Work Text:
“You're havin' my baby
What a lovely way of sayin' how much you love me
Havin' my baby
What a lovely way of sayin' what you're thinkin' of me
I can see it, your face is glowin'
I can see it in your eyes, I'm happy you know it…”
One stuffy late June morning, Robby tugs on his scrub pants, expecting the usual snug fit around his soft belly and hips — another thing to blame on T and getting older and Sunday pancakes with Jack for the last two decades — but the fabric catches at his hips and refuses to climb any higher.
He frowns, tugging harder, annoyed. These pants have always fit, comfortably loose even when he’s gained a few pounds over the years. He grunts, wrestling with the waistband, his humiliatingly round stomach bouncing as he shifts his weight, trying to coax the pants into submission. But they simply won’t button, won’t even stretch far enough to pretend or give him the benefit of the doubt. He stands there in his undershirt, sweat prickling at his temples, his breath catching, not from the effort but from the creeping awareness that this isn’t just an accidental dryer shrink or a late-night snack consequence. Something is… different.
The front door opens softly, and Jack steps in, weary from another night shift, his gray curls mussed from the ride in on his donorcycle, his scrubs wrinkled with the imprint of too many hours leaning over gurneys. He’s stubbly, eyes bloodshot, but still sharp, still the man who has steadied Robby through more storms than he can count. Dropping his bag with a sigh, Jack pads down the hallway, probably expecting to find his frazzled husband halfway out the door, rushing to get to PTMC. Instead, he freezes in the bedroom doorway, feasting on quite a sight to see — Robby standing in the middle of their room, scrub pants tangled at his knees, belly unmistakably round as a honeydew melon beneath his thin shirt. His big hands grip at his waistband, frustration written in bold across his face, but Jack’s eyes go straight to that rotund swell that wasn’t there before. Or, maybe Jack just hasn’t been looking closely enough.
Robby’s always been a little chubby past thirty-two, but this is — “Whoa,” Jack breathes, the word slipping out before he can stop it.
Robby turns, flushed from exertion and embarrassment, his hairline damp with sweat. “They don’t fit,” He wails, as if that explains everything. But Jack’s gaze lingers, narrowed with dawning recognition. He steps forward slowly, almost reverently, as though afraid the image might vanish if he moves too fast. His calloused hand brushes Robby’s arm before sliding hesitantly to rest on the rounded belly, warm and firm beneath his palm.
Robby’s throat tightens. “Jack,” He whispers, voice unsteady, “I know what you’re thinking, but don’t — don’t get your hopes up.”
But Jack’s eyes, even ringed with exhaustion, glow with something fierce, something tender. He shakes his head, his hand pressing just a little firmer against the swell. “Mikey, this feels like a baby.”
Robby swallows hard, his instinct to argue tangled with the truth swelling in his chest. He pulls back, tugging on a pair of ratty sweatpants instead, ones that only barely fit and only if he tucks them under his gut, and grumbles, “It’s probably constipation. Or bloating. G-d knows I’ve been living on vending machine coffee and graham crackers the last two weeks. Don’t go calling the mohel yet.”
Jack only gives him that soldier’s steady look, the one that says he’s not easily swayed. He disappears into the bathroom, splashes water on his face, then reappears with his car keys dangling from his fingers. “I called you out. We’re going,” He says simply.
“Going where?” Robby asks, even though he knows.
“CVS,” Jack replies, tone clipped, decisive.
The ride is quiet at first. Robby sits in the passenger seat, arms crossed over his chest, staring out the window at the early-morning gray. His stomach gives a soft churn that he pointedly ignores. “Jack,” He starts, voice low, measured, “We’ve been down this road. We’ve tried for years and I’ve made peace with it never happening. You should too. It’s just… it’s not possible.”
Jack keeps his hands steady on the wheel, his profile sharp in the rising light. “Then what do you call that?” He asks, nodding once toward Robby’s belly, his voice calm but incredulous. “That’s a baby belly, Robby. We’re doctors.”
Robby exhales, almost a laugh, shaky and bitter. “My middle-aged spread? The week I spent trying to teach Jake to make a decent latke? Stress eating? It’s fat, sweetheart. I’m just fat.”
Jack glances at him, eyes softening. “Mikey, regardless, you know I love you. But we’ve got to check.”
Robby presses his lips together, refusing to let his heart leap, refusing to let hope tear through the scar tissue of disappointment. He shakes his head, muttering, “It’s constipation. Probably. Definitely.” But his hand drifts, almost without his permission, to rest lightly on the curve of his gut as the CVS sign comes into view.
The automatic doors sigh open, spilling cool light across them as they step into CVS. Jack doesn’t even pause — his long stride cuts straight across the aisles, zeroed in on the family planning section like he’s actively triaging. He moves with the same clipped purpose he used to cross dusty bases overseas, eyes locked ahead, jaw set.
