Work Text:
The soft, click clack of Santa’s mechanical keyboard was the only sound cutting through the deep silence of 2 a.m. A single desk lamp cast a warm, golden pool of light over his workspace, illuminating the vibrant splashes of color on his tablet screen and the faint, concentrated furrow between his brows. He was in the zone, that beautiful, elusive state where time melted away and there was only the flow of creation: the sweeping lines of a new character, the careful layering of shadows, the perfect, eye catching hue for a logo.
Then, a slow, rolling wave of nausea crested in his stomach, stubborn and undeniable.
Santa’s fingers stilled. He let out a soft, frustrated sigh, leaning back in his ergonomic chair and pressing the heel of his hand against his sternum. This had been his constant, unwelcome companion for days now. A low level queasiness that ebbed and flowed but never fully retreated, a ghost in his system.
He dropped his other hand to his lower abdomen, rubbing small, absentminded circles. It was a gesture that was becoming a habit, one he didn't even register until he was already doing it.
Maybe I just ate too much of that tom yum goong last night, he told himself, the internal monologue a well worn record of denial. Or the stress from the Pitchaya account is finally getting to me. Too much coffee on an empty stomach.
He’d been cycling through excuses for a week. Spicy food. Lack of sleep. A latent stomach bug. Anything but the quiet, terrifying, and thrilling possibility that had begun to whisper in the back of his mind. His scent, usually a bright, energetic blend of green apple and fresh rain, had taken on a subtle, sweeter undertone, like honey drizzled over crisp fruit. Perth hadn’t mentioned it yet, but Santa knew his alpha’s doctor brain was a finely tuned instrument. It was only a matter of time.
The denial could only hold for so long against the evidence. The fatigue that felt bone deep. The way his favorite salmon sashimi had suddenly seemed repulsive. The bizarre, overwhelming craving for mangoes with chili salt he’d had three days in a row.
With a final, resolute click of his mouse to save his work, Santa pushed his chair back. The house was dark and still, filled with the comforting, familiar scent of his mate: clean linen, sandalwood, and a hint of antiseptic that clung to Perth even after he’d showered and changed out of his scrubs. Santa padded on silent feet to their bedroom door, peeking inside.
There, sprawled amidst the duvet, was Perth. Fast asleep, one arm thrown over Santa’s empty pillow, his face relaxed and boyish without the weight of the hospital on his shoulders. He looked peaceful. Untroubled.
The exact opposite of how Santa felt.
He gently pulled the door closed and made his way to the hall closet. Buried in the very back, behind spare toilet paper and cleaning supplies, was a small, discreet paper bag from a pharmacy five blocks away, far enough that he wouldn’t run into anyone they knew. Inside it was a single, fateful box.
In the stark, unforgiving light of the master bathroom, the plastic stick felt heavy in his hand. He followed the instructions with a clinical detachment that was so unlike him, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He set the test on the edge of the sink, turned away, and forced himself to count to three hundred in his head, the numbers jumbling together in his anxiety.
When he turned back, two bold pink lines stared back at him.
A breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding rushed out of him in a shaky exhale. His knees felt weak. He braced himself against the cool marble countertop, his reflection staring back at him. Wide, startled eyes, a pale face.
A slow, wondrous smile began to curve his lips. A baby. Their baby. A tiny, impossible being growing inside him, a fusion of his and Perth’s love, a new life that would forever tie them together. His free hand fluttered back to his stomach, this time with a new, profound awareness. Joy, pure and effervescent, bubbled up in his chest.
And then, just as swiftly, it was doused by a wave of cold, sheer panic.
His eyes snapped from his reflection to the closed bathroom door, as if he could see through it to his sleeping alpha.
“Oh no,” he whispered into the silent, sterile room. “Phi Perth’s going to turn into a mother hen.”
The fear wasn’t irrational. It was based on cold, hard, recent evidence.
Just a month ago, they had been at Phuwin and Pond’s apartment for a casual dinner. Phuwin, their vibrant, sharp witted omega friend, had been complaining of mild, occasional dizziness. It was nothing serious, he’d insisted, probably just dehydration or a bug.
Pond, his alpha, a laid back photographer, had been concerned but pragmatic, making sure Phuwin drank water and didn’t overexert himself.
But Perth, Dr. Perth, had taken one look at Phuwin’s slightly pale complexion and had launched into a full scale medical lecture that would have been more at home in a hospital conference room than a cozy living room.
“Pond, you can’t be so casual about this,” Perth had said, his tone shifting from friend to physician in an instant. He’d stood, pacing slightly, his alpha presence filling the space. “Dizziness in an omega can be a symptom of a dozen underlying issues. Hormonal fluctuations, blood pressure problems, blood sugar dysregulation. Has he had his iron levels checked recently? What about his thyroid? Has he been stressed at work? You need to be monitoring his hydration, his diet, his sleep cycles. Has he fainted? Even once? You need to be prepared. Their physiology is more delicate, especially when they’re run down.”
Santa had watched, cringing internally, as Phuwin’s face had gone from amused to exasperated to utterly mortified. Pond had just sat there, nodding slowly, looking increasingly like a scolded schoolboy.
“Perth, for heaven’s sake, it’s a bit of dizziness, not a terminal illness,” Phuwin had finally snapped, his scent spiking with irritation. “I’m not a piece of glass.”
“It’s precisely because you’re not glass that we need to be proactive,” Perth had countered, his gaze intense. “Prevention is better than cure. If it were Santa, I’d have him on monitored bed rest for at least forty eight hours to rule out anything serious.”
