Chapter Text
The lights on the stage were blinding, and the crowd beyond was a vague, moving mass. The venue was small, as they always were for them, but it let them move and breathe as one with the crowd. It was energizing, electrifying, and fun.
Performing with his band made Vash feel alive in a way that nothing else did these days.
The guitar felt natural in his hold as he played – a left-handed guitar, even though he'd been missing his left hand for the better part of the past two decades. It allowed for his right hand to take care of the tricky fingerings while the modified prosthetic on his left strummed. He'd made the guitar pick adapter himself years ago so that he could practice guitar with Nai, back before- back before. Even though he’d since left his career in robotics, the knowledge was still useful for maintaining his prosthetics.
His playing was loud – belligerent, even. It was exactly the kind of music he thrived on.
Up on stage like this, it felt like nothing in the world could touch him. He could put everything into his performance, lose himself in the motion and energy of the music. His thoughts couldn't catch him when he sang so hard he was almost screaming.
His performances were always chaotic and aggressive, but that's what their fans loved. They fed off of his energy, oftentimes to the point where they were nearly screaming, too.
And then the song would end.
Vash was left panting, suddenly aware of how sweaty he was even in his loose tank top. His hair, which started the night gelled up in its usual spiked style, clung to his forehead with sweat as the rest of it stuck out every which way.
The crowd beyond the blinding lights cheered, some even shouting their love for him. Falling back on practiced habits, Vash played at being bashful as he demurred, chuckling and smiling in the way he knew drove his fans nuts. The band didn't have a huge fanbase yet, but they were starting to really make a name for themselves in the local scene. Vash had found that what fans he did have were obsessed with the contrast between his aggressive performances and his happy-go-lucky attitude outside of them.
They loved him. They wanted him. They didn't know him.
The thoughts itched at the back of his mind, whispering to him about how little he deserved this adoration. If they knew what he was really like, knew the way death haunted him like an old friend, then there was no way they'd look at him so adoringly.
Like their favorite figurehead.
Like a piece of meat.
Vash grabbed a water bottle as it was passed to him by a crew member. He chugged a good half of it, then upended the rest of it over the top of his head. He leaned his head back to keep the water from dripping onto his guitar and savored the feeling of it seeping into his hair. The shock of cold distracted him from his thoughts, a welcome relief from both the heat of the room and his own mind. A few cheers picked up in their fervor, likely due to the way water streamed down his exposed neck and dampened his shirt. A loud wolf whistle, followed by supportive laughter from the crowd, all but confirmed it.
Vash grinned rakishly at them as he passed the empty bottle back. Rather than acknowledge the moment any further, he glanced back at his band, and then they were launching into the next song of the night.
For now, at least, he could ignore the weight of the day to come. Nothing could reach him while he was screaming.
*
The door shut behind Vash with a heavy click that was loud in the silence of the apartment. He leaned back against it, not bothering to turn on any lights as he blindly turned the lock at his hip.
He was…
He wasn't sure how he was feeling, actually.
The day had started good (or at least as good as they ever were for him these days). The band successfully finished its concert, leaving their fans excited and satisfied. And as soon as Vash could slip away from the excitement, he went out looking for company as he often did these days.
It was something to make him feel things, something to relieve a bit of the tension wound up in his heart. On good days, it could even make him feel content, as if getting fucked drove all the malaise out of his broken brain. That was why he went out looking for it, time after time. He was always desperate for an escape.
Some other days, though…
Vash's back slid down until he sat at the foot of the door. He looked at his arm, barely visible in the windows’ moonlight. The beginnings of a hand-shaped bruise wrapped around his wrist, contrasting starkly with the criss-crossing lines of old scars layered there.
Today's hookup was rough with him, despite them not discussing that beforehand. A part of him had enjoyed it, enjoyed being treated like he was less than worthless, but then the man left and Vash was alone with nothing but an aching body to show for any of it.
He'd broken down, then. He'd cried on that backroom table as if the world had a chance of ever caring.
Somehow, he pieced himself together again. With one foot in front of the other, he made his way home.
And now…
It must've been well after midnight, given how late their concert ran. Late enough for Saturday to turn into Sunday…
Late enough for the 20th to turn into the 21st.
Which meant that it was Vash's 31st birthday, and he was alone.
This wasn't the first birthday he'd spent like this. For nearly three years now, solitude had become his way of life. It seeped into every part of his soul, coloring the world around him in gray. On no day was this more apparent than his birthday – a day meant to be spent as part of a pair, incomplete without the two.
But sometimes, two became one.
Sometimes, the world truly didn't care.
Vash dropped his forehead onto his knees and tried his best to just… keep it together. He didn't want to cry again tonight, not after how hard he'd cried earlier. Yet even with this thought in mind, his eyes burned behind their lids. They didn't care what he preferred.
… He missed him. Even though his brother had always been a bit of an asshole, he missed him.
But despite that, a part of him was almost glad that Nai couldn't see him now. With the way his body ached, the places it ached, he just felt so… dirty. He was sure that Nai would've hated how he slept around these days, would've called him every rude name under the sun if he knew. And he’d have been right, really. Vash knew it wasn't healthy to sleep around like he did. He just didn't know what else to do.
Loneliness weighed heavily on his heart, turning every breath he took into a battle. He thought about his brother – his wry smiles, his barked laughter when Vash was doing something particularly stupid, the way they always challenged each other to do better…
Nai would've hated who Vash had become.
… And to be honest, Vash hated it too.
He let out a heavy breath, frustration tingeing its tone. In an effort to distract himself, he carded his fingers into his hair, tugging rudely at the messy locks. Which didn't help, of course. Giving up, he clambered back onto his feet and began to blindly make his way into his kitchen.
If his mind didn't want to give him a break, then he was going to make it give him one.
Even in the dark, Vash knew exactly how to reach his goal. As soon as the cabinet was open, he had a bottle of liquor in hand.
It got easier after that.
*
A week later found Vash flat on his back on his living room floor. He was drunk, as he frequently was these days, and only drinking more. It was a lazy chug at least – a swallow of whiskey every so often between minutes of thought. Mostly, he didn't know what else to do with himself.
The days leading up to that Saturday were a blur, filled with practice sessions, drinking, and depression. His band knew exactly why he was doing worse than normal (and in fact were probably doing worse themselves) so no one bothered him about it. Their routine went on like normal.
And on Saturday, they played another gig at a different venue, which went about the same as normal. The fans were happy, and then Vash wandered off to find someone else to shut his brain up for a while.
Today’s hookup actually took him back to their place, for once. It was a bit forgettable, but still pretty nice. The guy even offered him food afterwards, which Vash ultimately denied. He didn't want to stay for any longer than necessary.
And here Vash was now, drunk on his living room floor at whatever o'clock at night. His body ached in a pleasant way, complementing the fuzziness of his brain well. He was… doing a bit better than last week, though that was a very low bar.