Robby lingers by the entrance a moment, tugging the hem of his sweatshirt down over his belly. The shelves blur under the humming lights, and he feels the weight of eyes that aren’t even there. He tells himself again — constipation, bloating, stress — and then he drifts off toward digestive health, quieter, slower, his bulk moving carefully past the endcaps stacked with flip-flops and pool floaties. He finds the familiar green GasX box, grabs it with a sigh, then reaches for Pepto, the pink bottle heavy in his palm. These are practical, explainable, safe. He doesn’t even look toward where Jack disappeared.
But Jack’s voice carries. “Robs?”
Robby winces, tucks the GasX under his arm like contraband, and shuffles toward the aisle. Jack is standing dead center in front of the shelves of pregnancy tests, a stocky, freckled, stubborn wall of a man holding not one but three boxes, his expression taut with conviction. He looks like he’s about to order a chest CT, not pick a brand.
Robby stops short, clutching his Pepto. “Really?” He mutters, low, trying to keep the heat out of his voice. “We’re doing this?”
Jack turns, eyes bright despite the fatigue etched into his face. “Yeah. We’re doing this.” He holds up the boxes, one in each hand. “Which one do you want?”
“I don’t want any of them,” Robby says, biting the inside of his cheek. His throat feels thick, traitorous. “I want to go home, take two of these,” He lifts the GasX slightly. “—and prove to you it’s gas. End of story.”
Jack doesn’t flinch, doesn’t waver. He just takes a step closer, lowers his voice so it’s only for Robby. “And what if it’s not?”
Robby stares at him, mouth dry, stomach fluttering with something that’s not gas at all. He forces out a laugh, soft and hollow. “Then I’ll eat the receipt with the GasX. But you’re going to be disappointed, Jack. It’s chub.”
Jack’s lips twitch, not quite a smile, not quite defeat. He slips all three boxes into their basket anyway, as if the matter is settled, then gently takes the Pepto from Robby’s hand and adds it on top. “We’ll cover our bases.”
Robby swallows, heart hammering, as they head for the checkout.
The CVS bag crinkles in Robby’s lap as Jack pulls out of the parking lot, the engine’s low hum filling the quiet. He sits hunched in the passenger seat, arms folded tight across his chest, the GasX box pressing into his ribs like proof. He watches the rows of streetlights blur by, jaw working, throat tight. He’s rehearsing lines in his head — constipation, bloating, stress — but the words taste flimsy, weak.
Jack glances over at him, hands steady on the wheel, saying nothing. The silence stretches, a taut line between them. Robby is just about to break it with some sarcastic jab about overreacting when his stomach turns. Not just a gurgle, not just the usual coffee burn, but a sudden roll that sends his hand flying to the door handle.
“Oh, hell no,” Robby mutters, squeezing his eyes shut.
Jack’s head whips toward him. “You okay?”
Robby shakes his head, swallowing hard, breathing through his nose. “Queasy,” He mumbles. The word comes out like it tastes foreign.
The car nearly drifts before Jack corrects the wheel, his jaw dropping. “You? Queasy?” His voice is half stunned, half disbelieving laugh. “You don’t do queasy. I’ve watched you eat gas station sushi after a double shift in bloody socks. You’re immune.”
“Shut up,” Robby groans, forehead pressed to the cool window. His stomach lurches again and he clamps a hand over his mouth. “G-d, if you jinx me into puking, Jack.”
Jack just stares at him, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. “Mike, you never get queasy. Never. You’re the iron stomach. And now…” His voice trails off, heavy with realization.
Robby groans again, this time not from nausea but from the weight of Jack’s tone. “Don’t you dare say it,” He warns, eyes still squeezed shut. “Don’t you even think about it. It’s still gas. It’s always gas.”
Jack exhales through his nose, a sound caught between a laugh and a prayer, but his eyes shine as he grips the wheel tighter. He doesn’t say another word, but the whole car hums with the thing neither of them can ignore.
Back home, Robby disappears into the bathroom with the CVS bag clutched to his chest like contraband. He shuts the door firmly, clicks the lock, and calls through the wood before Jack can follow. “No audience. I mean it, Jack. You hover and I’ll chuck the damn things out the window.”
Jack raises his hands in surrender from the hallway, though the tension in his shoulders says he’s not going far. “Fine,” He grumbles gently. “No audience. But I’m right here if you need me.”
Inside, Robby exhales shakily. He lines the three tests up on the edge of the sink with trembling fingers, the boxes torn open in quiet violence. His stomach churns, but he tells himself it’s nerves, it’s stress, it’s the coffee. Sitting on the toilet lid, hunched forward, he takes them one by one, hands shaking so badly he nearly fumbles the third. Then all he can do is sit there, palms pressed hard against his face, tears stinging hot at the corners of his eyes.
“They’re gonna be negative,” He chokes out, voice muffled into his hands, but loud enough that Jack can hear. “I’ve been taking my meds, you know that. My belly’s always cramping, Jack. Always. This is just PCOS or endo. Or, hell, maybe I’m going into menopause.” A harsh, wet laugh breaks from his throat. “Cooing over my endo belly, that’s great, Jack, just fucking great.”
The door clicks softly, and Jack slips inside before Robby can stop him. Robby lifts his head, red-eyed and tear-streaked, but too tired to protest. He shakes it anyway, a pitiful motion. “I told you not to. You’re just — just setting yourself up to be crushed again. I can’t make a baby.”
