Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Zack sighed as he looked down at the pregnancy test. Positive. It was positive. Instantly he felt as if a truck hit him. His heart pounded in his chest, his breathing got heavier. Zack felt like shit. In every sense of the word. He’s only ever had sex once for crying out loud!

He didn’t even notice he dropped to the floor until he felt hands under his arms, trying to heave him from the cold tile ground. Zack didn’t need to look back to know who it was. Oliver. The two didn’t talk much, he didn’t even know why he asked Oliver to be here. Yet he did, now he was being sat on the toilet as he stared into the abyss of his thoughts.

How was he supposed to tell Donald? The president was a very busy man one, and even then Zack didn’t even get his number. It was only then he snapped out of his trance. Oliver looked at him, concern plastered over his pale features. Before the other man could say anything Zack stood up, a frown on his lips. “I’m fine. I’m going out.” His voice was hoarse as he spoke. It did little to console Oliver but what could he do? Zack was well, Zack. Oliver sighed heavily but, allowed Zack to leave.

He needed to see Donald. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t get an abortion. The damn orange made it illegal in the republican states. Zack would storm up to the White House, and he would see that bastard whether his presence was wanted or not. Which was probably the latter. Who wants to see their last month’s one night stand? But. He had no choice.

The last thing he remembered doing was grabbing a random hoodie. Then, he was at the White House. Zack refused to dwell on the lost lapse of time. He had far more important things to worry about. There were no guards, they all resigned after Trump was elected president making things so much easier for him.

Zack wasn’t entirely sure how he got past the gates. Maybe he climbed them. Maybe they just weren’t locked. Maybe the Secret Service was on a union strike and forgot to lock the front door on their way out.

Either way, one minute he was outside, hoodie up, unbrushed hair doing some sort of post-apocalyptic thing, and the next—he was in. Inside the actual White House. The foyer smelled like lemon cleaner and capitalism.

“I should not be here,” Zack muttered to himself. Loudly. Echoing into the marble hall like a mentally unstable Roomba.

But he was here.

And if the universe was going to make him pregnant off one dusty, politically problematic hookup, then the universe could deal with the consequences of Zack in Crocs marching toward the Oval Office.

He wandered past what looked like an antique chair worth more than his college tuition. A painting stared down at him. He flipped it off. Somewhere in the distance, a security camera blinked red, probably wondering if this was a prank or an act of divine judgment.

“Where the *hell* is this man?” Zack hissed, turning a corner.

“Excuse me, sir, you can’t be here—”

A voice tried to stop him, but Zack just barreled past a confused intern with a Starbucks in one hand and a clipboard in the other. “I’m here to speak to the President!” Zack shouted.

“Do you have an appointment—?”

“Tell him it’s the father of his unborn child!”

A paper cup clattered to the floor. Somewhere behind him, the intern started praying. Zack didn’t care. Every step forward felt like revenge. Like karma. Like walking into a boss battle and hoping the final form of Donald Trump wasn’t a literal demon. (Though honestly, odds were high.)

He reached the West Wing.

It was quieter than he expected. Too quiet. Like horror movie quiet. Then again, most of the staff probably quit or rage-screamed into a void during week one of his re-election.

And then—just like that—he saw him.

Donald.

Sitting behind the Resolute Desk.

Looking exactly the same, which was somehow worse.

Zack froze in the doorway. His body buzzed like a live wire. Was he about to throw up again? Cry? Roundhouse kick the American flag? Unclear.

Donald looked up. Blinked.

“Do I… know you?”

Zack took one shaky step in, hoodie flapping dramatically like a low-budget anime character. His voice cracked when he spoke.

“You raw-dogged me at a charity gala in February.”

The words echoed. Somewhere, an eagle cried. Zack’s soul briefly left his body, then returned out of spite.

Donald blinked again. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

More specific?!

“YOU. IMPREGNATED. ME.” Zack said slowly, enunciating like he was reading a sentence to a drunk toddler. “There was a closet. A bottle of champagne. You were dressed like Abraham Lincoln, for reasons I still don’t understand.”

Recognition flickered. Slowly. Like the light of a dying fax machine.