Ultimately, he didn't know what he was doing with his life.
He wondered if it was normal to spend your life wanting to die. Most people claimed otherwise, but some of them had to be lying. He couldn't be the only one that felt that itch to end it all.
He wouldn't, of course. He'd tried that already, back when he was a teenager. It failed, resulting in a miserable hospital stay where Rem made him promise to never try again.
Even though she was long dead by now, Vash still couldn't bring himself to break that promise. He couldn't say goodbye to her memory like that.
So he was stuck. He lived day after day in a cycle of excess and avoidance of his problems. He couldn't bring himself to deal with them, and he couldn't bring himself to end it…
Vash tipped the bottle back again, taking several swallows this time- until it ran out, leaving him licking at mere droplets.
Ah. He hadn't realized he’d drank that much already.
“Oh well,” Vash muttered as he dropped the bottle onto the floor beside him. He could always grab another bottle.
… Later, maybe. His limbs felt heavy.
Vash stared up at the blank ceiling above him and hoped for something to change. Maybe he would be lucky and get hit by a car on his next day out, and then he wouldn't have to worry about breaking his promise to Rem.
One could only hope.
*
Vash was feeling sick.
This wasn't entirely out of the ordinary for him. With how much he always drank, it was common for him to throw up, both in the evenings and in the mornings after. The strange thing was that he hadn't even been drinking that much – at least, not in comparison to how he'd been a few weeks before. His mood had slowly been crawling back from the brink, his mind starting to forget the yearly downer that was his birthday, so he didn't feel as compelled to drown his sorrows in far too much alcohol to be healthy.
So he wasn't throwing up from alcohol. Probably, at least. Unfortunately, he didn't really know what else it could be.
In the privacy of his brain, he was calling it a stomach bug. It'd make sense, wouldn't it? He probably ate something weird earlier that week, which explained why his stomach was so angry at him. He was doing his best to take care of it, even avoiding drinking for the most part (since even just the smell of alcohol was enough to make him wildly nauseous right now), but the nausea still persisted. Add in the headaches and agitation from alcohol withdrawal (probably?) and he was not having a fun time.
Even still, he was doing his best to hide it. Outside of concerts, he only really saw his band anyways, and it wasn't like they were close. He didn't want to bother them with something as stupid as a stomach bug, and Elendira would have his hide if he missed practice just because. So he was sucking it up, ignoring the nausea and hoping that he wouldn't need to throw up again until after practice.
Of course, nothing could be easy for him. Not even half an hour after their practice started, Vash felt his nausea spike, and he knew he needed to get to a toilet now. Hating that it'd cause a scene but having no other choice, he abruptly stopped playing and wrestled himself out of his guitar strap. After haphazardly setting his guitar onto its stand, he stumbled over to the little restroom at the side of the room-
Just in time, thank fuck.
The moment after his knees hit the ground, he was vomiting his meager lunch into the toilet. It was- such bullshit, because he'd throw up when he ate anything and he'd throw up when he ate nothing, so he’d be losing his lunch either way. He'd tried to eat carefully today, a gentle meal, but even that wasn't enough! There was nothing he could do about this stupid bug!
Another wave of nausea wracked through him, making him dry heave into the toilet. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, out of both frustration and misery. It just fucking sucked.
“You know, it wouldn't kill you to admit that you're sick.”
Vash sucked in a breath of surprise, then started coughing when it sent spittle back into his throat. Between his sore throat and aching head, it hurt, but he did his best to keep from showing it too much. Finally, once his coughing was under control, he weakly croaked out, “Hi, Elendira.”
Geeze, he even sounded miserable. He didn't want to know how he looked to her right now.
Elendira let out a tsk from where she leaned against the door frame. “You look like a rodent that crawled into here to die. Why are you here right now?”
Vash shrugged as he pushed himself up to his feet, then flushed the toilet. His nausea seemed to be receding for now, so he moved to wash his hand in the sink. “It's just a stomach bug. Shouldn't get you all sick so long as I don't puke on you.”
“… That wasn't what I asked, actually.”
He could feel her gaze on him as he bent down to rinse his mouth out, no doubt full of judgment. He waited until he was done and patting his mouth dry with a paper towel to look back up at her. Sure enough, she was watching him with a flat look and her arms crossed, though there was a hint of… Was that worry? Whoa. He didn't think he'd ever seen her worried before.
That more than anything else made him decide to be honest. He tossed the wad of paper towel into the trash, then answered, “I didn't feel like it was bad enough to bother you all about it. I can still finish practice fine.”
Elendira sighed like he was the most aggravating thing in the world, moving to pinch her fingers above the bridge of her nose. “You can miss one practice. We're not going to forget how to play together if we go without practicing for a few days.”
Vash fiddled with the guitar pick adapter on his prosthetic. “But… What about the gig this weekend?”
Elendira released her nose to shoot him another flat look over her hand. “And if you threw up on stage?” Her hand dropped, and she studied him openly. “If it's necessary, we can always cancel. Your time would be better spent working to recover.”
Vash breathed a tired laugh. “Not sure Legato would agree with you there…”
Unthinking, he took a step towards the door, which was apparently a bad idea. He got a good whiff of Elendira's perfume, something that was normally subtle and pleasant but now sent his stomach roiling all over again. He clamped his mouth shut tight to try and contain his nausea, and…
And he realized something.
Elendira was saying something else, but Vash wasn't listening. His mind was too busy connecting the dots: his strange and persistent nausea, his stomach's sudden extreme pickiness with food, the way alcohol now instantly made him throw up, and the fact that normally unobtrusive scents were enough to nearly send him right back to the toilet…
It… It couldn't be. It couldn't be.
Right?
Suddenly, a memory. He'd forgotten it in the midst of the depressive hellhole that was his life a few weeks back, but… Wasn't there at least one time where they discovered a tear in the condom only after they were done? He couldn't remember when it happened or who it was with- if it even happened at all, that is. He spent more time drunk than not back then, so he wasn't actually certain. If it did happen, he probably intended to buy a Plan B or something, only to get distracted with drinking even more…
He didn't know. He wasn't sure. He'd thought testosterone shots and excessive alcohol would be enough to keep him infertile, but he wasn't sure.
Fingers snapped in front of his face, startling him back into awareness. He found Elendira standing closer, peering into his face with barely-veiled concern. “Are you in there, Saverem?”
Vash blinked stupidly back at her, his mind still reeling over his realization. “I, uh… Yeah?”
With the proximity, the scent of her perfume was stronger, which only made his nausea worse. He did his best to breathe through his mouth as shallowly as possible, not wanting her to know it was making him sick.
She tilted her head as she watched him, looking unconvinced. “… You got very pale very suddenly. Remarkable, really, given that you were already strangely pale. Are you sure you feel alright?”
No. Not at all. Physically, he felt awful, and mentally-
Well. He was perhaps just a little bit preoccupied.
He had something he desperately needed to verify, now.