Jack crosses the small space in two steps, crouches down in front of him, and lays his broad hands on Robby’s knees. His eyes, rimmed with fatigue, are steady, unwavering. “Look at me.”
Robby tries, but his gaze keeps darting back to the little white sticks on the sink, the future dangling on the edge of cheap plastic. His chest heaves. “It’s not, Jack, it can’t be.” His voice cracks. “We already made peace. We gave up. I can’t…”
Jack squeezes his knees, firm, grounding. “Then whatever it is, we’ll handle it. Together.” He lifts one hand, brushes away the tear that slips down Robby’s lined cheek with a thumb. His voice drops, soft as a promise. “If it’s endo belly, I’ll hold your hand through this nasty flare. If it’s menopause, I’ll stock the freezer with ice packs and run to CVS for every patch they make. And if it’s…” He swallows, just once, his throat working. “If it’s something else, we’ll face that too. But you don’t get to sit here thinking you’re alone in this. Not ever. You and me, Mikey, forever — them’s the rules.”
Robby sniffs hard and leans into Jack’s hand despite himself. His round shoulders shake under Jack’s touch, the fight draining out of him in shuddering breaths. Jack doesn’t push, doesn’t press. He just stays there, holding on, steady as bedrock, while the minutes stretch and the tests wait on the counter.
The bathroom is so quiet that Robby can hear the ticking of the cheap plastic clock above the mirror, each second dragging like an eternity. He keeps his eyes buried in Jack’s shoulder, refusing to look at the sink, refusing to let himself hope. His chest shudders with every breath, his hands twisted together in his lap.
Jack shifts, gentle but firm, and murmurs, “Time’s up, sweetheart.”
“No,” Robby croaks instantly, his head snapping back and shaking. “Don’t. Don’t say that. I can’t.”
But Jack stands, squeezing Robby’s shoulder before turning toward the counter. He reaches for the first stick, squinting at the little window. Then his brows shoot up. He blinks, once, twice, as if his tired brain can’t quite compute. “Oh,” He breathes.
Robby freezes. His stomach drops. “What? Negative? Just, just say it’s negative, Jack.” His voice is desperate, as if he can soften the blow by naming it first.
Jack doesn’t answer. He’s already grabbed the second one, holding it under the harsh bathroom light. His mouth falls open. “Jesus, Robs. It’s—” He lifts the third for good measure, his hands trembling now, fatigue forgotten. All three sticks stare back at him, unmistakable. The test lines are so dark they swallow the control lines, as though the dye itself has flooded to prove the point. Bold. Unrelenting. Violently positive.
Robby’s breath stutters in his throat. “No.” His voice is tiny, almost childlike. He shakes his head so hard his curls flop against his damp forehead. “No, that’s not… that can’t be. They’re defective. Or — I don’t know, it’s a chemical, it’s something else. I’m on meds, Jack. My body doesn’t do this. It can’t.”
Jack turns back, crouches again, and cups Robby’s face between his palms, forcing his husband to meet his eyes. His voice is steady, low, like the way he talks to patients on the edge of panic. “Look at me, babe. Three different tests, all screaming the same thing. That’s not defective, Mikey. That’s a positive, that’s a baby.”
Tears spill over Robby’s lashes, hot and disbelieving. He presses both hands over his belly, round and firm beneath his sweatshirt, as though he’s afraid it might vanish if he doesn’t hold it there. “But I… I thought I was broken.” His voice cracks wide open. “We tried so long, and I thought—”
Jack pulls him into his chest, wrapping his arms around his big, shaking husband like he’s holding the most precious thing in the world. He buries his face in Robby’s neck, whispering fiercely, “You were never broken. Never. Your body is perfect and now, it’s our baby’s first home.”
Robby pulls back suddenly, face blotchy and wet, breath hitching like he’s just come off a code. His hands stay clamped on his belly, fingers digging into the soft curve, but his eyes dart wide and frantic. “Jack,” He blurts, voice cracking, “I ate an entire tub of ice cream yesterday. A tub.”
Jack blinks, startled by the turn, but Robby barrels on, voice pitching higher. “And not the good kind, the cheap kind with corn syrup and G-d knows what else. And I’ve been eating vending machine crap for weeks — coffee, crackers, Red Bull, whatever’s in the break room. Garbage. Absolute garbage. And if—” His breath stutters. “Oh my G-d, I don’t have prenatals, Jack! And I’m old!”
Jack reaches for him, but Robby’s already pacing their tiny bathroom, wringing his hands. His sweatshirt rides up as he moves, baring the swell of his hairy belly, and he grabs the hem and yanks it down again, frantic. “I wasn’t careful, Jack. I wasn’t careful because this wasn’t supposed to happen. My body can’t, my body wasn’t—” He breaks off, choking on his own panic. “What if I’ve already messed everything up? Oy gevalt, they’ve been eating everything I have!”
