Chapter Text
Javy’s grip doesn’t loosen, not even when Bradley thrashes; it just tightens. He rides it out — hell, he braces like he’s hunkering down for a Cat 5 — he damn well knows the difference between a man trying to fight him and a man trying to fight his own bones, to rip through his own skin. Bradley is the latter. The asshole burns hot, cold, erratic, but Javy’s grip is like iron, steady, merciless in its restraint. His voice, when it cuts through the chaos in Bradley’s head, is thick as his Maman’s roux: “Stop your runnin’.”
His words strike harder than his goddamn fist. Bradley’s whole body jolts, ribs battling against his lungs, chest heaving like an engine pushed way far past what it ought to have been. He glares, wild-eyed and soaked with salty sweat and still dripping blood, but Javy doesn’t blink, not when he’s been dealing with Jake’s angry little hissy fits for years. He knows dumb boys. So, he hauls Bradley a half-step closer until they’re nearly chest-to-chest, his voice pitched low and brutal, meant only for him.
“You been runnin’ since the day I met you, Bradshaw — from your Daddy’s ghost, from Mav, from Jake, from yourself. It clearly ain’t helping, so stop.” His jaw flexes, knuckles blanching around Bradley’s wrists. “You don’t get to tear your own skin open while he’s sleepin’ over there tryin’ to breathe. He needs you to be okay.” But Bradley’s knees buckle again, especially when Ice and Maverick step back to give him space — he clearly don’t want them touching him. Javy’s words cut straight through the animal noise of danger danger danger; run run run in his head and Javy doesn’t let him collapse. He yanks him upright again, teeth bared in a frank snarl. “You hear me? He needs you here, not six months ago, not six months from now. Here. Right the fuck now, Rooster. Wake up.”
Bradley caves forward instead, forehead thumping hard against Javy’s collarbone, sobbing like a man cleaved in two. His hands — still trapped in Javy’s grip — finally unclench, limp and useless. Javy exhales raggedly, eyes closing, the fury bleeding out of him in slow, aching waves. His arms shift, finally sliding from Bradley’s wrists up to his shoulders, then around his back. It ain’t soft — Javy doesn’t do soft with anyone but his little brother — but it’s solid, crushing, the hold of a man saying I won’t let you fall even if you want to, boy.
Across the room, Slider rocks imperceptibly, his big hand smoothing circles over Jake’s lank hair. Jake stirs faintly, his nose pressed harder into the curve of Slider’s chest, but he doesn’t wake up. His breath rattles on, uneven, shallow, but steady enough to prove he’s still trudging along.
Maverick scrubs a hand over his face like he’s trying to wipe away the image of his own boy breaking in someone else’s arms. Ice stands at his shoulder, jaw clenched, eyes sharp but softened with a grief he refuses to give voice to. The others stay silent, the room thick with the sound of Bradley’s sobs, the rasp of his breath, the faint wheeze of Jake’s sleep. Javy knows what they’re thinking, the awful tilt-a-whirl of residential care, of hiding pain and psych holds.
It’s not peaceful. It’s not a resolution.
But, Jake stirs with a soft grunt, tugged up from sleep by the pressing noise of Bradley’s sobs, still cued into the boy he’s spent most of his adult life being head over boots for. His soft blond lashes flutter, lips parting on a breath that wheezes shallowly through his chest like a slide whistle. Slider starts to shush him: stay down, Trouble, rest — but Jake tries to sit up, stubborn as ever. Javy coulda wound his watch by that predictability right there. Jake wriggles in the cage of Slider’s arms, groggy but determined, until that hoodie — stretched taut across the great curve of his belly — eases up to reveal how turgid it really is, how strained. Still, gravid and all, he pushes himself upright into a sitting position, bracing his casted hand against Slider’s chest for leverage, the other sliding instinctively down to cradle the heavy swell of himself and Bluebell.
“Bradley…” His voice is hoarse, fragile, threaded through with sleep and absolute exhaustion, but it cuts through the crying man like a bell. Bradley lifts his head at once, eyes wild and wet, face smeared with drying blood. For half a heartbeat he freezes, struck dumb by sight of Jake awake, Jake sitting upright, Jake haloed in the dim light with his belly full and round, too huge for his frame. Then he breaks. His knees give way entirely, sending him crashing down in front of Jake with none of the rigid bodily control their training had drilled into him. He falls forward with both hands braced uselessly in the rug, shoulders bowing until his face presses into the warm swell of Jake’s stomach in a kowtow. His sobs come loud and wet against the stretched skin, blood smearing where his nose drags across Jake’s flesh. Javy feels his chest go tight at the sight.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” Bradley babbles in broken gasps, muffled into the roundness of Jake’s body. He’s wracked with sobs so violent that his muscles jump and twitch in the vain effort of holding them back, so as not to hurt Jake.
Javy watches his little brother’s mouth tremble, he sees Jake’s throat working, as tears well in his eyes. The blond lifts both arms — swollen, puffy, trembling, but somehow steady enough to gather Bradley in — and curls them around his head. His fingers thread weakly into Bradley’s hair, tugging him closer, not minding the blood or the mess or the way Bradley shakes like he’s trying to come apart. “Shh,” Jake whispers, voice crumbling like a butter cookie from a tin. He tilts forward until his lips brush Bradley’s knotted curls, until his cheek rests against the warm crown. His tears spill hot down his cheeks, dampening his blond stubble and hoodie collar alike. “Shh, Roo. Don’t cry, baby. Please, don’t cry, we’re okay.”
But, as if those words haven’t landed in the slightest, Bradley clutches at his sides like he would crawl inside Jake’s skin if he could, to take the baby into his own body, shoulders wracked with now-soundless sobs. His face buries even deeper against Jake’s belly, against the overtaxed swell that holds everything they’re both so terrified of losing. The blond strokes a shaky hand through Bradley’s curls again and again, each pass weaker than the last, but so so stubborn. His eyes squeeze shut against his own tears, “I’ve got you, B. I promise, I’ve got you. You’re gonna cry yourself sick, baby. Please calm down.” Jake bends over as far as he can manage, folding himself around Bradley’s whirlwind emotions, letting him sob into the curve of his body as if it’s the only anchor left in the room.
But Bradley isn’t crying anymore so much as wailing, the choked sounds dragged up raw from his soul, his heart, unrestrained. He wilts, cheek smashed into the round, swollen curve of Jake’s belly, of their son’s first cradle. His nose is still dripping sluggishly from Javy’s punch, blood streaking Jake’s pinkening and stretchmark-laden skin, and his sobs collapse his whole frame like a levee in a hurricane.
His babbling is heartbreaking, even to Javy, shredded into wet fragments by his tears. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I should’ve, oh God, Jake, I thought… I can’t — if you — if he hurts you, it’s my fault!” He keens, half words and half garbled noise, clutching harder, pressing his face deeper into the soft rise of belly until the damp heat of his breath makes Jake wriggle and curl his toes. His mouth keeps moving, muttering useless strings of apology, regret, terror, I can’t lose you, can’t lose you, don’t make me watch you die…
Jake doesn’t hush him with logic or even argue back, as is their usual MO. He doesn’t try to reason, doesn’t scold, doesn’t even ask Bradley to quiet down. Javy watches as Jake continues to fold forward as far as his heavy belly will allow, curling both fluid-filled arms around Bradley’s bowed head. His cast drags awkwardly against Bradley’s neck, but neither of them care. His fingers — swollen, hurt — curl stubbornly in Bradley’s curls and hold tight, then tighter, like he’s anchoring him there.