Vash did his best to smile, laughing awkwardly. “Y’know what, maybe I should head home early. Can't beat a stomach bug without plenty of rest!”
Elendira blinked in obvious surprise and stood up straight again. “… Really. You're agreeing to go home early?”
“Yes, ma'am! You convinced me. Poor lil ol’ me's gotta get those Z's!” He edged around her towards the door, trying to act normal but really needing to go. “Thanks for the talk, Ellie! I'll get back to you later.”
Elendira watched him go with a confused furrow to her eyebrows. “… Right. You do that.”
Oh dear, she didn't even correct him on the ‘Ellie’ thing. She normally complained when he called her that, but it seemed like she was too concerned about him to pay it any mind this time. This wasn't a good thing, since she was a practical bloodhound when it came to sniffing out his bullshit, but Vash just needed a moment to get away.
It was enough.
Vash returned to the main room, where Legato and Dominique were sitting and watching the door – probably listening in, the snoops. He smiled at them too, just as fake as the one he gave Elendira. “Hey, guys! Sorry about this, but I’m a bit too sick to keep playing right now. Just kinda gotta go deal with it, you know how it is!”
He beelined to his guitar, where he switched out his prosthetic attachments, then began quickly packing up.
“Not really,” Legato muttered from behind his drum set.
“Go trip on a cactus!” Vash cheerfully replied, the reaction automatic.
Legato just scoffed.
As Vash zipped up his case, the guitar nestled safely inside, Dominique pointed out, “This is odd for you. You're actually going to rest without complaint?”
Vash laughed awkwardly as he slung the case onto his shoulders. “Yup. Guess I just feel that bad.”
Shit. He didn't mean to say that so uncertainly.
From the restroom’s doorway, Elendira called, “You are going to rest, right?”
“What? Of course I am,” Vash answered as he started edging towards the room's exit.
Elendira and Dominique shared a look, both their faces full of doubt.
Fuck. They really did know him too well.
Historically, he may have had a bit of a habit of pushing himself far past what most people would consider reasonable. And there may have been a few points where the two women had to get on his case about it after his body had broken down from overwork. He just… He liked to feel productive. Rest often felt like a waste of time.
If it weren't for his little suspicion, this time probably would've been the same way. But he just needed to double check it so that he could prove himself wrong. He didn't want to tell them what was going on, since even the idea of him possibly being- well, like that- was just. He just couldn't handle them knowing. Just the thought of it made him want to shrivel up and die a bit.
“Trust me!” Vash gave them his best attempt at a reassuring smile. “I’ll rest up real good and be right as rain by the weekend!”
None of them looked convinced. Legato seemed almost bored with the conversation, leaning on an elbow and blowing a lock of hair out of his face. Dominique was back to watching Vash in open doubt as she tapped her fingers over her keyboard without pressing any keys down. And Elendira had moved back into the middle of the room to stand next to her bass, where she watched Vash with that same look of almost-concern she'd given him in the restroom.
For some reason, Vash was struck with the feeling that he might never see them again. If it turned out that his suspicion was true…
Well. He'd deal with it then.
“See ya!” Vash said with a cheerful wave, and then he ducked out of the room.
As soon as he was out of their sights, he sped his steps up until he was almost jogging in his haste.
He had to get to the store now.
*
Vash was pacing. Back and forth he went, crossing the small span of his bathroom over and over again. He'd reach the edge of his tub in three small paces, turn on his heel, then reach the shut bathroom door in another three. It'd probably be more effective to pace out in his living room, where he could actually stretch his legs, but he felt trapped inside here. Until he knew the results of the tests, he could not leave the liminal space of his bathroom.
He'd bought the tests. Two of them. He paid for them with cash, then kept the bag hidden in the front pocket of his guitar case until he got home. He felt paranoid, almost, that someone was going to see him buying the tests and know that not only was he trans, but he was also stupid enough to be in a situation where the tests were necessary.
They would be negative. Of course they would. They had to be. He couldn't… couldn't handle it if they weren't. He wouldn't. Because they would be negative, of course.
Even with this line of thought, his mind pleading with any higher power that might be listening to not do this to him, he… He knew that something wasn't right with his body. It was all too weird. There had to be something going on with him, so if the tests ended up positive, at least then he would know…?
The thought was a poor comfort. Still, his mind ping-ponged back and forth between denial and bargaining as if it'd make the wait any more bearable. He was so fucking tempted to scream.
After forever in three minutes, his phone timer rang. He froze mid-stride, not looking towards his bathroom counter yet. The timer continued to ring, its shrill sound filling the small room. It played a set of dissonant bells that grew louder with every second that it went ignored.
Swallowing heavily, Vash reached blindly towards his phone to turn it off. As silence returned to his bathroom, he swore he could hear his own heart pounding in his chest.
“… It'll be fine,” he muttered to himself. “They'll be negative. They'll be negative, and then I can forget this ever happened. Maybe I'll even go get some rest for once like I said I would.”
The thought was almost funny to his frazzled mind. The resulting mental dissonance was enough to get Vash to finally look over at the two tests perched innocently at the edge of the counter.
Two tests. Two lines.
Two lines, each.
Vash's breath punched out of his chest.
He was going to be sick.
Trembling fingers reached for one of the tests, picking it up and bringing it over to one of the instruction papers as if its words could've changed since he read them five minutes ago. He held the test above the printed lines on the sheet that explained what the test's results would mean.
… Positive. They were both positive.
They both had a 99% accuracy rate.
Vash’s knees buckled beneath him, sending him slumping against the bathroom counter. His forehead thumped against the edge of the counter, though the pain of it didn't register to him.
Nothing was making it into his brain right now. Nothing beyond the single revelation that rocked through his very soul.
I'm pregnant.
Vash's breath shuddered out of his throat, his fingers squeezing painfully around the test.
Again, as if the first time wasn't enough to convince him, he thought to himself, I'm pregnant.
It didn't stick. It was like trying to catch a fish with his bare hands. The thought wriggled and slipped through his fingers, refusing to stay still long enough for him to really believe it.
But even as his mind still tried to deny the results right in front of him, he knew in his gut that they were true. He'd known before he even took the tests what the results would be. It was just the naive refusal to believe what he knew that left it an uncertainty.
So, he was pregnant. Fun. Great. Yeah. Little baby in him. Or eventual baby. If he kept it. If it survived that long. He’d heard that miscarriages were pretty common. So maybe he could abort it. Maybe it would just die. Or maybe it'd grow into a whole living person that was unfortunate enough to have him as a parent.
Fuck. Fuck. He didn't even know who the other parent was. He had no idea how far along he was, since it wasn’t like he got periods while on testosterone, so he couldn't use that to help him narrow it down. And even then, he'd hooked up with a good few people in the past few months, most of whom he barely remembered. There was… There was that one guy that took him back to his place and tried to offer him food. There was another guy that fucked him in the back hallway of a club. Surprisingly sweet, that one was. Then there was the guy who treated him like he was nothing more than a hole to abuse, leaving him bruised and breaking down on a table. That one had really sucked.