Jack steps in, blocking his path gently but firmly, setting his big hands on Robby’s shoulders. His voice is calm, grounding, even though his heart is hammering with its own fear. “Robs. Mikey, stop. Listen to me.” He waits until Robby’s watery gaze flicks up. “You didn’t ruin anything. Do you hear me? One tub of ice cream isn’t a neonatal crime.”
“But…”
“No buts,” Jack cuts in, voice sharper now, the way he speaks when he needs a patient to hear him over the chaos of the ED. “You’ve spent years thinking this could never happen, and now it’s here. You’ve been fueling your body through double shifts and endless days, and guess what? That same body just did something we thought was impossible.” He softens, thumbs twirling circles into Robby’s sweatshirt-covered shoulders. “Be nice to yourself.”
Robby stares at him, lips trembling, the fight draining out of him in slow, reluctant trickles. His chest heaves as another sob breaks loose, and he collapses forward, burying his face against Jack’s collarbone. “I’m so scared,” He hisses, muffled and raw. “This can’t be happening.”
Jack presses his cheek into Robby’s salt-and-pepper hair, holding him tight. “Me too,” He admits softly. “But we can be scared together, that’s our thing and I’m gonna take care of you both, I swear. Does the baby want ice cream?”
Robby lets out a broken laugh against his chest, clutching him tighter.
The bathroom mirror fogs faintly from the shower Jack just took, the glass streaked but still serviceable enough for scrutiny. Robby stands in front of it, barefoot, tugging his t-shirt up over his stomach. The early light filters pale through the blinds, catching the honeydew melon of his belly, rounder now that he’s looking for it.
He squints, angles himself sideways, then straight on again. One big hand presses into the swell, testing its give. Is it bloat? Is it fat? Is it — he swallows — something else? His brows knit as he leans closer, nose nearly touching the glass. “Okay,” He mutters to his reflection, voice low and grumbly, “How much of you is ice cream, and how much of you is a baby?”
His belly doesn’t answer. It just sits there, stubborn and ambiguous, a mystery in soft hairy skin and stretch.
Robby exhales hard, running a hand through his hair. He thinks of every flare, every endo belly day, every month that swelled with promise only to collapse into pain and nothing. He can’t tell if this feels different. He can’t tell at all. “Damn useless diagnostic tool,” He grumbles at his own torso. Physician heal thyself. Physician examine thyself.
Behind him, the door creaks open and Jack steps in, still toweling his hair, fresh scrubs hanging loose on his frame. He stops when he sees Robby, shirt hitched, belly bare, staring himself down like he’s trying to read an x-ray with the power of will.
“Morning,” Jack says softly, leaning against the doorframe.
Robby startles, yanking his shirt halfway down before sighing and leaving it bunched. “I can’t tell,” He admits, frustration heavy in his voice. He gestures at the bounce of his belly. “How far? A month? Three? Or is it just… bloated and fat with a side order of miracle?”
Jack steps closer, sets the towel aside, and gently replaces Robby’s hand with his own broad palm against the swell. “Doesn’t matter how much is what,” He murmurs. “It’s you. That’s all I need to know.”
Robby huffs, half laugh, half sob, and ducks his head, curls brushing his cheeks. “You’re too calm. You’re supposed to be freaking out with me, Yankl.”
Jack presses a kiss into his temple, steady as always. “Oh, I’m freaking out plenty, just saving it for after the appointment. I’ll take up knitting, make some booties.”
Robby snorts, but his hand drifts back to join Jack’s on his belly, both of them standing there in the quiet, holding the uncertainty together until it feels a little less unbearable.
An hour later, Robby sits in the passenger seat with his arms folded, lips pressed into a thin line. The air still smells faintly of egg whites and seared tomatoes — his responsible breakfast, as he called it while glaring at the frying pan like it personally owed him a healthy baby. He’s chewing gum furiously now, eyes locked out the window.
Jack keeps one hand on the wheel, watching the road. He knows that look — half pout, half martyrdom. It’s the same face Robby pulls when he’s fasting before blood work or when a patient brings in fresh bagels and he’s stuck in a bay.
Two minutes into the drive, Robby starts staring. Not at him, but at every glowing sign they pass — Dunkin’, Burger King, a little diner with pancakes Jack knows are as big as plates. His eyes track each one like a dog gnawing a bone, and the gum loses its fight under the slow grind of his jaw.
Jack bites back a smile as they pass a McDonalds. “You’re staring so hard you’re gonna burn a hole through the Golden Arches, baby. What do you want, Mikey? What’s our baby asking for?”
Robby grunts, dragging his gaze away from the looming McDonald’s billboard. “No. Clean food, that’s all I’m eating.” His voice cracks with misery, like he’s sworn off oxygen. “It’s all chemicals and grease anyway.”
But his face softens as they pass — longing, open, almost heartbreaking. Puppy dog eyes, wide and damp, like a kid being told no at a toy store.
Jack exhales through his nose, amused despite the knot of nerves in his gut about the appointment. He flicks the turn signal and swings into the McDonald’s parking lot.
Robby’s head jerks toward him, belly bouncing. “Jack!” He whines, already tugging the seat belt like he might physically restrain himself from ordering. “I said no!”