“Shhh,” Jake coos, soft and steady, and rocks minutely, as if he can soothe Bradley the way he’s going to soothe their child after a nightmare soon enough. “It’s okay, Roo. It’s okay, baby, I’ve got you.” He keeps up the rhythm, over and over, cooing nonsense and comfort in equal measure, even as his throat clogs audibly with tears, even when his cheeks are wet and blotchy. His belly shifts under the weight of Bradley’s grief, trembling faintly with the pull of muscles already exhausted beyond all reason. Still, he doesn’t push Bradley away, doesn’t complain, doesn’t flinch.
Javy sighs, he knows his brother and knows damn well that Jake will hold Bradley until his arms break off if that’s what it takes. He lifts his chin, eyes bleary and red-rimmed, lashes heavy with tears, and bares his teeth.
Jake’s geared up, defensive as he glares at them, with arms full of Bradley: Slider, sitting massive and immovable beside them, Wolf’s hand half-raised like he might reach out to comfort their once-little boy, Hollywood scoots forward as he perches on the arm of the couch with fury carved into his jaw, Sunny and Chip hover in worried silence, as Ice and Maverick bracket the room with their stares — lost, worried, horrified — Javy is practically vibrating when those eyes settle on him in animalistic rage. Jake might be pissed at Bradley, but he sure as hell ain’t okay with the boy he loves being reduced to a wet, bloody mess.
Jake shows them all his pearly whites and bleeding gums like a threatened animal protecting its mate, furious and feral all at once. His lip top lip curls, wet with sweat, and it’s not the cocky grin they’re used to, not the sly flash of ego he’s always wielded like a knife. This is raw, primal, bare-fanged. It’s a snarl without sound, and it says clearer than words ever could: This belly is mine. This baby is mine. This broken, bleeding man in my arms is mine. If any of you think you’re going to take him from me, if you think you’re going to rip him away while he’s down here sobbing into me, you can all fuck right off. He holds the stare long enough that they feel it, long enough that everyone in the room understands they’ve crossed from worried uncles and watchful guardians into dangerous territory. That: yes, they may have claims on Bradley — as family, as friends, as comrades — but Jake makes it plain with one look that none of their claims matter here.
Bradley is still shaking, keening into Jake’s gravid belly, but the blond doesn’t so much as twitch under the weight of it. He tips his head down, presses a kiss into the wild curls, and whispers fiercely, hoarse and soft all at once, “Mine.” Then again, for them, “He’s mine.” His arms tighten, his trembling fingers dragging through Bradley’s hair, soothing and claiming in the same touch. His eyes glitter wet and defiant over the crown of Bradley’s head, his teeth still showing in silent challenge. Javy hates it, hates the war in his eyes: Let the baby kill him, let his lungs collapse, let the world rip him to pieces — but Jake Seresin will go out holding what’s his.
Bradley Bradshaw, sobbing and bleeding into the swell of his belly, is his.
They’ve been circling Jake for hours now, like dogs around a wounded animal, building their walls and their defenses around him, like he’s a glass figurine ready to splinter at the wrong look. They’ve been shielding him from Bradley, from his ex, from the one man Jake chose, even if he wasn’t chosen in return. And in doing so — in thinking they knew better than him what he could take, what he needed — they made Bradley cry. Jake Seresin doesn’t forgive anyone who makes Bradley Bradshaw cry, he can barely tolerate it when it’s his own damn fault. Jake funnels all his pain and sickness and fetal growth turned painful — into his eyes. He’s trembling with the effort of sitting upright now, his belly a great taut curve under his hoodie, breath wheezing faint around his words. But still he finds his voice: hoarse, cracked, but full of venom.
“Y’all think I’m so broken I ain’t able to speak for myself?” His fingers stay tangled in Bradley’s curls, steady, but his eyes lift and burn across the room, searing into each of them one by one. “You think I’m too weak, too far gone, to tell him what I need?” His lip curls higher, his jaw shaking with the strain. “You wronged him. You made my boy sob like this, and you did it in my name, like I ain’t able to do my own goddamn yelling.” Bradley whimpers into his belly, clutching tighter, but Jake presses his cheek down onto the crown of curls and keeps going, voice like nails dragged over a chalkboard, yelling at them hunched.
“I get it. I get it.” His words hitch, more air than sound, but still laced with heat. “You love me. You’re scared. You want to put up walls around me so I don’t fall apart. But listen real close now: I already fell apart, weeks ago. But now you think you can stand between me and him, but you can’t, you ain’t gonna. I know this man, I know what he can take. I know what he needs, and it sure as hell ain’t being locked out and beaten down until he’s bleeding and crying at my feet. What the fuck is wrong with y’all!? He’s y’all’s kid!” His hands flex against Bradley’s hair, the touch gentling even as his words sharpen. “He’s mine. He’s my Roo. You don’t get to decide what breaks him or what saves him. That ain’t your place. That’s mine.”
His gaze snaps, red-hot and brilliant even through exhaustion, pinning Javy down the hardest of all. “Javier D’Alejandro Machado, don’t you ever lay hands on him like that again, I know it was you. I don’t give a damn how righteous you felt when you swung on ‘im. That blood all down his face? That’s yours. You know damn well that ain’t right. I get you want to protect me, brother, I do. But this ain’t how you do it.” Javy’s mouth opens, then shuts again, throat bobbing. The fight in him snuffs out in the face of Jake’s venom, guilt scrawled raw across his face.
Jake tilts his chin up higher, breath coming in rattling pulls, jaw tight against the sob threatening to crawl up his own throat like a not-quite-dead thing that shoulda been. “Y’all insist on defending me like I’m some kinda shrinking violet, but I gotta spine. I gotta mouth. I can rake him over the coals myself when he deserves it. He don’t need you to stand in for me. He needs me. You understand? Me.”
The silence after is suffocating. Maverick’s face has gone bone-white, Ice’s jaw turned sharp enough to cut gemstone. The rest of the uncles look away, shame and sorrow mingling in the set of their faces. Jake exhales, shaky and shallow, but still burning hot enough to sear them all. He tightens his hold on Bradley, his voice softening only for him, rasping into his hair. “So the next time y’all get the bright idea to step between us — don’t. You’ll have me to answer to and I ain’t about to play fair.” Jake lowers his eyes to Bradley, still clinging, still shaking, still half-lost in tears and blood and the ragged edges of his apology. Bradley’s cheek is still pressed to the swell of Jake’s belly, his body folded against him, too close, too vulnerable.
Jake’s expression softens for only a second — gentle, fragile, unbearably tender. Then he freezes, hand tightening on the side of his gut as he goes a distinct shade of gray-green. Chip ain’t been rubbing his feet for a hot minute now, moving to stand to the side of the battlefield. He got a little too complacent.
“Back,” He rasps, with trembling hands. He coaxes Bradley’s grip loose, prying fingers from the hoodie fabric, brushing curls away from his damp face. He pushes at his shoulders — not hard, not cruel, but firm enough that Bradley has no choice but to tip backwards. Rooster makes a startled, broken sound, stumbling clumsily onto his ass with a graceless little oof. His wide eyes snap up, bewildered, cheeks flushed and wet. He looks hurt for half a second, like Jake’s just shoved him away in anger — but then he sees Jake’s face. They all do and Javy, well-versed in the faces of one Jacob Fielding Seresin, knows damn well that he’s about to spew.
Jake is still angled forward, still putting himself between Bradley and the room. His hands are trembling against his thighs, nails digging into the stretched cotton of his borrowed sleep shorts. He’s positioning himself as a shield even now, always, even when he should be leaning on Bradley, not the other way around.