There were more. Vague recollections of men and some women that blurred together in his mind from time and alcohol. He didn't even know most of their names, let alone how to contact any of them. There was no way he'd be able to find whoever the other parent was.
So. Cool. Yeah. Just him. Just the one mentally fucked guy stuck with a baby in him. Absolutely nothing could go wrong with this. Nothing at all. Of course.
Vash sank down further, hunching into himself as he knelt on the floor. His hands moved to clasp onto the back of his neck, even as one of them still clutched the positive test. The plastic jabbed a bit into the base of his skull, though he was far past the point of caring about that.
He breathed slowly and carefully into his knees as he desperately tried to hold his panic at bay for long enough to figure out what the fuck he was going to do about this.
So. Baby. A little baby was trying to grow in him. An angry little thing, judging by how sick it'd been making him. Probably mad at him for taking such awful care of it. He hadn't known he'd been carrying a little passenger yet, but he didn't blame it for being angry. He would be too if he had such an awful mess for a father.
Vash's breath stalled in his lungs at that word. His fingers curled against the skin of his neck.
Father. Father. Was he already using that word for himself? It was a dangerous thing to think, especially since he didn't know if he was even going to keep it yet. If he started using words like father for himself, it'd become even harder to make the best and most rational decision for the situation.
Objectively, he knew he'd be an awful parent. He could barely take care of himself, let alone a helpless little baby. He had no support system to speak of. His mental health was in tatters, as it’d been for most of his life. He’d fuck the kid up so bad, he was sure of it. And the idea of carrying a pregnancy to term made something viscerally uncomfortable squirm deep inside his chest.
But at the same time… His mind kept looping back to the idea of being called father.
In one small moment of selfishness, Vash let himself imagine it. He imagined waking up to another person in his apartment – waking up to noise, as he hadn't in far too long now. He imagined helping a little kid get ready for school. He imagined a big toothy grin pointing up at him as a small child called him Dad.
He'd never really had a dad. He didn't know how one was supposed to act. But in that one moment, he wanted it so badly that he could hardly breathe.
It was selfish. It was so, so selfish. He had no business bringing a kid into the world that he couldn't take proper care of. Even if he loved them, he shouldn't make a kid grow up like that. He shouldn’t.
Vash’s throat felt tight. He took one shuddered breath after another. Pressure was building up behind his eyes.
He shouldn't make a kid grow up like that, but he wanted it. He hadn't had a family in so long. If he had a kid, then he’d have a family again. He wouldn't be alone anymore. He wouldn't ever be alone again.
Vash squeezed his eyes tight against the tears that escaped them, dripping onto his pants below. He gasped around the small, strangled sobs that clawed their way out of his throat.
He wanted to keep it.
He wanted to keep this baby.
“Fuck,” Vash hissed through his teeth. He dug his fingernails into the skin of his neck in a desperate attempt to ground himself.
How the fuck was he going to make this work?
If he kept the baby, he couldn't keep performing. That much was obvious to him. The work was physically demanding in a way that wouldn't mix well with being pregnant, and it wasn't like his stage outfits left much to the imagination. With how skin-tight those things often were, it'd be so obvious to anyone who looked at him that he was pregnant, and-
The idea made nausea well up insistently in his throat.
No. No, he couldn't let any of them know he was pregnant. Not the fans, not the crew, and not even his own bandmates. He imagined Legato's ridicule if he found out, then Elendira and Dominique's judgment. How stupid he was to get knocked up, and how stupid he was to decide to keep it. He imagined fans finding out – knowing that he was pregnant, and thus that he was trans. Maybe some of them would be cool about it. But he knew some of them would reject it. Reject him. They'd think of him as a misguided woman, trying to live as a man until her biology inevitably caught up to her. The misgendering would be rampant. He’d never be able to escape it again. And in the worst case scenario, some bigots might even be so offended by his existence that they’d decide to try and end it. They could try to murder him and his baby.
Before today, he would've welcomed being murdered. He’d wanted to die. But the idea of his baby’s health and safety being threatened made protective fear gather thick and suffocating in his chest. He couldn't put his baby at risk, which meant he had to live. Both to ensure the baby could be born safely and to ensure he’d be there to raise them and protect them in the years to come.
“… Okay,” he whispered into his knees. “Okay.”
Resolve was solidifying in his heart. No one in his life could know he was pregnant. He’d have to disappear without a word.
If he wanted to be thorough, he'd move towns completely, but that would be a lot of work. The idea of going through that while alone and pregnant seemed like a special kind of purgatory that not even he was willing to subject himself to. Thankfully he'd never shared his address with his bandmates and he went by a stage name instead of his full name to his fans. If he submitted confidentiality requests and looked into online privacy protection services, he could hopefully get any records of his address and identity wiped from public access. It wouldn't be perfect, especially if someone was both skilled and determined, but hopefully it'd be enough. He'd figure out other options later if he needed to.
And otherwise…
He still had a good bit of money saved up from life insurance and inheritance payouts. He'd shoved most of it into a savings account years ago, not wanting to even think about where he got it from. He still hated the thought of using it, but it'd allow him to ride out his pregnancy in hiding as much as possible. He'd have to figure out doctor's appointments, of course, but besides that…
Even if he stayed away from all of his old haunts, he was still a pregnant man. The fewer people who saw him like that, the better.
Still hunched into himself on his bathroom floor, Vash began muttering himself through numbers and logistics. Babies were expensive, but he had enough padding to get him through. And if necessary, he could maybe look for some freelance programming work online… There had to be something out there…
After minutes of thinking and planning, he was starting to feel like he might be able to pull this off. Financially, at least. He still didn't know how he was going to pull himself together enough to raise a child, but he'd figure it out. Maybe get some… self-help books? Parenting books? Oh, he'd need to do a lot of reading to figure his shit out, that was certain. At least he'd have plenty of time for it while hiding away through his pregnancy.
So, first line of business. Besides hiding his records from public access, he needed to set up an appointment with an obstetrician to… check? On his and his baby's health?
… Actually…
Vash's heart sank with dread when he remembered something. He'd gotten so caught up in the assumption that he would have a baby if he decided to keep it that he forgot- he forgot about the miscarriage possibility. He'd heard that they were pretty common in the first few weeks of pregnancy, though he didn't know just how common. That seemed important. That seemed vitally important, now.
What if he ended up miscarrying? What if, after all this, it all ended up being for nothing?
He didn't want to think about the possibility, but-
Vash's breath caught in his throat. His heart began to pound heavily in his chest. He was pretty sure he was about to throw up, actually, because he just remembered how much he'd been fucking drinking.