Jack just raises a brow, calm as a stone. “You also looked at that Egg McMuffin poster like it was our ketubah.” He pulls into the drive-thru line, voice even. “We’re getting food. Something you’ll actually eat. You’ve got an appointment in an hour, and I’ll be damned if you go in there fainting over eating nothing but tomato slices.”
Robby slumps against the seat, covering his face with one big hand. “You’re horrible,” He whines, but his voice is muffled, and when he peeks between his fingers, the corners of his mouth betray him. He’s already caving.
Jack grins, just a little. “Egg white delight. Hash brown. Large OJ. You can thank me later.”
Robby groans theatrically, but his stomach growls loud enough to answer for him.
The paper bag crinkles open in Robby’s lap before Jack even pulls out of the drive-thru lane. The smell of hot grease and toasted muffin fills the car, and Robby caves with barely a murmur. He tears into the Egg White Delight like a man starved, big hands dwarfing the sandwich, jaw working fast and focused. By the second bite his eyes flutter shut, a groan slipping out of him, shameless and relieved.
Jack glances over at him, lips curving despite himself. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t say I told you so. He just drives, letting the quiet stretch, watching his husband devour food with the kind of hunger that feels deeper than just a skipped breakfast.
Robby polishes off the sandwich in record time, digs into the hash brown next, the crunch loud in the small cab of the car. Grease smudges his fingertips, and when the orange juice carton hisses open, he tips it back like it’s salvation. There’s something raw and unguarded in the way he eats — like his body is finally demanding what it needs, and Robby is helpless to deny it. Jack refuses to let him be this hungry again.
His chest swells as he watches, a strange warmth curling low in his stomach. It’s silly, he knows — he’s a doctor, a rational man — but seeing Robby eat like that stirs something older, simpler. Provider. Protector. His husband, his impossible miracle, sitting there with egg muffin crumbs on his beard and juice on his chin, and Jack feels it in his bones: I’m taking care of them.
Robby finally leans back with a satisfied grunt, brushing crumbs from his shirt. He catches Jack’s look and narrows his eyes. “Don’t say a word, Yankl.”
Jack chuckles, one hand steady on the wheel. “Wasn’t gonna. Just… you look good, is all. Gorgeous, baby.”
Robby snorts, cheeks pink, and turns back to the window — but his hand drifts, almost absently, to rest on the melon of his belly.
The clinic parking lot is fuller than Robby expects for a Tuesday morning. He stares at the sliding glass doors like they’re a gateway to another world, one where things can be confirmed or crushed with a single line of print on an ultrasound screen. His stomach twists — not just with grease and juice, but with the kind of nerves that have teeth.
Jack parks smooth, engine ticking to silence, then turns to him. “Ready?”
Robby barks out a laugh, sharp and disbelieving. “Not even remotely. You?”
Jack fixes his prosthetic ankle absentmindedly in his Vans shoe. “Same.” He reaches across, palm up, patient.
Robby hesitates, then slides his hand into Jack’s. His fingers are warm, steady, wrapping around Robby’s own big paw like they’ve done a thousand times before.
Getting out is an ordeal. Robby groans, braces both hands against the dashboard, then tries to lever himself up. His body protests, sluggish and heavy. “You’d think six-two with linebacker thighs would make standing easier, but nooo,” He mutters. “Oy, my Hebrew name is Yonah and I’m a whale.”
Jack is there instantly, looping an arm around his waist, bracing with practiced ease. “You’re not climbing Everest, it’s a curb.”
“Feels like Everest,” Robby grumbles, but he lets himself lean, lets Jack shoulder some of the heft.
Inside, the waiting room hums with quiet activity — soft chatter, the rustle of magazines, the occasional squeak of sneakers. Robby feels conspicuous, oversized and out of place. His beard itches with the heat rising in his cheeks, and he shifts in the too-small chair, arms folded like a barricade.
Jack sits close, knees brushing his. “Hey.” His voice is low, meant for Robby alone. “You’re not alone in this, not for one second, Mike.”
Robby swallows, staring at the check-in desk where a nurse is calling names. He nods once, short, sharp, but his hand betrays him — sliding across the armrest to hook into Jack’s scrubs, anchoring.
When the nurse finally calls, “Robinavitch?” He startles, half-thinking she must mean someone else. But Jack is already rising, steady, tugging him gently to his feet.
The hallway smells like antiseptic and printer ink. Robby follows, his pulse too loud in his ears, Jack’s hand at the small of his back guiding him forward.
The exam room is small, bright, a paper-covered table waiting like an altar. Robby stops just inside the doorway, staring at it. His throat goes dry. “Jack,” He whimpers, voice cracking. “What if it’s nothing? What if it’s—” He can’t finish.
Jack steps in front of him, close enough their foreheads nearly touch. “Then we’ll grieve. Together.” His eyes are steady, unwavering. “But what if it’s something? What if it’s the start of something? We need to know, Mikey. We can’t just fly blind.”
Robby’s breath shudders out, caught between fear and hope. His hand drifts again to his belly, protective, uncertain.