Then his body betrays him and Javy isn’t quick enough to grab a bucket, not that he knows where they’re kept anyhow. The fury in Jake’s tummy flips sharp into nausea, bile surging hard and fast. His mouth fills with sour heat, his chest jerks with convulsive heaves. Jake barely has time to angle forward, away from Bradley, before his stomach clenches viciously.
He vomits all over himself.
The sound is wet, violent, humiliatingly loud in the silence. It splatters down the slope of his belly, soaking the front of his borrowed hoodie, thick and acidic. He gives another heave, another rush of bile and half-digested chunks of good-intentioned meals spilling into his lap. He chokes on it, gasps, then retches again until his ribs visibly ache. Javy winces — Oh, J.
Jake had clearly tried to push Bradley out of the splash zone, to keep his ex from being caught in the mess of his stomach flipping itself inside out. But it means all of it lands on him. His hoodie, his sweatpants, his swollen thighs. He’s dripping, shuddering, pale with exertion. Bradley scrambles forward instantly, scooting on hands and knees, frantic. “Jake! Oh, baby, oh, no, no, no—” His voice is sharp with panic, hands reaching, desperate to gather him back up. But Jake shakes his head, lips pale, wiping at his mouth with the back of his trembling hand. He’s shaking so hard it looks like he might break apart, but his eyes are still well-lit, still sparking in defiance. He sits there in the mess of himself, lap drenched, chest heaving, and glares up at the men around him: even sick, even humiliated, even retching bile, his message is the same: You don’t get to take this from me. You don’t get to take him from me. I’ll choke on my own body before I let you.
Bradley’s whole body reacts before his mind does. His knees slip on the rug, palms skidding through fibers as he lunges forward, every instinct honed by months of sleepless nights and endless hypervigilance, now with good reason: get to Jake, get to him, fix it, clean it, make it better.
Jake jerks a shaky hand up like a traffic cop, palm out, trembling fingers spread. His face is gray, lips cracked and wet with bile, breath rasping like sandpaper. “Stay,” He rasps, chest heaving. His whole frame trembles like he’s fighting to keep the rest of his gut down. “Stay back, Roo. I’m not — done. ’Nother wave comin’.” His voice fractures, and his throat spasms like he might hurl again right there. His belly jumps visibly beneath the mess soaking his borrowed clothes, the sheer weight of it shifting with every ragged breath.
But Bradley ignores him. “No,” He coos, hoarse and guttural, as if defying gravity itself. “No, baby, I don’t care.” He’s on him, crawling into the splash zone, right up against the reek and the ruin. His knees thud against the rug, one arm sliding behind Jake’s trembling shoulders, hauling him upright even as Jake weakly resists. Bradley cups his jaw with his other hand, tilts his face away from the mess, thumbs the dampness from his lips with brutal tenderness.
Jake groans, tries to twist his head, tries to force Bradley back with a feeble shove of his palm against his chest. “Roo, don’t. Don’t touch me. I’ll get you dirty. You’ll smell it for days—” His words break apart on a gag.
Bradley ignores that too.
“You think I give a shit?” He growls, voice thick with tears. His thumb sweeps again at the corner of Jake’s mouth again, smearing bile across his knuckles. He presses their foreheads together, breathing Jake’s sour breath in like it’s oxygen. “You think I care about puke on my shirt? About the smell? You’re sick, baby.” Javy’s stomach lurches too, but in a different way, his chest warming at the sound.
Jake makes a wounded noise, a broken sound in the back of his throat. His eyes rolling around wet and bright, lashes clumping with tears. His whole body jerks with another spasm — another heave threatening, but Bradley only tightens his grip, steadying him through it.
The second wave hits hard.
Jake convulses, coughing, gagging, bile spilling over his lip, down his chin. But this time Bradley is there, tilting him forward, one big hand bracing his chest, the other catching the mess with a balled-up corner of his own t-shirt. He doesn’t even flinch when it soaks warm and wet against his skin. “There, baby,” Bradley croons, frantic and tender and worried all at once as if he isn’t stained in sweat, blood and tears. “I’ve got you, J, I’ve got you. Don’t hold back, just let it out, my love. I’ll take it, all of it, I don’t care.”
Jake sobs between heaves, the sound so thin it barely counts as a voice. “Bradley, no, you shouldn’t—”
“Shut up,” Bradley snaps, but his voice cracks on the edge of it. He presses another kiss, wet and desperate, to Jake’s temple even as his released shirt clings sour to his belly. “Shut up and let me love you.”
Jake, wrecked and weeping and choking, has no choice but to sag into Bradley’s arms at last, letting himself be held in the mess, while the others watch from their useless, sterile distance.
Javy smiles in something that might be relief, that might be hope.
The end of the second wave leaves Jake trembling, clammy, blond hair dark and plastered to his temple, his mouth wet with bile and spit. His whole body jerks as if every muscle is confused about whether to retch, to sob, or to collapse.
The others: Javy with his jaw set, Slider halfway out of his chair, Hollywood rising from where he’d been coiled on the armrest — they all lurch forward instinctively. The movement is collective, hands twitch for towels, for water, for Jake himself. But Bradley is already there. He’s kneeling in the muck, his knees damp from the rug, his shirt stained dark and sour, his broad hands unflinchingly steady. One arm stays wrapped firm around Jake’s trembling back, keeping him anchored upright when his spine wants to curl up like a shrimp in defeat. The other slides down, palm spreading wide across the obscene swell of Jake’s middle — sweat-slick, food-laden, baby-laden, stretched to impossible tautness.
Bradley’s thumb strokes gentle circles against the hot, tight fabric and flesh, coaxing breath into Jake’s beleaguered lungs with each pass. His voice is low, rhythmic, steady even though his face is still streaked with blood, tears and speckles of vomit. “Shh, baby, shh. Breathe for me, just like this, slow — inhale, yeah, good, now let it out. I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”
Jake hiccups against his shoulder, chest convulsing like he’s fighting to keep the next wave down. His lips part on a ragged sob. “B, don’t want you to get — I’m sorry.” Bradley’s hand abandons his belly for a moment only to catch the thin stream of bile that escapes his raw lips, warm and humiliating, slicking his palm. He closes his fingers around it, catches it like it’s nothing, like it’s water slipping from a faucet, not filth from the man he adores.
“Don’t you dare,” Bradley growls, ferocious and tender in the same breath. He shifts his grip, smearing the mess onto the ruined hem of his shirt so his hand can go right back to its place on Jake’s belly. “Don’t you dare tell me what I should care about. You breathe. You let it out. I’ll take it.”
Jake sobs into Bradley’s shoulder, body shuddering, tears mixing with sweat. His swollen belly clenches under Bradley’s palm, tight with nausea and pressure, the fullness of food and baby and sickness fighting for space. Bradley just presses firmer, rubbing circles, grounding him into the rhythm of touch, into the cadence of his steady voice. “I’ve got your belly, baby. I know it’s too much, I know. Let me hold it for you. Breathe, J. That’s it. Don’t fight me.” Jake makes a weak sound, somewhere between a laugh and a moan, before another dry heave rips through him. His body lurches forward. Bradley is there again, tilting him, shifting his weight, catching what little there is left to give. His own shirt is drenched, his hands streaked, the rug beneath them dark with stain — but none of it registers. He whispers into Jake’s ear like a prayer, like a vow: “Every bit of it, I’ll take. You give it to me. Don’t you hold back for them. Don’t you hold back for me. It’s not your fault, baby.”