“Oh,” Donald said. “You’re the theater kid.”

Zack stared. “EX-theater kid. I quit after I threw up before opening night of *Chicago.* But—NOT THE POINT.” He yanked the pregnancy test out of his hoodie pocket like it was Excalibur. “This. This is your legacy.”

Donald squinted at it. “What am I looking at?”

“A pregnancy test.”

“…What does the plus mean?”

Zack blinked. “Are you serious right now—?”

“I haven’t seen one of those since the ‘80s. I assumed the technology improved.”

Zack let out a feral sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Congratulations. You’re gonna be a dad. Again. With me. A bisexual 23-year-old who still uses DoorDash to order Pop-Tarts.”

Silence.

Then, slowly, Donald leaned back in his chair. Folded his hands. Smirked.

“Well,” he said, “this is definitely going to help my approval ratings.”

Chapter Text

Zack sat in the back of an Uber with his knees to his chest, clutching a pillow he’d stolen from the White House like it was a coping mechanism. The pregnancy test was still in his hoodie pocket. The trauma was still very much in his soul.

He’d done it.

He’d stormed the most powerful building in America and screamed “You impregnated me, you expired bottle of Sunny D!” in the President’s face.

Now he was in the back of a Toyota Corolla, crying to Mitski and texting his best friend like his thumbs were possessed.

ZACK:
🚨I committed treason in a hoodie
🚨And I think the baby just kicked out of rage

ZYLITH (aka the only person keeping Zack alive):
WHAT
WHERE
ARE
YOU

ZACK:
Backseat of an Uber, stealing government air, and I think I peed a little.

The Uber driver glanced at him through the mirror but said nothing. Bless this man. He probably had seen worse. Maybe.

When Zack stumbled into Zylith’s apartment twenty minutes later, he looked like a cursed raccoon that had made direct eye contact with the sun. Zylith was already waiting in the doorway, wearing fuzzy socks and a full face of rage.

“You look like a fever dream,” she said.

“I committed a federal crime,” Zack croaked.

Zylith dragged him inside like a mom with full custody of the situation. He dropped onto the couch, dramatically flinging himself across her throw pillows like he was auditioning for a soap opera called My Life Is a Dumpster Fire (and I’m Still Pregnant).

“So.” She crossed her arms. “What happened?”

Zack inhaled. Exhaled. Collapsed deeper into the cushions.

“I went to the White House.”

“You what. ”

“I stormed in. Told Donald I was carrying his demon spawn. He said I was ‘the theater kid.’ I almost threw hands.”

Zylith blinked.

“I leave you unsupervised for ONE day—”

“And now I’m the future co-parent of a Republican heir,” Zack said flatly.

Zylith dropped onto the floor like she needed to pray. Or plot murder. “This is worse than the time JJ got banned from Tinder for pretending to be a corgi.”

Speak of the devil—Zack’s phone buzzed.

JJ (chaotic bisexual energy):
👀 heard you made CNN
you’re trending on X (formerly known as Twitter)
also: do u want a baby name that screams power or passive aggression?

ZACK:
Stop.
I can feel my liver shutting down.

Then another ping.

YING (pure, chaotic-neutral goblin):
ZACK
ARE YOU SAFE
IS THE PRESIDENT HOT IN PERSON
PLS BE HONEST I NEED THIS FOR SCIENCE

Zack groaned into a couch pillow. “Why are all my friends broken.”

“You attract energy that matches your own,” Zylith said, not unkindly. “And also—your face is on the news.”

She turned her laptop around. There he was: hoodie-clad, tear-streaked, screaming at Donald J. Trump on live television like a gremlin with a grudge.

The chyron read:
“BREAKING: MAN CLAIMS PRESIDENT IMPREGNATED HIM — CHAOS AT WHITE HOUSE”

Zack let out a sound so ungodly it might’ve summoned spirits.

“I’m going to be a meme,” he whispered.

“You are a meme,” Zylith corrected. “You’re already viral on TikTok. Someone autotuned your ‘YOU IMPREGNATED ME’ line into a remix. It’s trending under #PoliticalBabyDaddy.”

Zack considered hurling himself into the sun.