Oh, God. Everyone knew how terrible it was to drink alcohol when pregnant, and- and he’d been drinking so much just mere weeks before. When did morning sickness even start? A month in? Two months? Any amount of drinking couldn't be good, but that’d mean the difference between drinking in just the first three weeks or so and drinking in the first seven weeks or so, which seemed like a really important distinction to make!
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
He'd fucked it all up, hadn't he? Just when he’d decided to try to pull himself together, to raise this little baby the best he could, it was all going to be for nothing because he was a stupid fucking alcoholic!
Vash moved his now violently trembling fingers to tangle them into his hair- only to be reminded of the test he still clutched in his hand.
The positive pregnancy test for the baby that he probably already killed by being a complete and total fuck-up.
In a surge of mostly irrational rage, he pushed himself up to fling the test as hard as he could across his bathroom. It cracked loudly against the wall of his shower before falling into his tub with a clatter.
He stared at where it fell in shock, his breaths coming out in heavy, labored pants. At once, the rage left him, and he crumpled back down to the floor, letting out a wail of pure anguish.
His fingers buried themselves into his hair, pulling, pulling, pulling as if the pain would give him even a chance of saving his baby. Heavy sobs wracked through his frame, shaking his very soul with preemptive – yet familiar – grief.
He wept. And he wept.
And he wept.
*
As it turned out, the earliest obstetrics appointment he could schedule was three and a half weeks away. The receptionist he talked to gave him advice for what to do in the meantime, and otherwise, he'd just have to wait.
It was… agonizing. Even with his fears about his baby's health, there was no way for him to get an earlier appointment. Upon looking it up online, he found that it was apparently normal for obstetricians to not see new patients before the 8 weeks mark, given how common miscarriages were before that. They just… expected the possibility. They planned for it.
Vash couldn't stop himself from looking up miscarriage rates. There was a 25% to 33% chance for all pregnancies between weeks 3 and 4 to miscarry. 15% to 20% chance between weeks 5 and 6. Then it'd fall to a 5% chance by week 10. Since he found that morning sickness usually started around weeks 4 through 7, he was probably somewhere between 5 to 8 weeks along, which meant he was… probably less likely to miscarry? But then he found that the chances of miscarriages increased by 8% for every week of continued alcohol consumption, and he had to stop himself from looking up any more statistics.
He was almost certain that he'd lose the baby. Given everything – his drinking, the alcohol withdrawal, and the lack of preparation – it'd just make the most sense. He kept an eye out for any signs of miscarriage, but none came. None that he could spot, at least. Apparently it wasn't impossible for there to be no signs before it was found on a scan.
The one reassurance was that he still felt pregnant. His morning sickness continued, though it was thankfully starting to feel less violent. His headaches and agitation were starting to level out too. It was very likely that they really were from alcohol withdrawal, which would explain why he’d struggled with throwing up so much before. He still felt frequent bouts of nausea, but it was easier to keep himself from throwing everything up if he was careful.
And as things leveled out with his withdrawal symptoms, other pregnancy symptoms were becoming more apparent. Even though he wasn't doing anything, he felt drained and exhausted, like the very act of getting out of bed to feed himself was a marathon. And the feeding himself was an entire production too, given how damned hungry he was now. Anytime his stomach wasn't kicking him for the crime of smelling one (1) perfume, he was eating as much as he could manage to get down. Maybe he was making up for lost nutrients during his week of extreme sickness, though he could do without the insistent need to eat every type of berry available at the grocery store.
So his pregnancy continued on. For now.
After that horrible evening where he learned he was pregnant, he texted Elendira to tell her he didn't think he'd make the gig that weekend after all. While there weren't any external signs of his pregnancy yet, he couldn't help the prickling self-consciousness and the feeling that he needed to hide away. He also really did feel terrible too, but that wasn't the true reason he was hiding. He didn't know if he was going to stay pregnant, so he wasn't going scorched-earth with his relationships just yet, but… He just couldn't keep seeing them while this weighed so heavily on his mind.
If he miscarried, he'd apologize for disappearing for a few weeks, and then they'd move on. And if he didn't miscarry…
Well. He had his plan for that, too.
So Vash stocked up on vitamins and healthy foods (and many, many berries), then hunkered down to wait out the three and a half weeks until his obstetrics appointment. He dodged increasingly concerned texts from Elendira and Dominique with expertly crafted non-answers regarding his current state of being. Any texts from Legato (all of which were angry) went expertly ignored.
If they knew where he lived, he was sure they would've stormed his apartment by now. But unfortunately for them, he'd already put in his confidentiality request and invested in an online privacy protection service. Unless they hired a skilled hacker or a cop that was willing to bend some rules, they wouldn't be getting his address, and he knew they didn't know anyone like that.
… That didn't stop him from being paranoid about them barging in and demanding answers, but it was better than nothing.
Three and a half weeks. Threeee and a half weeks. Twenty six fucking days spent waiting in an agonizing crawl of time. He avoided going outside as much as possible during that time, which meant he was going a little bit stir crazy.
It made him wonder how he would survive another seven or so months of this, but he ignored the thought. He’d do anything for his baby…
If it survived, that was.
*
Being slathered with goop was pretty unpleasant, Vash decided.
He laid flat on the hospital bed, the paper underneath him crinkling as he shifted in discomfort. His shirt was pulled up to his ribs and his sweatpants were pushed down past his hip bones, held in place by the towel tucked into the waistband. His new obstetrician was in the process of slathering up his still-flat stomach with goop – going uncomfortably low on his abdomen, too. She'd apologized for it being a bit cold, though he was more sidetracked by how weird the goop felt.
Sorry. Ultrasound gel. Propylene glycol. Whatever.
The Goop.
Really, The Goop was very low on his list of worries right now, but it was easier to focus on than the discomfort of being in a hospital (he'd had very bad experiences in hospitals throughout his life), in a women's space (even though he'd contacted a trans-inclusive obstetrician, there were women and motherhood-focused things everywhere ), and about to find out whether he'd killed or permanently maimed his unborn baby before even knowing they existed (fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck).
So. The Goop. He was complaining in his mind about The Goop.
“There we go,” the obstetrician said as she finished spreading The Goop all over his lower stomach. Her name was… Right. Deborah Wise. Doctor Deborah Wise. Vash didn't think there'd be a more fitting name for a middle-aged woman who was also a doctor. She was Deborah. She was Wise. And she was sticking the weird wand thing into The Goop on his stomach.
The probe. Whatever. Fuck.
Even with his obvious nervousness at the start of the appointment, his new obstetrician was patient and kind to him. She invited him to just call her Deborah, as was her preference for all of her patients. They’d be seeing a lot of each other in the coming months, she'd explained, so she enjoyed the feeling of familiarity. She didn't bring up the fact that he was a man even once, despite him feeling like he very much didn't belong here. It made sense though, as she’d had other trans patients before. He'd found her in the first place through recommendations by other trans men on a forum, after all.
