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A thin whine escapes from Ford’s throat as he nestles deeper into the pile of pillows and blankets surrounding him. Even with the time as he’s put into making this nest perfect, his heart aches with the knowledge that something is missing– that his nest is imperfect for housing him and his pack. Frustrated, he grabs one of the pillows to the side of him, wrapping his arms around it and holding it close to his chest to simulate someone to hold on to in his discomfort, burying his face in the cool, freshly cleaned fabric of the pillowcase. It smells like lavender and laundry detergent– nothing like his Alpha.
He tries not to cry, but a few tears slip out and soak into the pillowcase despite his determination– he’s just so– uncomfortable. That’s the only way to describe this deep-seated feeling of wrongness that no amount of changing positions or re-fluffing the nest will fix. He’s restless, stir-crazy, constantly shifting and wiggling, rocking back and forth for some crumb of proprioceptive stimulation– he’s bored. He’s gone through all the books he had prepared for these moments, watched all the videos in his playlist, and his hands still twitch with the need to do something with them. And despite this lack of anything to do, he’s overstimulated, unused energy vibrating under his skin until it turns into pins-and-needles all over his skin– or, that’s because he’s been laying on his arm. He grumbles and rolls over onto his other side, enjoying the dissipation of the tingling in his hand– sensation. It’s gone far too quick for his tastes.
Ford sighs, squeezing his lifeline that is an old, musty pillow like it’ll run away if he lets go– he knew this was a mistake, that he would regret it down the line, and here it is, biting him in the ass, sooner than he expected, but it’s happening all the same. He had been right to be sick with fear and anxiety because now he’s stuck in his nest, helpless and sore and wanting nothing but his Alpha to swoop in and make everything better like some trashy, over-the-top romance novel he stole from his Ma’s bedside table when he was a boy. He wishes she were here, his mother, here for him, like she had always been during his adolescent heats, ready to bundle him up in soft blankets and sing him to sleep. How she managed three children, he’ll never understand– he could never do what she’s done, never be as strong as her.
The tears start to pour unbidden. Here he is, crying like a child, snuggled deep in his sad excuse for a nest. He can’t do this. He– he should’ve–
The front door unlocks– he can hear it from upstairs, and the house fills with a familiar, comforting smoky scent. If he had the anatomy for it, his ears would perk up– as it stands, he lets out a loud, embarrassing whine, sure to catch his Alpha’s senses and bring him running. It’s unnecessary, he knows– Bill would’ve come running either way.
His Alpha peaks through the doorway with his ever present smile and something hidden behind his back. “I see you’ve replaced me,” he jokes, pointing to the pillow in Ford’s arms. When Ford doesn’t respond, he frowns. “That bad?” he asks, and if Ford didn’t know him so well, he wouldn’t be able to hear the concern in his voice. Ford just nods, and Bill makes an ‘aw’ sound that would seem sarcastic to anyone else, before stepping inside, closing the door behind him. Ford tosses the pillow aside and reaches out, making grabby-hand motions to beckon Bill into the nest. Bill laughs at such a pathetic display, but complies, setting whatever he had down beside the bed and pulling his shirt over his head before crawling under the blankets so he can press his bare skin against Ford’s. Ford snuggles into him with a happy chirp, wrapping his arms around him and burying his nose in the crook of his neck, taking in a deep whiff of his scent that practically melts him into his Alpha. The only thing truly separating them is the heavy swell of Ford’s abdomen.
It’s about eight months– thirty-four weeks, if you asked Ford rather than Bill– into the pair's unexpected pregnancy. Like most of these situations, it started with Ford’s mating cycle kicking into heat. Unlike most, however, it did not start with a lack of precaution on either party’s part– they’ve been safe about sex their entire relationship, both of them intimately aware of biology and how mistakes get made, from Ford’s research and Bill’s unhealthy obsession with “I-didn’t-know-I-was-pregnant” horror stories. They’re not stupid . But no birth control method is 100%, and things slip through the cracks regardless of care taken or caution steady in the wind. Their best guess– and it will remain a guess because Bill keeps dragging Ford away from getting his hands on all the articles on the subject he can find– is that the pill failed despite Ford’s, frankly, scarily perfect usage.
Upon discovery– after what must’ve been two months according to their doctor, the growth of the embryo, and the pounds he’d put on– Ford panicked, Bill panicked, which in turn made Ford panic harder. Neither of them had ever wanted kids, and neither of them were exactly picture-perfect parent material, their paranoia and tattoos combined enough to turn traditional heads from miles away. In fact, the first question the two asked had not been about what to do, but instead how to go about termination. It was only after the first ultrasound, when Ford had seen the picture of the “little nugget,” as Bill had called it, that he started to grow… attached. And by the look on Bill’s face, he had too. Neither of them wanted to accept it, but enough daydreaming about a baby having your eyes and showing them how to catch fireflies in the summer will change anybody’s mind, it seems.
It didn’t take long before the two realized that neither of them were about to let this child go.
“So, how’s our little passenger?” Bill asks moments later, digging Ford out of his thoughts.
“You mean the stowaway?” Ford muttered, to Bill’s amusement. “They’re fine,” Ford finishes, a hand coming to rest over his bump. “Been gentle today.”
“That’s good,” Bill says, just to respond.
“We missed you,” Ford admits. He always used to roll his eyes when pregnant Omegas referred to themselves in the plural, as if the fetus had emotions at any stage of development, but he gets it now– the hormones this pregnancy has wracked his body with make him feel like the baby is controlling half of him, when he gets cravings, when he smells something foul, or when he gets emotional and caught in his own head, like he was moments ago. “The nest is empty without you.”
“Aww,” Bill coos, running a hand through Ford’s hair. “Guess I should be leaving you with more than just my shirts, huh?” Bill pulls away, ignoring Ford’s resulting whine. “Speaking of which,” he starts, leaning over the side of the bed to grab whatever it was he brought home with him– Ford’s curiosity is piqued.
Bill leans back over into Ford’s personal space and presents him with a piece of fabric, with a “ta-da” to accompany it. It takes him a moment to realize what it is– a yellow baby blanket. He takes it into his hands to feel the soft mink.
“I figured you might need some more material for the nest,” Bill starts, “and I thought, ‘wouldn’t it be nice for the little one to know our scents when they’re born?’”
Ford’s brows furrow for a moment, touched, as he holds the blanket close to his chest and pulls Bill in for a cuddle with the cloth stuck between them. Bill happily snuggles up, pressing a kiss to the bite-mark scar on Ford’s neck.
Bill Cipher is a good mate. Ford thinks.