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Qrow had helped through his fair share of pregnancies. He’d been there with Raven, he’d been there with Summer and Tai. And nobody was shy about it in the Tribe; there were babies born left and right. Hell, he’d even survived the heart-stopping chaos that was Val’s labor, which earned him the role of godfather to one Rosemary Ebi-Su. Whether it was his family, his tribe, or Clover’s weird cousins that had somehow adopted him, Qrow was prepared.
He was not prepared for Clover.
He couldn’t even blame it on being an omega thing, because where Tai was easygoing and holistic, Clover was…not. Clover was highly optimized, an over-achiever to his core. And so were his hormones.
“Can you bring me,” Clover started, an arm thrown over his eyes as he lounged miserably on the sofa. “One half of a bran muffin.”
Qrow tilted his head. “Just…half?”
Half the time Clover glowed effortlessly like some sort of fertility god, and the rest of the day he suffered in misery as if possessed by twin demons that made him crave pickles and peanut butter and, occasionally, A Lot Of Sex. And then made him throw up. Despite Clover’s reassurances, Qrow had no doubt which half of the cycle his DNA contributed to. And, look. Qrow was no fool. The sound of his mate hurling up the three saltine crackers he’d choked down didn’t make him feel good. Especially when it persisted well beyond the first trimester, waxing and waning as if pulled by the tides.
A younger him would have bolted.
A younger him probably wouldn’t have gotten into this situation in the first place, would never had had kids of his own, would have kicked and screamed against his own emotions until Clover hated him as much as he hated himself. But certainly with Clover’s morning (and afternoon and evening) sickness, at the first mention of anything being ‘unusual, but not uncommon,’ the urge to run for the hills so his mate could cut his losses would be overwhelming.
Clover’s ancient and terrifying doctor laughed at him. ‘Oh, you alphas always think it’s about you. Kiddo, you think your swimmers are so strong they come with activated semblances?’
Well. When you put it like that.
From Clover, as always, there was grace. Through it all, grace. ‘It’s not so bad. I swear I’m not upset or anything, Qrow. This looks lovely, thank you. I just really feel like…”
“If I eat the other half I’ll throw up,” Clover explained, throwing Qrow out of his thoughts. He grimaced, clutching his stomach with his other hand. “If I even see the other half I’ll throw up.”
Qrow didn’t need to be told twice. Tomorrow he would inhale half the refrigerator, but Clover with morning sickness was dangerous. Not quite as dangerous as ‘Ridiculously Horny’ Clover or ‘Baby Fever’ Clover, or the notorious combination ‘I Don’t Care If You Already Put a Baby In Me, I Want Your Cock Right Now, Qrow’ Clover, though those three were a lot more fun to deal with. Morning sickness Clover was terrifying because he combined all of Qrow’s worst fears: loved ones in pain, his semblance making things worse, and of course food preparation.
Muffin split down the middle, Qrow hesitated. Should he butter it? Clover would probably want his muffin buttered. But even that decision was fraught, because Qrow had married an unabashed food snob who kept multiple butters in the house.
In the end, he selected his fighter based on the fanciness of the package. Which turned out to be a good call.
“Qrow, that smells amazing,” Clover cooed, struggling to sit up despite his distended middle. “Is that toasted? With the good butter?”
“Damn straight,” Qrow replied. Gold packaging probably meant good. Right?
And yet, presenting the plate to his mate, it became immediately clear that he’d fucked up.
“What?”
Clover pasted on a watery smile. “No, this is good. Thank you, Qrow. That’s very sweet of you.”
He stared at the muffin pathetically, as if girding himself.
“Cloves…what’s wrong?”
“It’s just…the top part is nice and crispy, but the bottom is all mushy.”
Qrow blinked. “You wanted the muffin split the other way.”
“It’s fine,” Clover assured him, regarding the muffin with a nauseous determination. “I’ll just...only eat half of it.”
