Chapter Text
Spencer is, like, animalistically attracted to Ryan when he gets all protective about being pregnant.
Okay, so, it’s not some weird fetish thing, that’s something Spencer is very firm about in his own head. It’s more like that thing where girls will sometimes see a guy with a puppy and he instantly becomes a hundred times more attractive. Spencer never really got that particular phenomenon, because even if the puppy is cute, if the guy isn't attractive in the first place he’s still just some dude. (He might be gay, but he does have standards, thanks.) This is different, though, and it’s making him feel kind of feral.
The first time it really hits him is one sunny Sunday morning when he tells Ryan that Brendon and Shane invited them out to their favorite bar, and Ryan instantly turns it down.
“You don’t have to drink,” Spencer tells him from across the table, taking a sip from his redbull. (Coffee makes Ryan nauseous, along with just about everything, including the thought of eggs, pumpkin spice candles, and any and all air fresheners, as far as Spencer can tell. He has secretly informed his mom of this so she can unplug the Glade automatic dispenser.) “You go there without drinking all the time when you’re DD.”
“I’ve gotten food poisoning there before, so I’d have to bring my own food because I am not taking chances with that shit, which looks really weird, and the smoking area is near the front door, which means I’d have to walk past it, and I am not exposing my kid to secondhand smoke ever , if I can help it,” Ryan lists, not even looking up from the sudoku he’s doing in the paper. He is such a grumpy old man sometimes, even more so now that he’s all “moody” (which kind of just means irritated, clingy, and, occasionally, randomly teary,) and exhausted enough to adhere to a nine PM bedtime. (He’s kind of turned into an old man, not that Spencer is going to point that out.) He’s also a really good dad, though, and Spencer wants to taste every fucking inch of the inside of his mouth now. Men with babies are even better than men with puppies, everyone knows that. And Ryan is, quite literally, with child, so.
Ryan frowns down at the newspaper, then wipes a hand down his face. He looks up at Spencer, his brows knitted together in some mix of confusion and discomfort, and asks “what are you looking at?”
“You are so attractive,” Spencer tells him, entirely sincerely.
Ryan closes his eyes, breathes hard through his nose, and says “I'm gonna throw up.”
Spencer waits fifteen seconds before following him to the bathroom, because he’s learned, over the course of the single week Ryan hasn’t gotten pissed at him for rubbing his back when he’s throwing up, that he does glare at him if he follows him directly in there, as if it’s a task they’re doing together, instead of waiting, as if he just so happened to feel like following. Spencer’s not sure what the huge difference is, since he’s going to end up rubbing his back as he vomits anyway, but he doesn’t really think he’d get anywhere by asking, so he doesn’t. He knows Ryan better than anyone, but this situation is unfamiliar, and that puts his ability to ‘read his mind’ to the test pretty intensely.
This part of the routine is pretty easy, though, Spencer drops to the floor next to Ryan, rubs his back, feeling his spine and his ribs and the muscles in his shoulders moving as he throws up, not loudly, but dramatically. Very Ryan-like.
Ryan spits into the toilet after about a minute. He’s fairly efficient in his throwing up, really, he always gets it done in one go, but Spencer still asks “done?” as Ryan sits back on his heels. He nods, resting his cheek on his hand, the weight of his head held up by his elbow braced on the toilet seat. (Spencer finds time to clean this toilet pretty much every day. He figures it’s the least he can do since Ryan spends so much time with his face this close to it.) Spencer brushes a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face, resists the urge to wipe his fingertips over his eyelashes, which are damp from the strain of vomiting. Sometimes tears roll down his cheeks from it, which he swipes at aggressively and insists aren’t him actually crying, just a biological thing, like when you hit your nose really hard and your eyes water. Spencer just tells him he knows, and ignores how the tears sometimes continue past the point of him actually throwing up.
He gets it, nobody likes throwing up, and this must get exhausting, especially on top of how tired he already is.
He pours Ryan some listerine from the bottle they now keep on the back of the toilet, into one of the tiny dixie cups he bought last month, and hands it to Ryan, who says a simple, miserable “thanks,” as he takes it. He spits in the toilet after about thirty seconds, flushes it with a sort of limp arm, and says “I fucking hate this,” as he puts his head back on his arm.