Slowly, the violence ebbs. The retching dwindles to shivers, the bile to spit, the sobs to raw hiccups. Jake slumps, exhausted, against Bradley’s chest, too wrecked to hold his own weight up. His lashes clump with wet, his lips cracked and trembling, his belly swollen and miserable beneath Bradley’s steadying hand. Bradley presses a kiss to his damp hair, to his temple slick with sweat. His bloodied nose smears red across Jake’s scalp, but he doesn’t care. He rocks them both gently, back and forth, as if they’re alone in the world. Bradley has made it clear in the filth and the ruin and the stink: Jake is his. This is his place. Jake, barely conscious, barely clinging, lets himself be held.
Bradley’s hands are still shaking when he finally dares to ease his hold. Jake is damp and sagging against him, skin clammy, hoodie soaked, belly distended and baby boy restless under Bradley’s palm. Every protective nerve in him screams don’t let go, but he knows what Jake needs next isn’t his arms — it’s warmth, water, the kind of cleansing comfort that only soap and steam can offer.
So when Ice and Mav ease forward, their older hands practiced at fussing over Jake, Bradley relents and allows them to take his place. It takes effort. He has to unclench his arms one at a time, peeling his grip off Jake’s slick hoodie, sliding his hand away from the trembling swell of his belly. He mutters instructions like a drill sergeant as he shifts back on his knees: “Support his back; no, higher, he can’t sit upright on his own — someone get him water, not cold, room temp — watch his belly, don’t press —” Mav nods quick, already fumbling for a glass, while Ice settles on the edge of the couch, steady and solid, letting Jake lean into his shoulder as Slider backs his back. The tableau is so gentle, cradling the man Bradley had been clutching so fiercely only seconds ago.
But Jake doesn’t see it that way. The instant Bradley eases away, Jake makes a small, keening sound in the back of his throat. His head jerks up weakly, eyes glassy and rimmed red, tears slicking trails down his flushed cheeks. He reaches, clumsy and trembling, hand outstretched toward Bradley like a drowning man grabbing for rope. “Roo,” He whimpers, voice broken, breath hitching on the single syllable. His fingers curl against empty air, helpless. His lips tremble. He looks hurt.
The sound shreds Bradley’s chest open like a sushi knife. He surges back in, cradles Jake’s face in his messy hands, bile-streaked palms bracketing pale cheeks. Jake leans forward desperately, pressing his damp mouth to Bradley’s with no care for the mess between them. It’s a kiss, or maybe it’s just breath shared, but it counts. Bradley holds him there, nose brushing nose, forehead to forehead. His voice is fierce, raw, breaking with tenderness. “Baby, listen to me. I’ll be right back. Only a minute; just to run the bath, I swear.”
Jake’s wet lashes flutter, his lower lip wobbling against Bradley’s. “Don’t go,” He begs, small and frantic, as if Bradley were about to walk out forever. His palm presses weakly against Bradley’s chest, fingers clutching at his shirt as though he can tether him in place.
Bradley kisses him again, soft but desperate, trying to soothe with lips what his arms can’t keep holding. “I’m not leaving you, baby. I’m never leaving you again. I’m just going to run the bath, get you some warm water, and soft towels. You’ll feel so much better, I promise. Then I’ll carry you in myself. I’ll hold you the whole time if you want. But I need two minutes.”
Jake whines low in his throat, eyes wet, body trembling as Ice steadies him more firmly against his chest. He doesn’t fight, he hasn’t got the strength, but his gaze doesn’t leave Bradley for a second, wide and wounded and trusting all at once, fingers twitching in sad grabby hands.
Bradley presses one last kiss to his damp temple, lingering there until he feels Jake’s lashes tick against his skin. He pulls back slowly, reluctantly, his thumb swiping under Jake’s eye to catch another tear. “I’ll be right back,” He vows again, voice thick with something perilously close to breaking. “I swear on my life.” Only then does he force himself to rise, staggering on unsteady legs, streaked with bile and puke and blood and tears, to go run a bath for the man who can’t bear to see him walk away, the love of his life.
Bradley doesn’t wait. He doesn’t see them anymore — the tense shoulders, the guilty stares, the hovering hands that had half a mind to stop him. Javy’s dark scowl, Slider’s tight jaw, even Ice’s low murmur — they blur into white noise. He’s streaked with dried blood from Javy’s punch, reeking of bile from Jake’s retching, clothes ruined and sticky, but none of it matters. None of it touches the place where his focus rests — all he sees is Jake.
Jake, limp against Ice’s shoulder, trembling like a fevered child, eyes glassy and tracking him even as his lips part in weak whimpers. Jake, swollen so obscenely with the life inside him that he looks carved from something divine and yet on hospice care all at once. Jake, who had reached out like he was losing his anchor when Bradley dared step away.
Bradley comes back and gathers him up without asking, without explaining, like there was never any question. He slides one arm under Jake’s knees, the other behind his back, and lifts — heaving him close against his chest with a grunt. The weight is awkward, the swell of Jake’s belly pressing hard against him, but Bradley doesn’t flinch. He shifts him higher, presses a kiss into Jake’s damp hair, and carries him out.
The hallway blurs around them.
The bathroom door clicks shut behind them, muffling nagging well-meaning voices, sequestering them off and away from the world.
Bradley sets Jake down only long enough to flick off the taps, steam and water rising fast. He hunts one-handed through cabinets and baskets, pulling out lavender oil, eucalyptus salts, soft cloths. He tips them in until the air itself feels thick with calm, until the water froths with foam and the scent of flowers and earth and healing fills every corner.
Then he turns back to Jake. His lover is slumped on the closed lid of the toilet, juxtaposing the warmth and security of the tub, cheeks pink from fever and exertion, belly huge and hard under his hoodie. His head tilts forward, his hair plastered damp to his temples, lashes heavy and fluttering. He looks about to tip sideways. So Bradley kneels, his big hands, still sticky and raw, move like they’re handling the touchiest control panel. He peels the hoodie away, bit by bit, sliding it off Jake’s shoulders, tugging it over his head with murmured apologies when it snags, soft cotton clinging to his clammy skin — exposing the swollen rise of his belly, stretched skin flushed and veined and heaving with shallow breaths.
“Beautiful,” Bradley whispers, kissing the slope of that curve before tugging the hoodie entirely free. He strips him down piece by piece, careful with the waistband, careful with his trembling puffy legs, Bradley’s fingers are reverent even as Jake whimpers at being jostled. Every item is tossed aside, forgotten. The only thing that matters is the body revealed beneath, fragile and round and aching.
When the tub is full, Bradley dips a hand in to test the heat.
Then, he slides his arms under Jake again. “Here we go, baby. Easy now.” He lowers him into the water like lowering a relic into its shrine. Jake’s toes curl at the first touch, a sound escaping him — half sigh, half sob — as the warmth surrounds him, lifts the ache out of his bones. The bubbles froth around the curve of his belly, rising up over his chest, fragrant steam curling around his flushed face. Jake tilts his head back, eyes half-lidded, lips parted. His arms float weakly at his sides, too tired to do more. But the way his body unwinds is unmistakable: shoulders sinking, lungs opening, every line of tension dissolving into the scented water.
Bradley doesn’t stop there. He sheds his own filthy shirt in one rough tug, tosses it aside, then kicks free of his ruined pants and boxers. He steps over the rim and lowers himself into the water behind Jake, letting out a low groan as the heat envelops him too. Then he reaches, pulling Jake gently back until he’s cradled against his chest, battered belly buoyant and bobbing between them.