It was all very routine. She'd talked him through what all they’d be doing in their checkup today, then asked him basic questions about his health and how far along he was. Despite her patience and friendliness, Vash felt like he was going to sink into a hole out of pure shame. Tentatively, he’d confessed to having drank alcohol – and plenty of it – before he knew he was pregnant. Since he had no idea how far along he was, he had no idea how long he’d been drinking while pregnant, so… He told her he was scared he might lose the baby.
She took it all in stride, not expressing any disappointment or judgment of him. She hadn't planned to conduct an ultrasound just yet, but she rearranged the appointment's schedule in order to do this first. It'd let them know the health of the baby, as well as how far along it was, which would be useful for the rest of the appointment.
And so here they were.
Vash stared at the still-blank screen, waiting for it to turn on and tell him his fate. Maybe the fetus would be dead, and he'd go right back to his cycle of excess and depression in between concerts. Maybe the fetus would be malformed from his drinking, and he'd have to figure out how to properly support them with their potential disabilities as they grew up. Or maybe…
Deborah's voice filtered into his brain. “You okay?”
He blinked, then looked up to where she was standing with the probe pressed to his stomach – but still off, apparently. She watched him with that same expression of patient care that she'd held for most of the appointment by this point.
… She must have noticed him overthinking.
Vash gave her his best attempt at a smile… which ended up being closer to a grimace. Oh well. “Yeah,” he answered hesitantly. “Just… a bit nervous, I guess.”
Deborah smiled, small and kind. “That's pretty normal, don't you worry.” Ever so slightly, her smile tinged with sadness. “… Just know that whatever happens, we're here to support you. Okay?”
Vash wondered how they'd be able to support him if his baby ended up dead. Not like there would be a pregnancy to tend to after that. But he decided to just keep his mouth shut and simply nodded.
As if she could see his thoughts written on his face, her smile still looked sad. But she didn't say anything else about it, and just clicked a button on the side of the probe. “You ready?”
Right. Yeah. They were here for a reason.
With his heart suddenly pounding in his chest, Vash looked back at the still-blank screen. “… Yeah,” he croaked.
Deborah clicked something on the machine’s keyboard, and suddenly there was a fuzzy, grey image on the screen.
… But no baby.
Vash furrowed his eyebrows, watching the screen closely while Deborah shifted the probe around on his stomach. Anxiety was creeping up his chest. “Is it… Where…?”
“The baby's just very small right now, don't worry,” she answered, understanding his question despite him barely asking it. “It can take a second to find the little thing… Oh! There we go.”
Sure enough, something came into focus on the screen. There was an uneven black oval in the grey now, and inside was…
… Oh.
“Oh, this is very good,” Deborah said, the satisfaction clear in her voice. She turned a knob on the machine, which zoomed the image in so he could see it more clearly.
There, in the center of the screen, was a little bean of a baby. It barely looked human, more like a weird little grub… but it also had a definite head (that was about as big as the rest of its body, wow) and little stubs for limbs…
It didn't look human, but it also did. Something that could very much turn into a human.
“Do you see that?” Deborah asked eagerly. She pointed towards something at the center of the bean. It looked like… something was thrumming in the middle of the grey. “That's your baby's heart.”
Vash's lips parted as he moved to speak, but no words came out. He stared at that thrum, at the steady and fast pace of it, and he realized what that meant.
“It's…” He wetted his lips, so scared to hope, but what else could that thrum mean? “It's… alive?”
“That it is,” Deborah happily confirmed. “Beating at a nice, healthy pace, too! Looks to be about nine weeks along, so this should be the fastest the heart rate will get. After this, it'll slow back down and stabilize by week twelve.”
It was a lot of words. Vash was trying his best to focus, but it was a lot of words, and his brain had caught onto one detail. “… Nine weeks?”
Nine weeks. What did he remember about nine weeks? Something about the heart and losing the embryonic tail…
But if he was nine weeks along, what did that mean for the start of his pregnancy?
Unaware of Vash’s inner dilemma, Deborah answered, “Nine weeks, yes! I can tell based on the shape of the head and limbs. But- here, I can get us a definite measurement.” She scrolled with the trackball to drag the cursor along the length of the fetus, clicking a button at either end. “Ah-hah! Nine weeks and one day, to be exact.”
Nine weeks and one day. That meant… He found out he was pregnant three and a half weeks ago. So… midway through the fifth week? And he stopped drinking entirely near the start of that week, so somewhere around five weeks in… It wasn't as bad as it could've been, but that still felt like far too long to be drinking while pregnant. But the baby was still alive. He couldn't have fucked it up too badly, could he? Though there was still a chance of it dying or developing terrible deformities that would negatively impact its entire life…
“You seem to be thinking awfully hard. Penny for your thoughts?”
Vash blinked his way back to the present and found himself still staring at his unborn little bean. He felt disoriented and not entirely there. “I… I was just thinking about when I stopped drinking alcohol. Is- is five weeks in… bad?”
Deborah hummed in consideration as she clicked at a few more things on the monitor. It looked like she was recording some kinds of measurements, but Vash wasn't paying much attention. “I'll be honest, that's not the best thing for the baby. The general medical consensus is that it's best to not drink any alcohol while pregnant. However, it's not uncommon for people to drink before they discover they're pregnant, particularly when it comes to unplanned pregnancies, and plenty of those people go on to have perfectly healthy babies.”
Vash frowned and looked up at her, though her attention was still trained on the screen. “So… What does that mean for me? Will the baby be okay…?”
She clicked one more thing on the monitor, then looked back down at him. “Honestly, it's hard to say for sure this early on, but your chances of miscarriage are fairly low by this point – not zero, but unlikely, given that the fetus has survived for this long and still looks so healthy. There's also the potential for fetal alcohol spectrum disorders to develop, though those are generally treatable and don't mean your baby can't live a happy, fulfilling life. Even fetal alcohol syndrome, the most severe of those disorders, can be treated to reduce its negative impact on the baby’s life. So long as your baby continues to develop as it has been, I believe it will end up okay.”
Vash chewed on his lip in thought, glancing back to the fetus on the screen. “… How likely would those be, exactly?”
Deborah hummed as she turned back to the monitor as well. “Well, that depends. How much were you drinking?”
Suddenly glad that she'd turned away, Vash winced. “It was, uh… Well, I’d been trying to cut down some before my morning sickness made it so I couldn't drink anymore, so… not the most in the week or two before that. But… Before that, in- in the first three weeks, I guess, it was… pretty heavy.”
Deborah blinked, then looked back down at him sharply. “Wait, did you stop drinking cold-turkey?”
“Uh…” Vash attempted an unsteady smile, not liking that sudden attention. “Yes…?”
Deborah looked almost horrified for one moment before she quickly schooled her expression into something more neutral. She still brought her free hand up to rub at the bridge of her nose like she was fighting a headache.
Vash's smile was getting even harder to hold with how nervous that made him. “Is… Is that bad?”
