Work Text:
Sym's lips are on yours before the door to your shared quarters slides shut. It's as intoxicating as always, and you nearly forget what you'd so desperately needed to show him. In his defense, usually when you drag him back to your quarters, especially lately with your hormones so out of control, this is exactly what you want, but this time—
"Sym, wait," you manage to say breathlessly. "Not that this isn't great, but—hang on."
Sym's head tilts to one side, silver eyes sparkling with interest, and you have to remind your treacherous body that you have more important things to do right now than jump your adorable, irresistibly hot alien boyfriend, no matter how much that look gets you going.
You're too impatient to properly pull him into the vat with you. Instead, you strip off your shirt and grab a handful of the green goop inside—you've asked Sym if it has a name, but all he said was "Hm, I've never really thought about it. I suppose not", so it's "the green goop" to you.
"Oh, you want to do things this way today? I certainly won't protest." Sym leans in to kiss you again, but you bat him away impatiently, rubbing the goop onto your stomach instead.
"Feel," you tell him breathlessly.
You remember old Earth vids of pregnant people getting ultrasounds, some kind of gel rubbed onto their stomachs and a metal probe placed on top. Humanity has more advanced imaging methods now, but you feel briefly connected to hundreds of years of your ancestors as Sym's cool palm comes to rest on your stomach.
You immediately feel his excitement and awe through the connection. You've been doing this more and more often lately, allowing him to share the sensations as your body goes through the changes of pregnancy. It's led to some really hot sex, and also Sym getting to experience lots of new things, like the time when the both of you were nearly incapacitated by a ridiculous craving for pixie beans. They weren't even grown in this loop, and you remember full well what a terrible idea eating them would be, but your body sure didn't get that memo. You'd had to convince Sym not to actually go and get you some, as much as you wanted them. (Stars, but he's cute when he cries.)
"What am I feeling," he starts to ask, and then his silver eyes go wide. "Is that—" He brings his other hand to his own stomach, and you know he's feeling it too: the baby just kicked again.
The little flutters happen again, and Sym honest-to-goodness squeals in delight. His excitement is infectious; you can't stop smiling.
"Solanaceae, I… I knew you were creating a new life inside you, but to feel it—they're really alive, aren't they? Our child."
It's the first time he's said our. You didn't want to know who had donated the other half of the genetic material (though some part of you hopes it's Rex; any child of his is going to turn out just fine), and you'd been fully prepared to let Sym be as involved in the process—or not—as he wanted to be. You'd made the decision together not to give the child any genetic enhancements, to let them choose when they're old enough, and you'd already privately been thinking of Sym as their other parent, but—to hear him say it like that—
This time, you give in to your baser impulses and kiss him stupid.