The paper crinkles under him as Robby shifts onto the exam table, the thin gown already bunched and useless around his hips. He huffs, tugging at it half-heartedly before giving up. His belly lies bare under the fluorescent lights, soft and pale and covered with curly dark hair, darker than the gray speckled hair on his head.
He winces at the sight, at the exposure. If this isn’t a baby, He thinks bitterly, I’m never living this down. Just me, sprawled out with my big hairy gut under a spotlight while some stranger pokes me with a wand.
Jack must catch the flicker of unease in his face because he leans closer, voice low, husky and even. “Hey, you're not on display. You’re here for answers. That’s it.”
Robby snorts, staring at the ceiling. “Easy for you to say. You’ve got abs. I’ve got…” he gestures vaguely at his stomach, “… a circus tent.”
Jack smirks, just faint. “Best circus I’ve ever bought a ticket to.”
Before Robby can pout and retort, the tech wheels her stool closer, gloves snapping on with clinical finality. She’s kind-faced, older, with crow’s feet that suggest she’s seen every possible variety of belly and then some. “You ready, sweetheart?” She asks gently, as if Robby’s nerves are as obvious as the paper gown.
He clears his throat. “I guess.”
She smiles knowingly, reaching for the bottle of gel. “That’s an acceptable answer.”
The cold hits first — a shocking smear across his skin that makes him jolt and swear under his breath. Jack squeezes his hand once, grounding.
Then comes the wand, pressing firm, sliding through the gel with slow precision. Robby clenches his jaw, fighting the urge to flinch away. The monitor beside him stays stubbornly blank for a beat too long, his chest tight with dread. G-d, what if it’s just cysts, just scar tissue, just nothing, again…
And then — something.
A blur resolves, shifting gray and black, grainy but unmistakable in its smallness. The tech stills her hand, eyes softening as she tilts the probe just so. “There we are.”
Then, she freezes, her hand stilling mid-sweep. Her eyes widen, then flick toward Robby and Jack like she’s just spotted something she shouldn’t say out loud. “Well…” She clears her throat, too brightly. “Have you been using fertility drugs by any chance? IVF? IUI?”
“No,” Jack says, clipped. “We stopped trying medically years ago.”
Robby props himself on his elbows, eyes darting between her face and the gray fuzz on the screen. But it’s been so long since his OBGYN rotation, he can see a baby. But it’s not zoomed in and it’s turned away from him — he can’t take measurements from here. He needs his glasses. “Why are you asking that?”
She gives a quick, practiced smile, but her voice wavers just slightly. “I’m going to grab the doctor real quick.”
Then she’s gone, the door snicking shut behind her.
Robby collapses back against the table, gel slick and cold across his stomach, his chest heaving. “Jack,” He says, voice breaking. “She looked — she looked worried. That wasn’t a good look.”
Jack is at his side instantly, his palm on Robby’s cheek. “She didn’t look worried, she looked… surprised.”
“Surprised is bad,” Robby snaps, panic spiraling fast. “Surprised is tumors or cysts, not baby.”
“Or,” Jack interrupts, firm but soft, “It’s something she didn’t expect. That’s not the same as bad. Breathe, Mikey, copy me.”
Robby drags in a shaky breath, then another, his hand clamped tight around Jack’s wrist.
His doctor comes in then, the sonographer trailing, both of them composed in that way that makes Robby’s stomach pitch harder. His doctor pulls up a stool, smiles like he’s easing them into cold water. “Alright. Let’s take another look.”
The wand returns, cool and deliberate, and the grainy shapes appear again, shifting and flickering. The doctor tilts, clicks, zooms.
“There’s the sac and baby,” He narrates calmly. “And, the second one.”
Robby’s eyes fly wide. “Two?”
The probe shifts again. “Three.”
Jack’s breath hitches.
“…Four.”
Robby sits bolt upright, paper gown sliding, his voice going shrill. “What the actual—”
The doctor adjusts once more, his tone carefully neutral. “And… five.” He leans back slightly, removing the wand. “Identical quintuplets. Congratulations.”
The room tilts. Robby claps both hands over his face, muffling a roar that’s half laugh, half primal groan. “FIVE?!” His voice echoes against his palms. “I can’t even commit to five toppings on a pizza!”
Jack is pale, gray curls plastered damp to his forehead, but his hand never leaves Robby’s. His laugh bursts out, wild and disbelieving, and then he’s pressing their foreheads together, eyes wet. “Five,” He whispers, stunned. “We’re having five.”
“I asked for one baby, Jack.” Robby drags his hands down his face, staring at the monitor like it’s mocking him with its five tiny flickers of heathy heartbeats. “Jack. We don’t even have one crib. Or a car that fits a car seat — how the hell do you even transport five babies? A school bus?”
Jack laughs again, shaky but sure, and kisses his temple. “We’ll figure it out.” His thumb strokes absently across the gel still tacky on Robby’s swollen belly.
His OBGYN takes his hands off the probe, setting it carefully aside like it’s something fragile. He leans back on the stool, face open, steady, not celebratory now, not grim either — just measured. “I need to ask,” He begins gently, his voice carrying that practiced cadence of difficult conversations. “Do you want to continue this pregnancy with all five fetuses?”
