. And Pete. And -”

“Spence,” Jon says, laughing. “I’ll take care of it, just relax.”

It’s all a whir of chaos when they get to Dr. Grace’s office. It’s close to two in the morning but all the lights are on in the building and all the support staff seems to be trickling in, ready to help Spencer quietly and covertly give birth.

The contractions are coming more painful and closer together, and Spencer cries out as one hits, hunching over on himself and grabbing Jon’s wrist.

“Shit, Spencer,” Jon says panicked, like he too just forgot everything they learned in their birthing class.

“Can we get some help, please,” Jon says somewhat desperately, but the nurse is already rushing them into one of the birthing rooms.



*


Afterwards, Spencer doesn't remember much; the drugs keeping him awake but woozy and unfocused.

What he does remember is Jon sitting by his shoulder, talking him through it, head bent low, voice familiar and reassuring.

And then there was the sound of crying and Dr. Grace calling out "It's a girl!" and Spencer sort of fell apart, shaking, and Jon was pressing their foreheads together, breathing hard and whispering, "Oh my God."


*


When he holds his daughter for the first time, it's several hours later and he's in a private recovery room, sore everywhere but mostly fine.

The nurse wheels the baby in, followed by Jon, who looks exhausted and a little dazed, but his eyes are smiling.

"Want to meet your daughter?" the nurse asks, and Spencer's words are lost in the lump in his throat so he just nods.

She raises the bed and helps him sit up, reclining against the pillows. He winces as pain shoots through his stomach and puts a hand there, careful of the incision and stitches. It's weird, to press and not feel the baby there, in him.

Jon's at his side. Spencer turns his head, lifts his face up and Jon kisses him, slow and soft.

“You were pretty amazing,” Jon murmurs, lips pressed to Spencer’s jaw. Spencer curls his fingers in Jon's t-shirt and tugs him to the narrow bed, shifting so Jon can climb up next to him, the two of them pressed together.


The nurse places their baby in Spencer’s arms and he doesn’t know what he’s doing, has never felt more frightened in his life but it’s instinct that has him tucking her in against his chest.

He looks down at her little face, still pink. She hasn’t opened her eyes yet but Spencer can see Jon in the set of her mouth.


“Oh,” he whispers, leaning his head against Jon’s. “How is she real?” He touches his thumb to the soft wrinkled skin of her forehead and tries to remember to breathe.

Jon rests his head on Spencer’s shoulder and he makes a little sniffling sound that Spencer doesn’t bother teasing him about. It’s pretty adorable.

“So,” Spencer says quietly, turning to look at Jon. “What are we naming her?”


*


It’s close to dinner time when Ryan and Brendon come to visit. Brendon’s got a huge bouquet of balloons, pink and sparkly with It’s a Girl! written on them. Ryan looks nervous.

Spencer’s been sleeping, drifting in and out, waking every now and then to Jon’s soft voice, singing to their baby as he rocks her back and forth.

“She’s little,” Ryan says, standing in the doorway like he’s not sure he should be here.

“What’s her name?” Brendon asks, setting the balloons down by the flowers and cards that have already gathered.

“Stella Grace Walker,” Jon says. “Want to say hi?”

Brendon grins and takes the baby gingerly from Jon, like he’s afraid. “She’s not a bomb, Brendon,” Spencer says, laughing.

Brendon doesn’t say anything. He tucks Stella in against his chest and presses his lips to her little cheek. He’s got a hushed look of awe on his face when he looks up at Ryan and says, “I want one.”