Then the doorbell rang.

Zylith froze.

Zack bolted upright. “Did you order food?”

“No.”

They stared at each other.

Then at the door.

Zylith tiptoed over and peered through the peephole.

“Zack…” she said carefully.

“What.”

“There’s… a man in a suit. With a White House pin. And sunglasses.”

Zack grabbed the throw pillow like it was a shield. “Is it the feds?! Am I going to federal prison? Pregnant and imprisoned?! Orange is the New Womb?! ”

The knocking came again.

“Open the door,” the man called. “I have a message from the President.”

Zylith turned to Zack. “What. The hell did you do?”

Zack clutched his belly like a Victorian widow. “I think I just got summoned .”

Chapter Text

The man at the door looked like he walked straight out of a CIA training montage. Buzzcut. Sunglasses. Stiff suit. Earpiece. Everything but the glowing red “Men in Black” laser pen. Zack squinted at him like a suspicious meerkat.

“You’re… from the White House?” Zylith asked, skeptical but ready to throw hands.

“Yes, ma’am.” The guy nodded. “Agent Brooks. I’m here on behalf of President Trump.”

Zack muttered, “That sentence has no business existing in 2025,” and then immediately choked on air.

Agent Brooks held up a sleek black envelope. Presidential seal. Dramatic AF. Zack blinked at it like it might bite.

“What is that?” he asked warily.

“A formal invitation. The President would like to… discuss next steps.”

“Next steps?” Zack wheezed. “This isn’t a corporate merger, this is our demon love child—”

Zylith snatched the envelope and opened it like she was defusing a bomb. Inside: a single card with gold embossed text.

YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO A PRIVATE BRIEFING WITH THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES.

Location: undisclosed.

Time: ASAP.

Dress code: media-friendly.

P.S. Please do not scream this time. The interns are traumatized.

Zack stared. “He put a P.S. That’s so passive-aggressive presidential.”

“I think it’s kind of iconic,” Zylith whispered.

“Don’t encourage him,” Zack said, already pacing. “What does he want? To offer me hush money? To trap me in a White House guest suite and give the baby a MAGA onesie?!”

“Honestly,” Zylith said, “you could ask for child support and a new iPhone. Make it work.”

Agent Brooks cleared his throat. “There’s a car waiting downstairs.”

Zack looked down at himself: hoodie, unmatched socks, and pajama pants with avocados on them.

“Can I… change first?” he asked.

Agent Brooks gave the smallest sigh known to mankind. “You have fifteen minutes.”

Fifteen minutes later, Zack stood in Zylith’s doorway wearing a black turtleneck, combat boots, and the aura of someone about to commit emotional arson.

“Do I look like I’m about to hold a press conference or stage a coup?” he asked.

Zylith adjusted his collar. “You look like you just divorced Batman. It’s perfect.”

He nodded, exhaled, and let Agent Brooks lead him to a black SUV that screamed “this car has definitely kidnapped someone before.”

The ride was silent.

Until Zack’s stomach growled.

Loudly.

Agent Brooks side-eyed him. “Would you like to stop for food?”

“…Can I?”

Brooks pressed a button on the dash. “This is Agent B. The package needs chicken nuggets.”

Zack gawked. “Did you just call me a package?!”

“Yes. It’s protocol.” Brooks didn’t blink. “You’re now classified as Priority Asset: U1-Natal.”

Zack slumped back into the seat. “Oh my god. I’m a walking plotline.”

They arrived at a fancy underground entrance that looked like it belonged in a spy movie. Zack got escorted through three security doors, an elevator with a fingerprint scanner, and a hallway with a guy who was definitely holding a taser and a granola bar.

And finally, they reached it: The Room.

Big. Cold. Full of gold accents and expensive chairs Zack was too scared to sit in. And in the center?

Donald. In a suit that didn’t fit quite right and with a grin that said “I pay people to say nice things about me.”

“Zack,” he said, like they were old friends. “Glad you came.”

Zack stared at the President. Took a shaky breath. Then looked around.

“No cameras?” he asked. “I’m not about to be on C-SPAN again, right? I haven’t emotionally recovered.”