The words hang in the air like smoke.
Robby freezes, eyes snapping to Jack, then back to the doctor. His voice comes out hoarse. “What?”
The doctor folds his hands, kind but clinical. “This is considered an incredibly high-risk, geriatric pregnancy. Five fetuses… that’s a tremendous demand on your body, Michael. You’re already eleven weeks along, and carrying identical quintuplets significantly increases the risks — preterm delivery, complications for you and the babies, placenta abruption, placental abnormalities. Many people in this situation elect for what’s called a selective reduction, but it’s far more difficult in a higher-order multiple monochorionic-monoamniotic pregnancy. You’re a physician, Michael, you both are. These risks are serious and almost certain to occur.”
Robby stares at him, blank, like the words are in a foreign language. “Selective—” His voice cracks. “Yes, I know what selective reduction is, I just can’t believe you’re asking if I want to… to not keep some of them! Do you have any idea how hard we’ve worked for these babies?!”
“I’m asking if you want to discuss your options, because you have them and it’s important you understand the strain this could put on your health, both short and long term.”
Robby’s hand goes instinctively to his belly, protective, palm wide over the gel-smeared swell. Jack squeezes his hand, hard, grounding him. His own freckles stand out stark against how pale he’s gone.
“You’re looking at near certainty of preterm delivery, of cord entanglement or transfusion syndrome — with quintuplets, we rarely see gestation past 28 weeks, often much earlier. That means NICU time, sometimes months, sometimes significant disability and death. For you Michael, the risks are elevated blood pressure, gestational diabetes, preeclampsia, strain on the heart, placenta abruption, placental abnormalities, catastrophic bleeding. They’re all in one sac, sharing the same placenta. It’s survivable — but not without challenges. Honestly, I’ve never seen anything like this before. I’ll have to send you to a specialist.”
Robby sits up, the paper gown crinkling loud beneath him. His jaw is set, beard fluffy, eyes gone flinty. He snatches the edge of his hoodie from the chair, tugging it over his head with a sharp motion that smears gel against the inside cotton. “I’m keeping them,” He growls, cutting through the careful silence. His voice is rough, guttural, like it’s coming from somewhere deeper than his chest. “End of story.” He’s already tucking his belly back into the hoodie, yanking the fabric down like a shield. His broad hands are shaking as he shoves them into his pockets, but his shoulders square, every inch of him bristling with stubborn resolve.
“I’ve spent years thinking I’d never get one,” He bites out. “Never. And now I’ve got five. You think I’m gonna… what? Pick favorites? Send some back? No. They’re mine. They stay.”
He knows he’s being stupid and stubborn. He knows selective reduction is safer.
But he slides off the table with a grunt, ignoring the stick of paper against his thighs. His sneakers squeak on the linoleum as he shoulders past Jack’s gentle attempt to steady him. “I said end of story. Leave me alone.”
The sonographer steps instinctively out of his way, eyes wide, but Robby doesn’t look at her, doesn’t look at anyone. He storms for the door, hoodie stretched awkwardly over his belly, leaving a faint smell of antiseptic and ultrasound gel in his wake.
Jack stays frozen for half a beat, chest tight, then limps after him, calling softly: “Mikey, wait.”
The hallway feels too narrow, the air too thick. Robby doesn’t look at the nurses behind the desk, doesn’t see the curious flickers of eyes. He just keeps walking, his sneakers squeaking against the linoleum, the hoodie stretched taut across his middle. Two hands clamp over his belly, instinctive, protective, as if he could shield the five flickering heartbeats inside from the weight of the world with his sheer size and will. His palms are warm through the fabric, grounding him even as his chest tightens.
He sniffs hard, the sound loud in the sterile quiet. His beard is damp before he even realizes the tears have slipped loose.
Five.
Five.
It hammers in his head with every step. Not a number, not a statistic, not a risk chart in another physician’s voice. Five lives. Five chances. Five impossibles made real inside him, after years of emptiness. He doesn’t care where he’s going — out the doors, down the sidewalk, into the parking lot where the sun is too bright and the air too sharp. He just keeps moving, shoulders hunched, hands spread wide across his stomach like he’s afraid they’ll slip away if he lets go.
Sniffling, breath hitching, muttering under his breath like a mantra: “Mine. You’re mine. All of you.”
Behind him, he can hear Jack calling his name, quick footsteps closing in, the little wobble as he tries to run on his plastic foot. But Robby doesn’t stop. If he stops, the weight of it all will crush him. If he stops, he’ll hear his OBGYN’s voice again, gentle and rational, asking him to choose.
He can’t. He won’t.
So he walks, big and stubborn, hoodie clinging, tears catching in his beard, both hands gripping his belly like the only answer that matters. Jack catches up with him in the parking lot. Robby’s stride is long, purposeful, but uneven — half-blinded by tears and stubbornness. “Mikey,” Jack calls, breath rough. “Stop.”