Jake melts; his spine molds to Bradley’s chest, his head falls back against his shoulder, a sound of relief sighing from his lips. His hand drifts aimlessly, landing over Bradley’s arm where it crosses his middle, and stays there.
Bradley kisses his temple, then his damp hair, then the corner of his jaw. He runs a slow hand across the great swell of Jake’s stomach, bubbles clinging to his skin, thumb stroking soft arcs as their little Cookie Monster wriggles his happiness inside. His other arm holds Jake tight, steady, safe. “Got you now,” Bradley sighs into the steam, his voice ragged and tender. “Nothing in the world but you for me, baby.”
Jake shivers once, a last tremor of exhaustion, and then lets out a long breath that feels like surrender. The next thing Bradley does is reach for the sponge, dipping it into the steaming water until it drips fragrant rivulets. He lifts Jake’s arm, trembling and puffy, and wipes slow circles down from shoulder to wrist, rinsing away the sweat, the sick, the sticky evidence of earlier. He does the same with the other, murmuring nonsense praise, voice husky: good boy, almost done, you’re perfect, look at you.
Jake sniffles through it, eyes glassy, tears streaking into the foam at his collarbones. “M’sorry,” He whispers, voice scratchy and small. “So gross. So much trouble. Cryin’ and pukin’ on you like some kid. Needy all the time. Fucking fat and ugly, you don’t deserve—”
Bradley cuts him off by tipping his chin up, cupping his jaw in his wet palm. “Don’t,” He hisses, eyes like daggers. “Don’t you ever say that about yourself.”
Jake blinks at him, startled, lip wobbling even harder, but Bradley pushes on. “You’re not gross. You’re not ugly. You’re not too much. You’re carrying our baby, Jake. You’re hurting and you’re scared and you’re still here, so fucking brave. The only one who’s been wrong—” Bradley’s throat works; he swallows hard, tears pricking his own eyes now, “— is me. Me, the coward with the broken brain, the fear, the shame. I’ve been so afraid I couldn’t see straight. I made you feel alone in this and that’s on me, I’m so sorry, baby.”
Jake stares at him, wide-eyed, breath stuttering, water dripping off the ends of his lashes. For a heartbeat he looks wounded all over again — until his brows pull tight, his jaw sets, and he glares, with as much fire as his weary body can muster. “Don’t you ever,” He huffs, voice trembling but fierce, “Say shit about that brain again.” His hand finds Bradley’s wrist under the water, squeezes it weakly but with intent. “I love that brain, every bit of it. Fear, shame, broken or not, it’s you and I love you. We both fucked this up, we have to do better — for him.” Their little Bluebell.
Bradley’s breath catches, his vision blurs, the world narrowing down to the furious tenderness in Jake’s face. He bows his head, forehead pressing against Jake’s damp temple, words slipping out thick and wrecked. “I don’t deserve you.”
Jake lets out a wet laugh, a choked hiccup, and tilts his head until their mouths brush. “Tough shit. You’ve got me.”
Bradley kisses him, deep and trembling, one hand cradling Jake’s jaw while the other strokes reverently over the great swell of his belly and even as Jake sniffles, even as his shoulders shake, he leans fully into it, letting Bradley wash him, rinse him, love him piece by piece as though there is nothing in the world that could ever make him unworthy of it.
The water cools around them by degrees, steam thinning, bubbles popping in quiet sighs. Bradley doesn’t rush. He tips cupfuls of warm water over Jake’s shoulders, over his chest, sluicing away the last clinging traces of sickness. He works the suds gently through Jake’s hair, massaging his scalp until the man sighs, small and shaky, eyelids fluttering like he might give in right there in the tub. When Jake finally lets his head loll back against Bradley’s chest for the last time, body slack and heavy in his arms, Bradley knows it’s time.
“Alright, pretty boy,” He sighs, pressing his lips to Jake’s temple. “Let’s get you tucked in.” He drains the tub with one hand while steadying Jake with the other, then stands in a careful surge, water dripping in rivulets down both their bodies. Jake makes a weak sound of protest, half-asleep already, his arms instinctively looping Bradley’s neck. “I’ve got you,” Bradley soothes, wrapping him in a thick towel and bundling him close, one arm braced under his knees, the other supporting the swollen curve of his back. He lifts him like a child, like a treasure, like something sacred.
The hallway is dim and quiet now, the house hushed after all the chaos. Bradley ignores the sting in his split lip, his nose, the ache in his ribs, the drying patches of blood and bile on his skin he didn’t get to wash. None of it matters; all he feels is the weight in his arms, the slow rise and fall of Jake’s chest, the warm dampness of his breath against Bradley’s collarbone. By the time he pushes open the guest room door with his shoulder, Jake is out. His lashes rest in damp crescents against his cheeks, his mouth soft, his whole face slack with the first true peace Bradley’s seen on him in hours.
Bradley lowers him gently to the fresh-made bed, tugging the blankets up around his shoulders, tucking the edges in like a sailor battening down the hatches. Jake doesn’t stir, just sighs once, nestling instinctively into the pillow, one hand drifting to rest over the incredible mound of his belly even in sleep. Bradley pauses, just watching him. His heart aches with it — the sight of his love, still his — despite everything. He brushes a strand of damp hair from Jake’s forehead, then bends to kiss him, soft and reverent, careful not to wake him. “Sleep, baby,” He rumbles. “I’ve got everything else handled.”
Then he eases onto the mattress beside him, curling his big body protectively along Jake’s back, arm draping over that same swollen middle, over their son. He closes his eyes, letting the rhythm of Jake’s steady breathing pull him down into rest too, both of them finally cocooned in quiet — and for the first time, he lets him dream of a baby boy with Jake’s godawful giggle, it’s the most beautiful dream he’s ever had.
The wind howls like a stray dog through the thin seams of their shitty trailer, pushing dust in under the warped door and through the tiny holes in the fly screen, settling on everything — on the counter where Mama left her cigarette ash, in the fibers of the couch that smells like old toast and old sweat, in Posy’s nose, in her mouth. The whole world tastes like dust out here. Dust and boredom.
It’s Christmas morning, technically. Though there ain’t no tree, ain’t no music, ain’t no cinnamon, ain’t no cousins screaming in the backyard — just Ma in the back room, lying down again with her arm over her eyes, and Posy and Maggie on the living room floor surrounded by piles of plastic garbage bags stuffed with cheap wrapping paper, off-brand toys, and tags that say things like To a sweet little boy, age 7. Merry Christmas. God bless you! Posy hates that tag the most. She read it twice, just to make sure. A sweet little boy. As if the person who bought the toy had any clue who she was. It’s from the Angel Tree at the Salvation Army, it’s the first year Pa didn't fight adding their names. She has no idea where Pa even is but at least it’s warm inside now.
Maggie squealed when she opened hers. Squealed; a high-pitched, mouse-in-a-teacup sound that Posy can’t stand. She got a doll whose hair smells like fake grapes and a whole fairy dress-up kit. Something called Unicorn Spa Slime and a Breyer horse, gleaming and black as motor oil, mane curled like a ribbon, hooves painted silver, eyes like little mirrors.
Posy didn’t even open all her bags before she saw it. She knew it was wrong — the pony should’ve been hers; even if she said horses were dumb — and she had said it, last week, in a fit of heat and fury and itchy mosquito bites — she ain’t meant it. She only said it because Maggie had called her boyish in that smug, sugary voice she used when she wanted something to sting. Boyish was good, Posy liked being boyish, but not when Maggie made it sound like the worst thing to be.