“I know, baby,” Spencer tells him, going back to rubbing his shoulders. “Come on, love, let's get you some food,” he says, standing up. Ryan glares at him as he pulls him up, because he hates being helped up now that he’s pregnant, which Spencer thinks is unnecessary. He’s only ten weeks, Spencer knows he doesn’t need to be helped off the ground, but he’s tired and achy and Spencer figures that pulling him off the floor instead of making him struggle to his feet every time is the least he can do for the man who’s literally vomiting from carrying his child, but whatever. Ryan is cagey, and he’s been hyper-independent for as long as Spencer can really remember, so it’s really not like Spencer didn’t see this coming.
Ryan slumps against him, though, once he’s standing, and mumbles “I want peanut butter crackers,” into his shoulder.
“How about you go to the couch and I’ll grab you some crackers,” Spencer suggests. Ryan squeezes his waist tighter, and Spencer adds “in a bit,” as he brings his hands up to sort through Ryan’s perpetually tangled mess of curls.
“In a bit,” Ryan agrees, nodding against his neck.
“You want to take a shower?” Spencer asks after a minute, adding “I’ll wash your hair for you,” so Ryan knows that means together . Spencer can tell when he’s needed, and he’s perfectly willing to hover until he’s yelled at to save Ryan the embarrassment/effort of having to ask for comfort, rather than simply accepting it. (He knows Ryan might not ask, anyway, and that’s worse, because he really wants Ryan to have everything he needs.)
“Food first,” Ryan mumbles, still not making any move to leave. “Shower makes me nauseous.”
“Okay,” Spencer says, not making any move to leave, either. They can do this all day, as far as he’s concerned. He mutters “whatever you need,” against Ryan’s temple, and Ryan just sighs into his shoulder. He relaxes, though, so Spencer feels like he’s done something right.
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The second time he really gets slapped in the face with it is less than a week later, driving back from getting groceries. Some asshole runs a red light when Spencer is about to turn, forcing him to slam on the brakes as the guy honks through the intersection. It just about gives him a heart attack, and, as he looks over at Ryan to reassure himself, his mouth sort of goes dry.
Ryan has one hand braced on the dashboard, his other one very protectively settled low on his stomach, just above his seatbelt, and his eyes scream absolute murder. If looks could kill, that entire pickup would have exploded.
“Are you okay?” Spencer asks, reluctantly looking away so he can complete the turn before he misses his chance.
“Fucking asshole could have hurt my fucking kid,” Ryan practically growls. Spencer suppresses a shiver. Spencer watches out of the corner of his eye as Ryan writes something down on a random receipt, angrily muttering “got your fucking plates, dick. Fuck you. Nobody gets close to hurting my kid. Bet a fine will teach you to fucking drive.”
Ryan is being kind of intimidating, frankly, and… oh god that’s hot. That’s so hot, what the fuck? Ryan keeps glaring at the road in front of him, although he leans back to wrap both his arms protectively over his midsection. (He’s totally showing. Spencer doesn’t know if he’s noticed yet, but that T-shirt he’s wearing? Spencer can see it.)
Spencer only realizes how hard he’s gripping the wheel when Ryan asks “are you good?”
Spencer, because being horny makes him fucking stupid, just says “you’re so hot.”
“You got some kind of road rage kink I don’t know about?” Ryan asks, slightly incredulous. “Want me to yell ‘learn to use a turn signal, asshole!’ in your ear when I come?”
“No,” Spencer laughs, glancing over to find Ryan grinning at him. “I just don’t see you get aggressive like that very often,” Spencer shrugs, barely avoiding saying ‘ it’s so fucking hot when you get protective of my kid oh my god you could seriously bend me over in the backseat right now.’
“Yeah, well,” Ryan shrugs back. “Mood swings, I guess. Real sexy,” he adds sarcastically.