Great. Now he had a husband who was barely choking his way through a quarter of a muffin and considering that a success. They weren’t even big muffins.
Clover carefully separated the muffin top from its base, his movements as slow and precise as if he were dismantling a bomb. He let out a breath, taking the half-muffin-top onto his napkin and handing Qrow the plate with the dregs.
“Can you get rid of this?”
He might as well have been ordering Qrow to take down a Geist.
If Qrow was gonna dispose of the body, he might as well finish the job. Standing in the kitchen, he munched on Clover’s rejected muffin bottom as he buttered the other half of the top. How much of his diet now consisted of food his mate no longer considered palatable? Some alphas might’ve got pissy about it, but Qrow had spent some of the best years of his life sucking down leftovers from pregnant people and small children. Weirdly, it made him feel warm.
The butter knife stilled. Qrow closed his eyes, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest.
They were about to have pups. Twins. He could see himself so clearly, sneaking bites of half-eaten chicken nuggets off the plates of little black-haired, green eyed children. Clover chiding him as they hurried the kids off to the bath, pausing to munch on an abandoned carrot stick and pressing a kiss to his forehead.
Gods. He couldn’t wait.
He was also grinning like an idiot all alone in the kitchen. Qrow let out a breath, shaking himself out of his stupor. Back to the present. Back to his mate.
Clover was not-so-subtly picking crumbs off of his stomach when he came back in with the final quarter of muffin. It was fucking adorable.
“Still hungry?”
Clover’s head snapped up. The spark of a bright retort formed on his lips and then slowly faded, as he saw the outstretched plate. His lip wobbled.
“Qrow…” Bright green eyes shone with unshed tears. “You made this for me?”
“It’s no big deal,” Qrow said, his chest tight. “It’s not like I baked it. What are you…Cloves…”
Too late. Clover was sniffling and dabbing at his eyes. “I just…I love you so much.”
“It’s just a muffin,” Qrow insisted. Was there some dust in here or something?
Another sniffle. “Are you crying, too?”
“No,” Qrow said. He scrubbed at his face, thrusting the plate forward. “Look, do you want this?”
“Uh-huh,” Clover managed. He took the muffin, his eyes watery, and set it in his lap. For a long moment he just stared at the plate before him. “Sorry. I know I’m crazy right now.”
Qrow sighed, sitting down beside him. He leaned against Clover’s shoulder, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. He let his eyes drift shut. “S’okay. I like you crazy.”
He swore he could feel Clover smile.
Clover ate his muffin in silence, the plate perched on his swollen stomach, his tears giving way to a pleased contentment. It was intoxicating, and Qrow nuzzled against his side like the completely whipped alpha he was. It felt like he had slayed the beast and brought home the bounty. Even if the beast was just the pissy cashier at the corner bakery.
“Qrow,” Clover said, when he had finished. “Er…would it be too much to ask…are there any more—”
“I got it,” he replied. He groaned, blinking his eyes open and bracing himself to get up. Halfway to fifty and he was having a damn kid, like an idiot. Two kids. Taiyang was already having a field day. Maybe Qrow should see a chiropractor or something before the birth.
“I can…I’m not nauseous anymore…”
Qrow put his hand on Clover’s chest, interrupting the telltale waddle that preceded any attempt to stand up. “Sit down. I got it. Top half again?”
Clover relaxed. He shot Qrow a sheepish look. “Yes, please. I feel a bit bad about the waste—“
“I already ate your bottom,” Qrow said, grinning at his own wordplay. “And I’ll do it again.”
You could take the boy out of Atlas, but you can’t take the Atlas out of the boy. Seven months pregnant and Clover still blushed like that. Gods, Qrow never got sick of it.
“That’s…”
“I stand by what I said.”
Another muffin. Qrow hummed as he worked, chewing on scraps. A cozy little house, twin pups on the way, and an omega who thought, against all odds, that he hung the moon. No, this wasn’t a bad life at all.