Now Posy sits, frozen and fuming, hands in her lap, one resting on the crinkled plastic wrapping of the cheap plastic gun she just unboxed. She can feel her face turning hot, her throat going tight like it always does when she wants something so bad she could scream. The Breyer pony is on Maggie’s lap. Maggie — so exactly like her in body, but somehow nothing like her in heart — is stroking its mane with one dirty thumb like she’s already queen of the pony universe. Maggie who gets all the pink stuff. Maggie who smiles and twirls and pretends to be shy when church ladies ask how school’s going. Maggie who always ends up on the good side of things. Post just gets told she looks too much like her asshole Pa.
She’s already shaking when she says, too quiet, “I want that one.”
Maggie glances up. “Which one?”
“The horse.”
Maggie’s eyebrows shoot up, almost theatrically. “Why? That’s a girl’s toy. You said you ain’t a girl.”
Posy flinches. “So?”
“You got all the cool stuff.” Maggie’s voice is airy and false-sweet, like syrup poured over salt. She waves her hand toward the other pile. “You got, like, a whole army man set and a dino that roars.”
Posy looks at the dinosaur. Its mouth is half-open, forever snarling. Its plastic is rough and cheap, its color wrong. It's red. Dinosaurs ain’t red. She knows that, everybody knows that.
“I don’t want the dinosaur,” Posy whines. “I want that one.”
Maggie curls one arm around the pony. “Well, you can’t have. It’s mine.”
Posy lunges without thinking. No plan, just blood. Hands grab, fists ball, arms tangle. Hair pulls. Nails scratch. They’ve fought before, sure, they’re identical twins, they’re little girls, they live in a shoebox in the middle of a sun-blasted field with nothing but mean ol’ three-legged dogs and broken dreams for neighbors — but not like this, not with this kind of desperation. Maggie shrieks when her nose connects with the corner of Posy’s wrist. Blood bubbles up, bright and ridiculous. Posy’s own lip is split open from a wild backhand, and there’s a boot-print on her calf from where Maggie kicked.
They freeze — like feral cats suddenly realizing someone’s watching — panting, hunched, blinking. The room feels different now. The pony lies on its side in the corner, legs stiff, mane tangled. It looks dead.
“I wanted it, Choc!” Posy wails, finally. Her voice is thick, and she can’t look Maggie in the eye. “I wanted the pony real bad.”
Maggie, clutching her nose, stares at her — not angry, exactly, just confused. “Why?”
“I dunno.” Posy sniffles. “It just — looked like it could run far away, like it gets to be pretty and a boy.”
Maggie blinks once, blood dripping from her lip. Then, flatly: “That’s stupid, Dooze.”
Posy nods, scrubs at her face with the back of her hand. “I know.”
They sit in silence, both wrecked, both blinking hard. Then Maggie groans, crawls over to where the pony got tossed, grabs it by the belly, and tosses it underhand into Posy’s lap. “Fine, take the stupid horse.” Posy catches it and cradles it. She doesn’t say thank you. She doesn’t need to. Maggie wouldn’t want her to anyway.
She holds it like it’s warm, like it could run so so far away.
Jake rolls over in the guest bed in increments, fat and sick and feeling like he weighs a thousand pounds. Bradley’s still snoring beside him like a runaway train. But when his vision clears in the dusty morning light — there’s a box sitting on his bedside table that wasn’t there before.
It’s a Breyer horse — this one is ATP Power, thick and strong, rearing up on his back legs: Amberley Snyder’s barrel horse. He can see the Boot Barn sticker on the side. There’s also a little note stuck to it, a lime green post-it.
Love you, Dooze.
— Maggie
The exam room is absolutely fucking teeny for the sheer volume of bodies packed on into it. Nine sets of broad shoulders and crossed arms crowd up against the walls, spill into the corners, hover over the two chairs that are supposed to be for partners and support persons. The air is thick with aftershave, cologne, Maggie’s fruit gum and the faint tang of nervous sweat; under it all, the sterile sting of antiseptic and the powder of fresh hospital gowns.
Jake sits on the crinkling white paper of the exam table, massive belly fully exposed, obscenely wide and full under the thin cotton of his T-shirt, one that could double as a tent in a pinch. He’s sitting leaned slightly back against the angled rest of the table, both hands braced at the underside of his monumental gut as though holding it up, holding it together, holding himself together. The weight of it makes him breathe shallowly, lips parting with every shift like he’s gotta bad cold. Bradley is beside him, planted firmly on the only available stool, thigh pressed to Jake’s knee, one hand never leaving the curve of his belly. Bluebell keeps his twitching to a minimum, something for which Jake is guiltily grateful.
There’s tension in the lines at the corners of Dr. Coy’s mouth as she moves the ultrasound wand across Jake’s distention, screen flickering with grainy black-and-white images, then yellow-brown 3D. Jake winces, jaw locking, when their baby boy wriggles; a ripple shudders across his belly like something alive beneath a thin tarp, and his breath hitches with an agonized squeak. Bradley leans in instantly, rubbing soothing circles over his skin, murmuring low, trying to rub away the hurt. “Easy, little man, easy.”
Jake’s voice is strained when he asks Dr. Coy, “Why does it hurt so bad now, Doc? He’s been rolling for weeks. This, ow ow ow…” He lets loose another hiss as a sharp elbow or heel drags across an organ already pressed Flat Stanley thin, “— this is different.”
Dr. Coy pauses, hand steady on the probe, eyes flicking between Jake and the screen. Then she exhales, quiet but heavy, and turns the monitor slightly so the whole room can see. “What we’re dealing with,” She starts, tone careful, “— isn’t just baby’s size or position anymore. It’s the placenta.” Wolf straightens. Slider crosses his arms tighter. Javy presses a knuckle to his mouth like he’s holding back commentary. Maggie scowls, painted red lips pursed. But Dr. Coy traces a shadowed expanse on the screen, an enormous blot of mottled texture that dwarfs the baby tucked against its edge. “Normally, the placenta attaches to one wall of the uterus, in your case — because this pregnancy is abdominal and because of the vascular bed it latched onto — your placenta has grown enormous. Right now, it’s occupying about three-quarters of the available space in your abdominal cavity, that’s what’s creating these new symptoms.”
Jake blinks at her, dazed, trying to process. “Three-quarters?” His hand trembles where it rests against his own skin.
She nods once, crisp. “It is tortuously dilating your small intestine, inferior mesenteric artery and even stretching upwards to your celiac trunk. That’s why every fetal movement feels sharp, painful and obstructive now. It isn’t that your son is hurting you directly — it’s that the placenta has forced everything else to move aside. Each kick, each roll, pushes against already stressed tissue.”
Maverick mutters something low under his breath that sounds like a curse. Hollywood lets out a slow hiss of air. Bradley goes pale, his fingers clenching protectively over Jake’s belly as if he could fix it from the outside by sheer force of will alone. Jake swallows hard, throat bobbing. “So what — you’re telling me every time he moves, it’s grinding up my insides?”
Dr. Coy doesn’t flinch. “I’m telling you it’s painful because your body is under extraordinary strain. The placenta is doing its job — feeding him, keeping him strong — but the cost is high for you, Jake. You’re carrying both the baby and an organ that has expanded far beyond its normal limits. The blood loss will be catastrophic when you deliver.”
Jake leans his head back against the exam table, eyes fluttering shut; young, exhausted and utterly wrung out. “No wonder I feel like I can’t breathe.”