When they get inside, halfway through putting the groceries away, Ryan says “put that shrimp in its own drawer, I don’t want it to cross-contaminate anything since I can’t have seafood,” and Spencer just about offers to bend himself over the kitchen table. He shoves the shrimp in an empty drawer, puts the last of the frozen items away, and pretty much immediately presses Ryan up against the counter, licking into his mouth hungrily.
Ryan makes a surprised noise, but goes along with it, settling his hands on Spencer’s hips and pulling them together.
When Spencer finally pulls back, panting, with his arms draped around his shoulders Ryan blinks at him, and says a slightly confused “hi, there.”
“Hi,” Spencer grins back, moving in to mouth along his jaw. “Bedroom?” he asks, a bit hopefully, before biting at that spot underneath Ryan’s jaw that always makes him shiver. It still works.
“Hmmm… yeah,” Ryan breathes, hands getting more restless at the hem of Spencer’s shirt. Spencer bites under his jaw one more time before pulling back, leading him to the bedroom eagerly.
(Ryan, because he is a bitch, whispers something along the lines of “get off the road, dumbass!” in his ear at least three times, looking more proud of himself each time. Spencer tries valiantly not to laugh, knowing that will only encourage him, as he groans into his neck.)
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Just after Ryan starts being able to feel the kids move, but before Spencer can see or feel anything about it from the outside, he catches Ryan talking to his stomach. It’s a weird feeling for Spencer, knowing that Ryan is, like, genuinely having a whole connection with their actual kids , and Spencer is just sort of… there to watch. He’s really infatuated with the entire thing, truth be told, but some part of him is also getting really goddamn impatient, because he also wants to connect with his kids, damnit!
Ryan seems to find the whole thing a lot less magical, because all he really says about it is a simple “kids are moving,” or something along the lines of “ow, that’s my kidney.” (Or, once, very angrily, “your fucking kid is kicking the shit out of my bladder, now move your giant ass off of me before I piss on you.”)
Which is why Spencer is so surprised to find him staring down at his stomach, with the fridge door open, asking a slightly delighted sounding, rhetorical “yeah?” through a breathy laugh, the way you might ask a dog if they want to go for a walk. He closes the door with a few items in his hand, and says “ok, yes, I got it. Savory over sweet, just like your father,” as he puts the items on the counter. Spencer spots that jar of pickles that keeps disappearing remarkably quickly, despite Ryan’s insistence that he does not crave pickles, and he can’t help but grin.
“What’cha doin?” Spencer asks, with a shit eating grin, and Ryan, clearly startled, turns around quickly, his hand flying to his stomach. (Spencer doesn’t know if he’s aware he does that when he gets startled. It’s one of those things that’s really fucking cute, but he knows he can’t point out because Ryan might get self-concious and stop, like how he snores and crosses his arms lower than he used to. Spencer does not want him to stop any of that, so he refrains from commenting.)
“Jesus, Spence, you scared the living shit out of me,” Ryan says, dropping his hand.
“Asking the kids what they want for dinner?” Spencer asks, cocking his hip and crossing his arms.
Ryan blushes down his neck, (like he hates that he does,) and says “whatever. Fuck off.”
“You so were,” Spencer continues, walking over to wear Ryan is standing with his back pointedly to him. Ryan is wearing a hoodie, which is a confusing signal, because sometimes it means ‘don’t touch me, I feel weird and need baggy clothes,’ and sometimes it means ‘you can put your hands in the front pocket, if you want.’ Spencer walks up behind him, putting his hands on his hips tentatively, testing the waters, and Ryan, although his jaw is still set tight, grabs one of his hands, moving it forward a bit until it’s resting inside the hoodie.
Spencer spreads his hands out inside the pocket immediately after being given permission, and Ryan, defensively, says “It’s like talking to yourself, okay? Like when you have fake arguments in the shower.”
“Except you’re talking to our babies,” Spencer argues, grinning into the back of Ryan’s neck, which is still extra warm from embarrassment. “Who are definitely not imaginary,” he adds, lacing his fingers together around his front for emphasis. He’s really not that hugely pregnant yet, so it’s not a struggle to get his arms all the way around him.