“No cameras,” Donald confirmed. “Just you, me, and the future of America.”

Zack blinked. “That sounds like a threat.”

“It’s a promise.”

Pause.

Zack crossed his arms. “So what is this? A media stunt? A bribe? Are you here to gaslight me into pretending this was a dream?”

Donald leaned forward, steepling his hands. “I want to work something out with you. Make sure the baby gets everything it needs. Privacy. Protection. A proper education.”

Zack squinted. “Is that code for brainwashing it with Fox News?”

Donald smiled. “I’m open to negotiation.”

That gave Zack pause.

Because for once… he had power. Actual power. Not “I made a mess in group chat” power, but leverage. He was holding America’s messiest secret in his body, and that meant something.

He sat down, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.

“Then start negotiating,” he said. “Because if you think I’m raising a presidential gremlin without a team, a therapist, and a very expensive stroller, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Donald blinked.

Zack smirked.

Chapter Text

Zack had exactly 24 hours of peace before everything exploded again.

That was how long it took for Donald’s “deal” to be finalized. The terms? Zack would get full access to a private doctor, security (ugh), a monthly allowance big enough to make his college debt weep, and exactly one media appearance on his terms.

All in exchange for not publicly referring to the unborn child as “The Antichrist, Jr.” on live television.

Fair enough.

But now, here he was—sitting in a pristine white medical suite that looked more like a futuristic spa, trying not to vomit into a $200 trash bin.

“You good?” asked the nurse, popping a stick of gum and typing something into a tablet.

“No,” Zack said, pale. “I am a walking scandal and I’m about to see a human being I accidentally created in real time. Also I’m wearing the same socks I cried in.”

“You’ll live,” said the nurse cheerfully. “We brought in our best OB. She should be here in a sec—oh, wait, here they come now.”

The door swung open.

Enter: Alex.

Wearing navy scrubs, black sneakers, and a clipboard held like a weapon. Sharp eyeliner. Sharper eyes. The kind of person who could hold your hand during a panic attack and fight your enemies in the parking lot after.

“Zack, right?” Alex said.

Zack blinked. “Do I know you?”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “We met once at Zylith’s Halloween party. You were dressed as a ‘sad Victorian ghost’ and I helped fish glitter out of your eye.”

“Oh my god,” Zack muttered. “You saw me cry over cheap punch.”

“Twice,” Alex confirmed. “Now lie down. We’re doing your first real ultrasound today.”

Zack obeyed, flopping onto the cushioned exam chair with all the grace of a dying swan. “Why does this feel like the trailer for a medical drama?”

“Because your entire life is one,” Alex said dryly, snapping on gloves.

Zylith burst in a second later, holding a giant iced coffee and wearing sunglasses indoors like a pop star in mourning. “SORRY I’M LATE. Did the fetus try to kill you yet?”

“You’re in the exam room,” Alex said.

“And I brought emotional support,” Zylith replied, unapologetic. “Also JJ and Ying are downstairs trying to sneak into the break room.”

“Great,” Zack muttered. “We’re gonna get banned from another building.”

Alex rolled her eyes but smiled faintly. “This’ll be cold,” she warned, squeezing the ultrasound gel onto his stomach. “Breathe.”

Zack winced as the machine hummed to life.

There it was.

A fuzzy, shifting gray shape on the screen. Tiny. Strange. Kind of terrifying.

Alex tilted the screen toward him. “That,” she said gently, “is your baby.”

Zack stared.

Zylith leaned closer. “Oh my god, it’s real. It’s an actual gremlin.”

Zack whispered, “It looks like a haunted bean.”

“You say that like it’s not literally growing inside you.”

Silence.

Then: a tiny whomp-whomp filled the room.

Heartbeat.

Zack blinked hard.

Zylith gripped his hand.

Alex gave a small, knowing smile.

“I…” Zack’s voice cracked. “I made that?”

“You sure did,” Alex said, printing out a picture. “Congrats, you’re a biological anomaly and a dad.”

Before Zack could say anything else, JJ burst into the room holding a bag of Doritos.

“I FOUND THE SNACK CLOSET—” they shouted, then saw the ultrasound. Froze. “OH MY GOD IS THAT THE FETUS?!”