Bradley leans closer, presses a kiss to Jake’s temple, whispering fierce reassurances. His hand rubs soothing circles across the mound that contains both their son and the monstrous placenta crushing the rest of Jake’s organs. “We’ll get you through this, baby, you're okay.” It feels like a lie. The others shuffle uneasily against the walls, restless giants in too small a space, all of them realizing at once just how much worse this is than they’d thought. Maggie looks mad enough to spit.
Dr. Coy’s wand stills, her eyes narrowing at the shifting lines of shadow and light on the monitor. She adjusts the angle, slows her movements, and then clicks a button that freezes the image. The entire room holds its breath, packed bodies craning to see. “There,” She points, tracing a fingertip over the screen. “Do you see this protrusion at the base of the spine?” The image resolves into something haunting: the tiny curve of their son’s back, the knobby rise of vertebrae — and then a ballooning shadow at the sacrum, a rounded fatty mass that looks like it shouldn’t belong there. Bluebell shifts, and it becomes clearer: something is pulling funny — his spinal cord — tethered, pulled into that growth.
Dr. Coy doesn’t soften her delivery, but her tone is compassionate. “This is a lipomyelomeningocele, a type of spina bifida. What you’re seeing is a fatty tumor at the sacrum with tethering of the spinal cord. It will need neurosurgical repair after delivery. But right now,” She glances at Jake, then Bradley, then back to the crowd of stricken faces, “— your baby is otherwise remarkably healthy. Heart strong, lungs showing good early movement, measurements all within the expected range. He’s far healthier than you are at the moment, Jake.”
The room exhales as one, a sound like a storm front passing. Relief tempered with new fear. Maverick mutters something that sounds fowl-ish; Slider drags both hands down his face. Javy rocks back on his heels, lips pressed tight like he’s swallowing every retort that wants to spill. Bradley just grips Jake’s hand like a lifeline, eyes burning holes into the monitor as if staring harder will change the picture. “So he’s okay? He’s really okay?”
Dr. Coy nods once, steady. “He’ll need some specialized care after birth. But for now, yes, he’s thriving.”
Jake lets out a shaky laugh, one hand splayed over the curve of his massive belly, thumb brushing absentminded circles. His other hand clings to Bradley’s. “Hear that? Our boy’s kicking the shit out of me because he’s healthy. He’s strong.” His voice breaks on the last word, tears shining in his eyes but stubborn pride shoring him up.
But Dr. Coy doesn’t let them linger too long in relief. She clicks the machine off, wipes Jake’s belly clean, and fixes him with a physician’s practiced gravity. “The problem, Jake, is you. Every day you carry him, the placenta is stretching your organs further, straining blood flow, making it harder for you to eat, breathe, or even walk without pain. You’ve told me you want to make it to thirty-six weeks, I understand why. But I need you to hear me: every week you carry is not guaranteed. The balance between buying him time and sparing your body further harm is narrowing.”
Jake stiffens, jaw clenching, chin tilting up with defiant Texan steel. “I said thirty-six, so that’s what I’m doing.”
The words spark against dry grass in the small room. Bradley turns to him, desperate, still trying to make him see sense. “Jake, baby, please.”
Dr. Coy lifts a hand, quieting them. “I respect your determination, Lieutenant. But I want us to have a contingency plan here. I want to start betamethasone injections — two doses, 24 hours apart. They’ll accelerate his lung maturity and that way, if you can’t make it to thirty-six, if something forces us to deliver earlier, he’ll be ready to breathe on his own.”
Bradley squeezes Jake’s hand, leaning in close, voice low and rough in his ear. “Baby, please. Let’s do it. Let’s give him every chance, no matter when he comes, alright?”
Jake’s lips part, stubbornness written across his face, but his eyes betray him: weary, bloodshot, full of pain and love in equal measure. His enormous belly shifts again with another kick, and he winces, gasping. Finally, he nods once, sharp. “Fine, do it. But I’m still getting him to thirty-six.”
Dr. Coy presses her lips together, something like admiration flickering through her composure. “Then let’s get started today.”
Jake closes his eyes, leaning into Bradley, hand protectively stroking his own swollen middle as though willing both himself and his son to keep holding on. Dr. Coy’s tone, already steady and solemn, drops another octave. The shift is palpable; everyone in the room straightens, their collective instinct bracing for bad news the way they would before a mayday over comms. She sets the ultrasound probe aside, pulls her stool closer to the exam table, and meets Jake’s eyes first, then Bradley’s, then sweeps across the wall of anxiousness, a family pressed shoulder to shoulder.
“Jake,” She shakes her head quietly, “Your body is holding on, for now. But you’re walking a razor’s edge here. The placenta is strangling your abdominal cavity, leeching from multiple major sources of blood supply. Your intestines are compressed, not completely, but that is coming. Your celiac trunk is stretched — still delivering blood, but that balance will not hold forever. The moment your bowel is completely compressed, circulation will be cut off and your bowel will go necrotic and start to die. Once you become ischemic, that is not something we can wait out — it will mean immediate emergency surgery.”
The words emergency surgery echo in the tiny room like the crack of a gunshot. Ice’s molars scream from how tightly he's gritting them, Slider hisses a heartfelt fuck under his breath. Javy’s fists clench at his sides. Wolf’s jaw ticks, looking like he wants to put his head through the drywall just to bleed off the helpless fury that coils in his shoulders. Bradley makes a broken sound, his hand sliding to cradle the underside of Jake’s belly now as if he could physically hold the pressure at bay. His face is bleached, eyes wide and glassy, ruddy mouth working before words come. “That could happen anytime? Like today? Tonight?”
Dr. Coy nods, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Yes, it could be weeks, it could be days, it could be hours. Once circulation is cut off, there’s no room for hesitation. We’d need to operate immediately to save both of your lives. That’s why the betamethasone is critical — it buys your son a better chance if we have to take him early. Right now, every hour matters.”
Jake sits up straighter despite the strain, his huge belly surging forward, shoulders trembling with effort. His jaw sets hard, teeth bared against the flood of fear clawing at his ribs. “You’re saying I’m living on borrowed time?"
Dr. Coy doesn’t sugarcoat it. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”
The room is quiet, except for Jake’s labored breathing. His hands splay over the taut dome of his belly, as if to shield both himself and Bluebell. He looks down at himself, eyes hot with tears, then back up at her with defiance. “I’m going to thirty-six weeks, Doc. He deserves that; my boy deserves everything.”
Bradley breaks then, a choked sob ripping from his chest. He folds against Jake, forehead pressed to his shoulder, his big body trembling with it. “Jake, baby, please — you can’t — don’t do this to yourself. You don’t have to bleed yourself dry to prove you’re a good father. You already are. He needs to come out.”
But Jake’s hand slides into Bradley’s hair, carding through the messy strands, stroking, soothing, even as his own voice threatens to wheeze away. “I’ve carried him this far, Roo. I can carry him a little longer. Don’t you dare try to take that from me.”
Dr. Coy lets them cling to each other for a breath, before adding, softer now, “I respect your determination, Lieutenant. I do. But you need to understand, this is no longer about if you want to hold on. It’s about whether your body will let you. We’re preparing for disaster because disaster could strike at any moment and when it does, you won’t have a choice. Neither will we.”
Jake’s breath catches, a sound like a wounded animal caged in his chest. He presses his cheek to Bradley’s temple, eyes fixed on the middle distance as his family watches him unravel and refuse to yield at the same time. His stubbornness slips out anyway: “Then you better be ready at any time. I’m not giving up before thirty-six.”