With a heavy sigh, Deborah clicked something on the probe, then dropped her hand to look at him with a serious expression. “Yes, that is bad. Even for non-pregnant people, going through alcohol withdrawal like that can be potentially life-threatening. For pregnant people, withdrawal symptoms tend to be even more dramatic, so it's always best to wean them off using drug treatments while keeping them under medical supervision. You are very lucky that neither you or your baby ended up dead from that.”
Well, Vash kind of wanted to be swallowed up by a real deep hole right about now. He averted his gaze awkwardly. “Ah. Well, uh… I won't… do it again?”
“You'd better not.” She sighed again, this one softer than the last. “In any case, to answer your prior question… I'm glad to hear you were cutting down through the fourth and fifth week. Thankfully, the embryo won't even attach to the uterus lining until week three, and the umbilical cord doesn't start developing until about week four. So by week five, when you stopped drinking, the umbilical cord was starting to develop, but it still had limited function. It would've finished developing around week seven or eight, and from there, it'd have full function. So…”
She trailed off, and Vash tentatively looked back up at her. He found her pursing her lips while her eyes gazed vaguely upwards in thought.
“… Since your heavy drinking was within the first three weeks,” she slowly continued, “it thankfully wouldn't have been passed directly to the embryo. The embryo is nourished by the yolk until the umbilical cord is functional, so even in that fifth week of drinking, there wouldn't be too much passed to the embryo. Even some alcohol is still a risk, but at least there's only about one week where the embryo was directly exposed to it. FASDs tend to become more severe with prolonged exposure and heavier drinking, so…” Finally, she dropped her gaze back down to Vash and concluded, “It's not a guarantee, since even a small amount of exposure can lead to FASDs, but I'd posit that you're unlikely to end up with the baby having FAS, at least. Fetal alcohol syndrome, I mean. I’m less confident about the other potential FASDs, but we can continue to monitor its development both in utero and after birth.”
Hesitantly, Vash nodded. It was a lot to process, but… It was more hopeful than he'd expected. He went into this appointment half expecting the baby to just be dead, and here Deborah was, saying that his baby could be healthy. It almost felt too good to be true, but… Well, she was the medical professional, here. She definitely knew much more than he did, so if she said it'd be okay…
Deborah watched him with that patient expression of hers, clearly waiting for him to get his thoughts in order enough to reply.
Vash swallowed heavily and realized how dry his throat was. Even still, he rasped, “That’s… I mean…” He looked down at his stomach, where the probe still pressed into The Goop. And underneath it was… “You- you really think I’ll be able to keep it. The… my baby. You think I can keep it.”
It wasn't a question, though uncertainty lingered in his voice. He just… needed her to confirm it. To be sure.
“I do,” she said softly. “So long as that's still what you want, then you can almost certainly keep it.”
Vash's eyes burned. As he sucked in an unsteady breath, he realized he was dangerously close to crying.
“I want to,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears that wanted to escape them. “I- I really, really do.” His voice came out strangled, his throat tight. Despite his best efforts, he felt tears slip from the corners of his eyes. They dripped down the sides of his head, getting into his ears.
Vash inhaled shakily and brought a hand up to cover his eyes as if he could hide that he was crying. “Sorry- sorry. I'm not…” He choked out a laugh that was almost a sob. “I don't even know why I'm crying.”
After a pause, he felt her gently place a hand on his shoulder. Just as gently, she told him, “You've been under a lot of stress, and you just learned that things can end up okay. I don't blame you for being a little overwhelmed.”
Overwhelmed. Yeah. That was probably it. Vash nodded at her words, but didn't move his hand from his eyes. He still felt a little mortified that he was crying at the damned doctor's office while lying on an ultrasound table like a… Well. Like a hormonal pregnant person.
He laughed again, this one breathless and just a touch hysterical.
He'd be able to keep it. His baby. That weird little grub in his stomach that would grow into a whole human person. His baby, his child. He could be a dad, after all.
He was going to be a dad.
Somewhere along the way, his laughter turned into sobs, and he was full-on crying. He brought his other hand up – the prosthetic – so he could cover both eyes with either palm. He was past the point of being embarrassed, unable to do a thing besides feel.
It was a release of stress. Overwhelming relief. He wasn't completely out of the woods yet, but any potential problems would be handleable. He'd be able to keep his baby, carry it until he could bring it into the world, then keep it even still as an actual baby. An actual child. His child, his baby.
He felt Deborah's thumb rub soothingly into his shoulder. He laughed again, this time in breathless relief. Smiling wide, he said, “I'm- I'm gonna be a dad.” Just to say the words. Just to make them real.
“You are,” Deborah answered, a smile in her voice.
Vash sucked in a breath, then moved his palms to peer blearily at the monitor. He wanted to see it again. His baby.
Except- on the screen, his baby was still. Nothing moved – not even that steady thrum of its heart.
The joy and relief instantly turned to dread, his heart dropping into his stomach. “Is it-? What happened?!”
“Oh- Oh, goodness,” Deborah said as she pulled her hand from his shoulder and switched her hold on the probe back to how it was before. “Oh, I'm sorry, don't worry, it's okay!” She clicked a button on the side of the probe and another on the machine, and then the image on the screen returned to motion. “It's not good for you to keep the ultrasound waves on for too long, so I paused it while we were talking earlier. But I promise, nothing has changed! Your baby is still healthy.”
Sure enough, the steady thrum had returned to the grub on the screen. Vash watched that heartbeat closely, staring as if it'd stop if he so much as looked away. The dread slowly eased from his heart, though he still felt horribly off-kilter.
“Oh, and look! Seems like your baby's woken up!” She pointed at it, then turned to smile at him.
It-
Oh. It was wiggling.
Vash’s breath caught in his throat as he watched it in wonder. Earlier, there had been little twitches of movement in its limbs, but nothing like this. Its whole body wiggled, its head moving from side to side, looking for all the world like a little- bug or something. It reminded him of a little bee wiggling its butt.
Love surged unexpectedly in his heart. He let out another laugh, even as a fresh wave of tears returned to his eyes. “It- it kinda looks like a little bee moving. A little baby bee.”
Deborah chuckled, too. “It kinda does, doesn't it?” She scrolled with the trackball and clicked a button on the machine. “At this stage of pregnancy, the fetus doesn't have any actual control over its motion. Movements like this come from its muscles testing things out, essentially. But it's great to see it moving so much! Another great sign for your little one’s health.”
Tears streamed freely down his face, but he didn't bother wiping them away. He was too busy trying to take in every detail of his baby that he could. In its wiggling, it'd managed to turn itself around, so now its little rump was displayed on the screen. It was so little, it was hard to imagine it growing into a full-sized person. But he wanted to see it. He wanted to make it happen. Desperately, with every fiber of his being, he wanted to raise this baby and see it grow up well.