Ying followed, holding a clipboard she definitely wasn’t authorized to have. “Guys, I just got offered a government internship because someone thought I was part of the Secret Service.”

Zylith facepalmed. “Why do I even try.”

Zack, hand still on his stomach, just whispered, “I’m going to be responsible for another human life and my support system includes you lot.”

JJ nodded solemnly. “We’ll make great uncles.”

“I’m nonbinary,” Ying said.

“Then you’ll make a chaotic guardian entity,” JJ said. “Like the baby’s fairy god-sibling.”

Alex handed Zack the ultrasound printout. “Keep this. You’ll want it.”

Zack took it. Hands trembling slightly.

Maybe this was real.

Maybe this was terrifying.

But for the first time… it didn’t feel like the end of the world.

Just the beginning of a very weird one.

Chapter Text

For once, Zack was alone.

No JJ raiding vending machines. No Ying trying to hack the White House Wi-Fi. No Zylith cracking sarcastic jokes just to keep him from collapsing. Not even Alex checking his vitals with that professional calm that made Zack feel like a patient instead of a person.

Just Zack. His room. The lights off. The hoodie hood pulled low like it could shield him from reality.

And the ultrasound picture in his hands.

He stared at it so long the paper bent and wrinkled under his thumb. A blur. A smudge. A little bean-shaped shadow clinging to existence on a glowing screen. It didn’t even look human. Didn’t look like anything.

But it was real.

He’d heard it.

That tiny, thudding heartbeat.

It echoed in his head like a cruel reminder. Whomp-whomp, whomp-whomp. A sound that was both miraculous and suffocating.

And Zack’s chest hurt. It physically hurt, like something heavy was pressing down on him and wouldn’t let go.

Twenty-three.

He was twenty-three. Too young. Too reckless. Too… Zack.

He could barely take care of himself. He lived off leftover DoorDash codes Zylith texted him at 1 a.m. He still mixed his colors and whites in the wash. His apartment plants had all died within a week. He spent more money on Red Bull than groceries.

And now—this? A baby?

The thought made his stomach twist until he was doubled over, forehead pressed to his knees. His breath came in shallow gasps. He wanted to scream. To rip the picture in half and throw it across the room. To undo everything.

He wanted to go back. Just one month. Just one stupid night.

He remembered the champagne, the haze, the terrible music at the gala. He remembered Donald in that ridiculous Abraham Lincoln get-up, laughing too loud, leaning in too close. And Zack—lonely, half-drunk, craving something, anything, that felt like attention.

One mistake.

One night.

One mess.

And now his whole life was collapsing under the weight of it.

Zack squeezed his eyes shut and bit down on his sleeve to keep the sobs from breaking him open. His body still shook. The sound still leaked out. Harsh, ugly, unstoppable.

He hated this.

Hated himself.

Hated that this… thing inside him tied him forever to someone he despised.

And worse—he hated how powerless he felt. Like the world had chosen for him. Like he wasn’t allowed to choose at all.

He thought about Donald’s smug smirk, the way he said “future of America,” like Zack was just a footnote in a political stunt. Like the baby wasn’t a life, wasn’t his—it was a trophy.

For a moment—just a flicker—Zack felt it. The hatred. Not just for Donald. Not just for himself. But for the baby.

The thought terrified him so much he couldn’t breathe.

He curled up tighter, clutching the picture against his chest. “I can’t do this,” he whispered into the dark. His voice cracked. “I can’t. I can’t.”

And the words felt poisonous, but true.

He was too young. Too unprepared. Too unstable. Too him.

Tears blurred the picture until the bean-shape smeared into nothing.

He stayed like that for a long time, rocking slightly, whispering things into the dark that no one could hear. Things he didn’t even want to admit to himself.

But eventually, his hand drifted down, trembling, to press against his stomach. Tentative. Scared.

It was still there.

Still real.

Still his.

And the thought terrified him all over again.

Zack buried his face in the pillow, voice raw, a confession only the dark would hear:

“I don’t know how to love it.”

The silence that followed was unbearable.

And Zack had never felt so alone.