Robby doesn’t, not until Jack’s hand closes around his arm, gentle but immovable, turning him just enough to bring him face to face. Robby’s eyes are red, his beard damp, his chest heaving under the stretched fabric of his hoodie. “I can’t—” Robby starts, voice ragged, creaking. “I can’t pick, Jack. I won’t.” His big hands are still pressed to his belly, possessive, shielding. “They’re here. They’re ours. All of them.”
Jack doesn’t argue, doesn’t try to reason. He just steps in, close enough their foreheads almost touch, and lays his own hands over Robby’s. Large, steady palms covering Robby’s huge trembling ones, both of them splayed wide across the substantial swell of his belly.
Together they hold him, solid and warm, the soft round melon that shelters their five tiny flickers of life.
Jack’s voice is low, thick with awe. “Our babies, inside the man I love most in the world.”
Robby chokes on a sob, shoulders shaking. His hands tighten beneath Jack’s, clutching at himself, at them. “You mean that?” He croaks. “All of them? Even five?”
Jack’s lips press to his temple, his curls brushing Robby’s damp cheek. “Even five. Especially five. However many are in there, however hard it gets — I’m here, always.”
Robby crumples against him, burying his face in Jack’s shoulder, big body shaking with grief and relief tangled together. Jack just holds on, both hands still firm over that belly, as if anchoring all of them at once — the man he loves, and the impossible five lives they’ve somehow made together.
Jack doesn’t let go, not even when Robby’s sobs taper into rough sniffles and hiccupped breaths. He keeps an arm looped around his husband, steering him slowly, carefully, toward the car. Robby goes along, heavy and pliant, leaning on him the way he never does with anyone else.
At the passenger side, Jack murmurs, “Easy now,” like he’s coaxing him down from a ladder, not just into a seat. He braces a hand against the doorframe and lowers Robby inch by inch, like he’s eighty years old and fragile as crystal. Robby huffs, half a laugh, half a protest. “I’m not that helpless.” Jack only quirks a brow, unbothered, and crouches to tug the seatbelt across him. He clicks it in with practiced ease, then pauses, frowning at how it cuts across Robby’s belly. Gently, deliberately, he shifts the strap down and under the curve, then smooths the shoulder strap to sit wide over his chest instead of squishing him.
“There,” Jack says, satisfaction in his voice. “Safe, but comfortable.”
Robby just stares at him, beard still damp, eyes wide and glassy. The kind of look that undoes Jack more than any tears or words ever could — raw trust, laid bare.
“You don’t have to.” Robby starts, voice small.
“Yes, I do,” Jack cuts in, soft but unshakable. He cups Robby’s cheek, thumb brushing over the flushed skin. “You’re carrying all of them. Our whole world is right here.” His other hand rests briefly on Robby’s belly, a reverent touch. “So, I’ll take care of you — that’s my job.”
The car hums softly as they pull away from the clinic, the world outside moving too fast for how suspended Robby feels. His hands stay spread over his belly, thumb rubbing circles through the hoodie without him even realizing. After a few minutes, he mutters, almost sulky: “I’m hungry again.”
Jack glances at him, lips twitching despite everything. “Already?”
Robby shoots him a look, red-eyed but fierce. “I’m eating for six.”
That shuts Jack up in a hurry. His foot eases off the gas, his mind already recalculating. “Okay,” He says briskly, soldier-snapped into action. “Smoothie. Protein, greens, fruit. Something that’ll actually last you longer than a hash brown.”
They swing through a juice bar drive-thru, and soon enough Robby’s cradling a comically large cup, straw bent between his lips. The scent of mango and kale fills the cab, earthy-sweet, and the sound of slurping is loud enough to make Jack’s chest ache with some strange cocktail of tenderness and panic, because while Robby’s sniffling and sucking down vitamins like it’s salvation, Jack’s brain has already leapt ten steps ahead.
“Alright,” He says, hands tight on the wheel, voice ticking through logistics like rounds in a briefing. “We’re going to need a bigger car. Something with three rows minimum, ideally four. Two cribs won’t cut it — we’ll need at least three, ideally four. Staggered sleep schedules. Bottle prep stations. Probably color-coded everything if they’re identical. Bracelets would work.”
Robby makes a wounded little noise around his straw, but doesn’t stop drinking.
Jack barrels on, because if he stops the enormity might crush him: “Daycare won’t take quintuplets, not all at once, we’ll have to look into in-home help. And preschools, we’ll need the best one in the district, preferably with experience in multiples, preferably with scholarship options, because five tuitions at once is—”
Robby interrupts with a wet snort, smoothie straw popping free for a second. “Jack. Yankl, love, you’re already on preschools? They’re the size of lima beans.”
“They’ll be three before we blink,” Jack shoots back, earnestly, freckles standing stark against his pale skin. “If we don’t plan now, we’ll drown.”
Robby huffs, but his eyes soften, damp and amused. He takes another long pull of mango-kale, the straw gurgling. “Meshugas.”
“The need inside you, I see it showin'
Whoa, the seed inside ya, baby, do you feel it growin'?
Are you happy you know it?
Didn't have to keep it
Wouldn't put you through it
You could have swept it from your life
But you wouldn't do it, no, you wouldn't do it…”