Chapter Text
The alarm goes off. Seven a.m. Wolfgang rolls over, hits the snooze button. Then he vomits into the bucket by the side of the bed.
Morning sickness is a fucking bitch.
This is probably something he should have expected, something he should have realized would happen to him when he and Kala had sex without a condom or birth control of any kind. Will had told him how he had felt Riley’s pregnancy as if it were his own when they were on the run from Whispers in Iceland. How he felt himself going into labor, felt his own muscles contracting, trying to push a baby out of his own body. How he felt himself with his hand: stomach swollen, rounded. Pregnant.
But somehow that quiet confession over a few bottles of shitty American beer in Will’s apartment had gotten —what was the word— compartmentalized for Wolfgang. It got put in the part of Wolfgang’s brain that was marked “do not enter,” far away from the part of his brain that made rational connections between what happened to him and what could happen to me.
Abstractly, he must have known that this could happen. After all, why shouldn’t it happen? What would make it happen to Will but not to him?
If he had thought about it for even a second, it would have been obvious that he would be here now, crouching over a bucket, wiping the sweat from his eyes and trying to catch his breath in between the heaving of his stomach. But unfortunately for Wolfgang, he’s very good at not giving things even a second’s thought.
The funny thing about reality though, is that just because you don’t think about it, that doesn’t make it go away.
Kala started getting morning sickness a week ago.
So did he.
Fuck this day.
Then all of a sudden he feels her again, feels her hands on his back, small and warm and soothing, rubbing gentle circles. He swallows dry, panting, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and looking over his shoulder into her wide, dark eyes.
“Are you alright?” she asks, her face so close that he can see the sleep dust still in the corners of her eyes. She’s looking down at him with such worry and love on her face that he wants to cry, or scream.
No, he’s not alright. This is stupid as fuck, this stupid fucking thing that his body and her body are doing. Why should someone pregnant get sick for no reason? It’s stupid. It’s counter-productive. Babies need healthy bodies to live in, not stupid bodies that are exhausted all the time and that can’t eat oatmeal or raisins or fucking bread.
And yet, he can’t say anything like that. Because this is his reality for five minutes. And this is her reality for the next seven and a half months. So he takes a deep breath and tries to grin.
“Yeah,” he says, “I’m okay.”
And that part of his brain that connects him to her, that part of his brain takes over again and he’s cradling her in his arms as she kneels on the floor, over the bucket.