“Yeah, definitely not imaginary, feels like they’re doing goddamn gymnastics,” Ryan grumbles, aggressively spreading butter on a piece of bread. (He likes his sandwiches with mayo, normally, but he’s distrustful of the egg in it, so butter it is.) “But they can’t hear me, so, like, it doesn’t count. It’s a one-sided thing.”
“Do you tell them you love them?” Spencer asks teasingly, knowing he’s pushing his luck at this point. Hey, if Ryan is letting him hold him like this he can’t be that mad, not really, he’s just really attached to that whole ‘pissed off and detached,’ facade, which Spencer can see through like it’s glass.
To his surprise, though, Ryan says “of course I do, constantly. I’m a fucking idiot,” as he, rather angrily, puts a ridiculous amount of pickles on his sandwich. Spencer barks a surprised laugh into his shoulder, and Ryan grins down at the counter. Spencer can’t see it, technically, but he knows anyway.
“Can I talk to them?” Spencer asks, mostly because he thinks it would be funny to watch Ryan continue trying to act put-off while Spencer baby-talks to his stomach. He knows he’d fail miserably.
“Fuck no you can’t,” Ryan says, as expected.
“Why not?” Spencer asks him, pouting dramatically.
“It’s different,” Ryan says simply.
“How is it different?”
“Because I’m with them twenty-four-seven, Spence, I can’t help it. It’s like talking to yourself for me. When you do it it’s different, like you’re talking about me like I’m not there, or something. Talking through me. I don’t know. It’s just different.” Ryan is shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably now… and that would be Spencer’s cue to back off
“Okay, got it,” Spencer says placatingly. “No stomach-talking.”
Ryan shifts around again, and, almost reluctantly, adds “unless I say you can.”
Spencer hides his grin at that in Ryan’s shoulder, where he knows he can feel it, anyway, and mumbles “tell them I love them for me, okay?”
“I do,” Ryan admits after a second. “...Pretty much every day.”
Spencer would like to say ‘oh my god that’s so fucking cute I love you so much I could eat you alive,’ or something along those lines, but that would definitely not be welcome right now, so, instead, he elects to piss Ryan off further in order to establish that he’s not coddling him. He presses his lips to the back of Ryan’s neck, just below his ear, and grins mischievously. Ryan stiffins instantly, clearly expecting what’s coming, and says a warning “Spencer.”
“What?” Spencer asks, faux-innocent.
Ryan says “don’t,” and Spencer, still grinning, licks his neck swiftly before backing away, retreating to the other side of the room to escape his wrath.
“Remind me why I married you?” Ryan deadpans, glaring at him.
“Because you totally want to have my babies?” Spencer answers, feeling triumphant when Ryan can’t quite manage to keep glaring as hard.
Still, though, he says “I think it’s because I’m a fucking dumbass,” and turns around to finish making his sandwich.
“Aww, honey,” Spencer starts, putting on a sympathetic tone. “You’re not dumb, it’s just ‘baby brain.’”
Ryan glares at him, but doesn’t dignify that with a response. Spencer counts it as a win.
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One night, when Ryan is a little over twenty weeks, Spencer finds himself completely unable to sleep. There’s not any particular reason, just one of those things that happens when you stop being sixteen years old and able to sleep forever. (Ryan has recently gotten that skill back, but Spencer is pretty sure if he tells him he’s lucky he can get ten to twelve hours of sleep every night he’ll get smacked upside the head by his very pregnant, very tired husband, and deserve it, so.)
The next day he is absolutely fucking exhausted, and, for the first time since a little before finding out Ryan was pregnant, Spencer actually sleeps in longer than him.
“Morning, princess,” Ryan greets from the couch, barely looking up from his book. He’s half propped up against the armrest, absolutely surrounded by pillows, and covered with a blanket. He looks so fucking comfortable, god. “Sleep well?”
“No,” Spencer says miserably. “I think I got maybe four hours total.”
“Damn, babe, you want to go back to bed?” Ryan asks him, looking concerned.
“Nah,” Spencer says, shaking his head. “Missed you,” he admits, yawning.