Dr. Coy inhales through her nose, clinical composure strengthening her spine, and she reaches for his chart. “Then we’ll reinforce the guardrails,” She sighs, unhappily. “Jake, you are no longer safe on solids. Your intestines are so compressed they’re already operating at the edge of obstruction. If you try to keep eating the way you have been — your bowel will back up completely. That’s catastrophic, from today forward, you’re on a full liquid diet. Broths, shakes, hydration formulas, nothing else. Anything bulkier than that could push you into a crisis too early.”
Jake blinks, stunned, his lips parting around a laugh that isn’t amusement at all. “Liquid only? You’re — what, trying to starve me now, Doc?”
“Trying to keep you alive,” Dr. Coy corrects, her voice turned vicious in a way that makes even Slider swallow hard. “Trying to keep you both alive. You cannot keep forcing your gut to do a job it doesn’t have space for.”
Bradley’s arm tightens around Jake’s shoulders, but his gaze is locked, pleading, on the doctor. “So soups, smoothies, that kind of thing? He can live on that?”
Dr. Coy shakes her head. “I don’t trust him to get enough calories by mouth anymore. His stomach is too displaced, he’s vomiting too often, he can’t keep things down reliably. I want to insert a nasojejunal tube as soon as possible, for night-time formula feeds. It will bypass his stomach entirely and deliver nutrition directly into his small intestine. It’s the safest way to maintain growth for the baby without risking obstruction or malnutrition. Unfortunately, he’ll need to go into the hospital to place one. Today, I’ll insert a nasogastric tube until the NJ can be properly placed.” The room explodes into motion — Maverick swears, Javy takes a step forward like he’s about to rip his hair out in clumps, Hollywood and Wolf both start muttering about hospitals and second opinions. The sheer sound of it rattles the tiny exam space until Bradley snarls, “Quiet!” and the room falls obediently still.
Jake’s face is bloodless, his hand pressing hard against the curve of his swollen belly. “You want to stick a tube down my nose?! Feed me like a patient in the ICU?!” His voice cracks, humiliated, furious, terrified all at once. “I’m not — I’m not helpless, Doc. I can do this without being tethered like that.”
Dr. Coy leans in, her eyes sharp but her tone is all gentle, coaxing. “Lieutenant, listen to me. This is not about weakness. This is about physics. You cannot eat enough through your mouth to support you and your son. The tube isn’t punishment. It’s insurance. It’s how we keep you standing long enough to see thirty-six weeks.” Bradley’s shaking now, eyes glassy, torn between horror and desperation. He cups Jake’s jaw, forces him to look at him instead of the doctor, his voice breaking. “Baby — please. Let them do this. Let them keep you safe. You don’t have to do everything the hard way all the goddamn time.”
Jake swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, tears springing hot to his eyes. He glances down at the great globe of his belly, at the way it distends and heaves with each shallow breath. His baby boy shifts inside, a ripple beneath stretched skin, and Jake flinches at the ache of it — so full, so heavy, so impossible. When he looks back up, his face is wet but his jaw is locked in the same fierce line. “If it keeps him fed… do it. But Bradley stays right here. Nobody does a damn thing to me without him holding my hand.”
Dr. Coy nods once, already standing to gather supplies. “Okay, then let’s get started.”
The family collectively braces, all eyes snapping to Bradley and Jake — watching them as the sterile tray is pulled closer — and the room becomes charged with a new, sharper tension. The small tray is covered in sterile kits wrapped in their crisp blue paper. The crinkle of packaging is suddenly deafening in the cramped exam room, every eye locked on Dr. Coy’s hands as she snaps gloves into place. The gleam of lubricant, the thin coil of tubing — it all looks too clinical, too alien for this tiny, overstuffed space where Jake lies half-reclined on the exam table with Bradley curled around him like a shield. Jake’s whole body is taut, tremors running through his limbs beneath the strain of his grotesquely distended belly. His breaths are sharp and shallow, chest rising in short bursts, because he knows what’s coming. He can already feel the phantom of the tube in his throat, gagging him, stealing his air.
Bradley senses it, of course. He presses his forehead to Jake’s temple, lips brushing damp skin, his hand never leaving Jake’s jaw. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, baby. Look at me, not at her, just keep your eyes on me.”
“Easy for you to say, Bradshaw. You’re not the one about to choke on a line of plastic.”
Bradley’s smile is broken, trembling, but it’s still there. “Then you yell at me; squeeze me. You can break my hand if you need to, baby.”
Dr. Coy approaches, with tubing coiled neatly in her palm, a syringe already fitted to the other end. “Jake, I need you upright. Not too far back — you’ll gag more. Lieutenant Bradshaw, help him sit forward, head just slightly down.” Bradley moves like he’s been trained for this — like handling his pregnant, fragile partner is a maneuver more dangerous than flying that bombing run — the one Jake did when he was a couple weeks pregnant. He slides an arm behind Jake’s shoulders, cradles his belly with the other, easing him upright. Jake grunts, the sound raw and strangled, a protective hand flying to support the underside of the huge dome as it shifts against his organs. His knuckles go white.
The room holds its breath. Slider looks like he might pass out; Maggie mutters a curse so low it’s almost a prayer. Maverick presses a fist against his mouth, eyes fixed on the floor. Dr. Coy steadies Jake’s chin with one gloved hand, the tip of the lubricated tube poised at his right nostril. “Deep breath in through your mouth. On the exhale, I’ll advance.”
Jake swallows hard, forces his gaze to stay locked on Bradley’s, lets his love’s inhale set his rhythm. Dr. Coy doesn’t wait for second thoughts — on the next exhale she advances the tube. Jake gags instantly, back arching, tears springing to his eyes, a garbled noise claws up his throat, half-strangled. Bradley shushes him, voice shaking, pulling him in tighter. “That’s it, that’s it, baby, breathe. C’mon, just a little more…”
Dr. Coy continues the slow, practiced advance, her other hand guiding the length as it threads down Jake’s nasal passage, past the pharynx, into the esophagus. Jake chokes again, wrenching against Bradley’s grip, but Bradley doesn’t let him twist away. He whispers nonsense now — sweet, frantic syllables — kisses his damp temple, his hairline, every patch of skin he can reach. Finally, the tube slides past his gag reflex, deeper, curling into place. Jake sobs once, harsh and wet, nauseated, clutching Bradley’s shirt in his fists like a lifeline. Dr. Coy secures the tape against his cheek, checks placement with a syringe of air, listening with her stethoscope.
“There,” She sighs softly, decisively. “It’s in. You did it, Jake.”
Jake’s chest is heaving, his every muscle trembling. His nose runs, tears streak his face, his lips part in shallow little gasps. He looks wrecked, undone. Bradley gathers his face in both hands, kissing the salty skin fiercely. “You did it. It’s over. It’s in, and it’s going to feed you both, and you are so strong.”
Jake only lets out a low, shaky laugh that turns into a sob, pressing his wet cheek against Bradley’s chest. His voice is raw, muffled where he curls up like a child. “I feel like a fucking science experiment.”
Bradley rocks him gently, one hand stroking his hair, the other curled protectively over his massive belly. “No, sweetheart. You’re a miracle, my fucking miracle. You’re our boy’s miracle. You’re everything to me, Seresin and don’t you ever forget it.”
“We’ll get him into the hospital as soon as possible for the NJ.” Dr. Coy throws away her gloves, her expression softening as she writes notes in Jake’s chart. “He’ll adjust. The discomfort will fade. The important part is that now he has what he needs to try for thirty-six weeks.”
But for Jake, it’s Bradley’s heartbeat against his ear that drowns out everything else.