Deborah didn't seem bothered by his lack of answer. She just clicked a few more things on the machine, then turned back to him. After a pause, she gently told him, “I'm afraid I shouldn't keep it on for much longer. But I took some photos and a video that I can email to you, if you give your consent for them to be released. And I can also print some photos out, since I know how special those are. How does that sound?”
As little as he wanted to, Vash nodded. He took a steadying breath and wiped at his cheeks with a hand, still not looking away from his baby. “… That sounds good, yeah.”
Deborah smiled sympathetically, then handed him a box of tissues from the monitor’s stand. “Alright, I'm going to turn it off, now. In three, two, one…”
He watched every last second with undivided attention, not wanting to miss a moment. And then the display went blank, and Deborah pulled the probe from his stomach.
“Feel free to sit up and wipe yourself off with the towel. There's a laundry basket for it near the door once you're done.” She turned to the laptop that sat at the side of the machine’s stand and began typing something in. “I’m going to print out the release of information consent form for you to sign, as well as those pictures. Is there anyone else you want us to email the pictures to?”
As she talked, Vash wiped his face off with a tissue, then sat up to wipe his stomach with the towel from his pants. At the question, he paused mid-motion, towel against his skin, to look up at her in confusion. “Huh?”
She met his gaze expectantly. “Like the other parent? Or anyone else who might be interested in seeing them?”
Vash tried his best to not wince at that. He wasn't sure he was entirely successful. He turned his attention back down to his stomach as he continued wiping the gel from his skin. “There's, uh… There's no other parent in the picture.”
God, he did not want to talk about it, but he probably didn't have much of a choice. It'd need to come out eventually, especially once Deborah started asking about family medical history, so he tried his best to push the discomfort aside.
“… I see. Is it… Did something happen to them? Or…”
Vash sighed as he finished wiping his stomach off and let his shirt fall back into place. “… I just honestly don't know who it is.” He stared down at the gooped up towel in his hand as if it could save him from having to explain this. “I was… I had a bit of a habit of… sleeping around, I guess. So I don't know which of them did me in.”
His ears burned with shame at admitting to it, especially to a nice, respectable woman like Deborah. She was probably too kind to say it, but she had to be judging him for how much of a slut he was. Anyone would.
Deborah hummed in consideration. “… Would it help if you tried to narrow it down? It's not an exact science, but we can estimate the approximate day of conception using how far along you are now. The first two weeks of pregnancy happen before ovulation and conception, at least roughly speaking, so for you, conception would've happened about seven weeks ago. Which would put it at…” She paused, clearly doing mental math. “July 28th? That Sunday, give or take a few days. Does that ring any bells?”
As she spoke, Vash hunched in on himself, not knowing how to tell her that he really had no idea- but the date gave him pause. July 28th, one week after his birthday. It felt… vaguely familiar. He was pretty sure it was one of his better hookups, since he remembered feeling better that weekend than the one before it. But he still couldn't remember who it was – not even what they looked like.
Even still… It meant that his baby's other parent wasn't that shitty asshole who left him crying on a table at the cusp of his birthday. He’d been trying to ignore the possibility, but knowing now that it wasn't him… It was a genuine relief.
Still, while this thankfully told him who it wasn’t, it didn't do a thing to narrow down who it was.
Slowly, Vash shook his head. “By… by ‘sleeping around’, I mean I was hooking up with strangers, for the most part. So even knowing the date doesn't help, since I don't really remember who it was. And I wouldn't be able to contact them even if I did remember, so…” He shrugged tiredly, the motion defeated.
Deborah hummed in acknowledgement, then clicked on the laptop again. At the side of the room, a printer started up. “Well, I'm sorry you won't have a partner's support for this, but there's no need to look so ashamed about it. While it will cause some difficulties with identifying inherited risk factors, it's not all that uncommon for someone to have a baby alone. What matters most is that you're committed to raising the baby well, not how it was conceived.”
Still staring down at the towel, Vash blinked hard to resist the tears that were trying to come back yet again. He had no idea how to express how much those words meant to him, so he just said, a little dumbly, “O-Oh. Okay.”
Another click, and a different printer started up. Thankfully, Deborah didn't try to press him about the issue any further, and instead stepped away to fetch what she’d printed. She came back a moment later with a clipboard and lingered before him, not handing it down just yet. “Now, our appointment isn't over yet. I still need to go over you and your family’s health history with you, as well as create a plan for the coming months. But since I was grabbing things anyway, I decided to grab a pamphlet for you. It gives information for a resource that I believe could help you with your situation.”
Thankfully more composed than a moment ago, Vash looked up at her curiously as he set the towel aside. “What resource…?”
“Well…” She thumbed at the edge of the clipboard, still not handing it to him yet. “This resource would help you with being a new single parent. Caring for a new baby is difficult even for couples, but especially so for single parents, so I wanted to introduce you to a program that would offer assistance with that.”
Vash nodded along, though something about Deborah’s posture didn't put him at ease. “Is there… a catch? Or…”
Deborah sighed, then handed the clipboard down to him. “Unfortunately, yes. I don't want you to get the wrong idea about the program’s name. We’ve tried to convince the administrator to change it, but he's too stubborn. However, the program accepts more than just single mothers – they also help both transgender fathers like yourself and even cisgender single fathers. So please consider enrolling, even with the name. I believe it would help you immensely.”
Dreading what he'd find there, Vash looked down at the clipboard. There was a form clipped to the board, and sitting on top were a pamphlet and a strip of glossy photos. He looked at the pamphlet's title- aaand, yup. In aggravatingly feminine letters, it read, Single Mother Support Services. Even with the warning, he couldn't help but grimace.
“Oh, I know,” Deborah lamented, not unkindly. “But it's the best program in the area for people in your situation. I wish they'd just change the darn name already, but not everyone is so open to change…”
As much as Vash hated that name, he stuffed his discomfort down for now to glance through the pamphlet's details, taking in what kinds of services it offered. Parenting classes, support groups, supply donations… It did seem like it'd be helpful.
But that name. He just hated the idea of even tangentially being called a mother.
However…
To the side of the pamphlet sat the strip of ultrasound photos. Vash looked at it, at the record of his little baby… and he sighed in defeat.
Idly stroking his thumb along the edge of the photo strip, he acquiesced, “I'll think about it.”
Anything for the sake of his baby, no matter how uncomfortable.
“And that's all I can truly ask of you.”
Vash nodded, still gazing at the photos. On the top left corner, the strip was labeled with Baby Saverem, 9 weeks 1 day, and on the top right was the current date. Even though he'd already seen these pictures in motion, there was something so… real about seeing them like this.
Deborah was right. It really was special to have them printed out.
“Now, after you've signed that form, we can go back to the room we were in before for the rest of our appointment. I bet you’d like to be sitting in a proper chair again.”
Vash breathed a little laugh, still not looking up from the pictures. “Yeah, maybe.”
Baby Saverem, he read on the strip again.
His baby.
With one final stroke of his thumb to the edge of the strip, he finally turned his attention to sign the release of information form.