“Alright, come here,” Ryan demands, rolling his eyes, but opening his arms wide for Spencer to crawl into.
Ryan, despite being pregnant, is still kind of fucking bony. He’s surprisingly comfortable to lay half on top of, though. Spencer shuffles around until he’s got a leg tossed over both of Ryan’s, both arms loosely, protectively, around his waist, with his head on his sternum. Ryan fucks with his hair absently.
“How’re the girls?” Spencer mumbles into his shirt. He’s still sort of infatuated with that new information. His daughters.
“Dunno,” Ryan says. Then, taking a deep breath, like he’s working up courage, he says “why don’t you ask?”
“Actually?” Spencer asks. “Can I?”
“Go on,” Ryan says, sounding resigned. “Before I change my mind.”
Spencer tightens his arms around his waist, and says a dumb, tentative “hi there.” Ryan laughs a little, he can hear it under his ear, and feel it under his head. He asks “you two having fun annoying your dad?”
“Guess they take after you,” Ryan comments. Then, moving a hand down to his own stomach, right next to his hip bone, he says “ow, honey, I think that’s my kidney.”
“Hey, I’ve never kicked you in the kidney,” Spencer protests, barely stifling his laughter.
“You so have,” Ryan argues. “We have not Spent our entire lives wrestling each other just for you to claim you’ve never kicked me in the kidney.”
“Fair point,” Spencer concedes. Then, to his midsection, Spencer says “violence is not the answer, kids… except when your dad claims he can beat me at Mario Kart.”
Ryan laughs aloud and then, still rubbing at his stomach, he says “ow, hon, Jesus,” through a weak chuckle. “I get that you missed your papa while he was sleeping, but could you maybe refrain from taking it out on my insides?”
“Girls,” Spencer says, playfully scolding. “Stop kicking the shit out of your father. He’s working really hard for you guys, don’t be ungrateful.”
“They’ll be ungrateful their whole lives,” Ryan says. His tone, incongruously, sounds wistful, almost delighted. He’s definitely grinning into Spencer’s hair. “They are going to take a hundred fucking things for granted that I practically begged my dad for. They will feel completely entitled to shit I never even dreamed of asking for, and I’ll tell them I love them so many times a day that it’ll get old.”
“Yeah?” Spencer asks, hoping he’ll keep going, because every time Ryan says some shit like that Spencer feels like his skeleton is melting into the carpet.
The floodgates are fucking open this morning, apparently, because Ryan says “yeah, and I’ll cut the crusts off all their sandwiches, and leave them the absolute most embarrassing notes in their lunches, and kiss them goodnight until they’re, like, thirteen at least. ” He sighs contentedly into Spencer's hair, tugs him a little closer, and adds “no offense to you, but I had no idea you could love someone this much.”
“None taken,” Spencer says honestly. “It’s different, I get it. You love me cause you know me as a person, and you love them on a more, like, basic instinctual level, I guess. It’s not a competition, they’re not really comparable.” He presses a kiss to the top of his stomach, fully accepting the risk of getting flicked in the forehead or something, and adds “I can’t be jealous of them, anyway, because I’m very infatuated with watching you parent.”
“I’m not really parenting yet,” Ryan protests, although his voice sounds a little rough. “They’re barely even big enough to move.”
“Yeah, you are,” Spencer argues, waving a hand in the air dismissively, his still-present exhaustion showing in the heaviness of his limbs. He’s not gonna last long in this conversation. “You talk all sweet to them and feed them and buy them shit. You’re parenting.”
“You think so?”
“Absolutely,” Spencer answers around a yawn, settling further into his husband's side. “You’re such a good dad, I fucking love it. It’s so attractive,” he mumbles into his chest.
Spencer doesn’t think Ryan is going to say anything after that, because it’s the kind of confession Ryan doesn’t usually tend to come up with an answer to, but, after a second, he kisses Spencer’s hair a couple times, and says a soft, slightly choked up, “go to sleep, princess,” as he picks up his book again.
Spencer, too tired to even protest being called princess for the second time that morning, just says “‘kay” around another yawn. Ryan absently fucks with his hair, and Spencer is asleep in minutes.