The words had landed on Santa like a physical blow.
Bed rest.
That night, as they’d driven home, Santa had tried to broach the subject. “Phi Perth, you were a little hard on Phi Pond, don’t you think? Phuwin looked like he wanted to strangle you.”
Perth had glanced over, genuinely surprised. “Hard? I was giving them necessary medical advice. An alpha’s primary role is the health and safety of his mate. Pond was being negligent.”
“He was being normal!” Santa had argued. “You can’t wrap every omega in cotton wool at the first sign of a sniffle.”
“It’s not cotton wool, Tata. It’s care,” Perth had said firmly, his hand finding Santa’s on the gearshift. “It’s my job to worry about you. To protect you.”
And Santa loved that. He loved being cherished, he loved the deep, instinctual bond that made Perth’s scent soothe him like nothing else. But in that moment, he’d seen a terrifying glimpse of his future. If Perth’s reaction to a friend’s minor dizziness was a thirty minutes lecture and a recommendation for bed rest, what would his reaction be to a full term, high stakes pregnancy?
He imagined it with horrifying clarity. Perth chaining him to the bed for nine months. No more late night work sessions. No more jogging in the park. No more spontaneously meeting friends for coffee. No more climbing onto counters to reach the good snacks on the top shelf. He’d be reduced to a fragile, stationary incubator, smothered by well intentioned alpha concern.
The joy of the positive test was real, but the fear of losing himself, his independence, his very identity as a functioning, creative adult, was a thousand times more potent.
So, standing there in the bathroom, looking at the proof of their future, he made a decision.
He would hide it.
He carefully wrapped the test in several layers of toilet paper, buried it deep in the kitchen trash under coffee grounds and vegetable peelings, and washed his hands, scrubbing away the evidence.
When he finally slipped back into bed, Perth stirred, his arm automatically curling around Santa’s waist, pulling him close. He nuzzled into Santa’s neck, taking a deep, sleepy breath. Santa froze, his heart pounding.
“Mmm, you smell nice,” Perth mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.
Panic flared. “Just a new moisturizer,” Santa whispered, his voice unnaturally high. “Go back to sleep, Phi Perth.”
Perth, too far gone in sleep, just hummed and settled, his breathing evening out once more.
Santa lay awake for a long time, staring into the darkness, a secret blooming in his womb and a plan forming in his mind. He would act overly normal. He would be the picture of perfect, bustling, energetic health. He would give Perth absolutely no reason to suspect a thing until he was ready to tell him. Until he had a plan, a strategy, a treaty to negotiate for his own autonomy.
***
The next two weeks were a masterclass in covert operations and sheer, stubborn willpower.
Santa became a whirlwind of domesticity and productivity. He woke up early to make Perth a elaborate breakfast, something he usually only did on weekends. He took on more freelance projects, declaring he was feeling “incredibly inspired.” He laughed a little too loudly at everything, a bright, brittle sound that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He even dug out his old running shoes and went for jogs around the neighborhood, returning slightly green and fighting back nausea, but with a triumphant, “See? Perfectly healthy!” expression plastered on his face.
He was fine. Everything was fine.
Perth, being a doctor and Santa’s bonded mate, knew with absolute certainty that everything was not fine.
He noticed everything. The subtle shift in Santa’s scent was the first and most obvious clue. It had softened, warmed, the sharp green apple mellowing into something richer, creamier, like apple pie. Beneath it was a new, fragile note, something utterly unique and precious, the faint, nascent scent of new life. It was a scent his alpha instincts, and his medical training, recognized on a primal level.
He’d known, deep down, since that night Santa had claimed it was a new moisturizer. He’d been waiting, patiently, for Santa to come to him. He understood his omega’s fierce independence, his fear of being coddled. So he bit his tongue.
He observed.
He watched Santa pretend to enjoy his coffee, taking tiny, performative sips before discreetly pouring it down the sink when he thought Perth wasn’t looking. He saw the way Santa’s eyes would sometimes glaze over with fatigue in the evenings, only for him to jolt himself awake and insist on watching another episode of their show. He noticed the secret stash of plain crackers in Santa’s desk drawer and the way he’d subtly lean against the wall or a chair back when he thought no one was watching, a telltale sign of lightheadedness.
The suspicion became a quiet, humming certainty in Perth’s chest. But he also saw the fear in Santa’s eyes every time he asked, “Are you feeling okay, love?” The way Santa would snap, “Stop babying me!” with a forced laugh that was meant to be playful but landed as defensive.
Perth decided to wait. To give him space. It was one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do, to quiet the roaring alpha inside him that demanded he scoop his mate up, carry him to bed, and monitor every breath. But his love for Santa, his respect for him as a person, was stronger than his instincts.
The breaking point came on a Thursday night. Perth was in the living room, reviewing a patient chart, when he heard a faint scraping sound from the kitchen. He looked up to see Santa, standing precariously on a wooden stool, stretched on his tiptoes, reaching for a bag of shrimp chips on the very top shelf of the pantry.
His heart stopped.
Santa wobbled, his balance faltering for a split second. It was all the time Perth needed. He was across the room in three long strides, his hands closing firmly around Santa’s waist, plucking him from the stool and setting him safely on the floor in one smooth, swift motion.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Perth’s voice was low, laced with a fear he could no longer conceal.
Santa’s eyes were wide, startled like a deer in headlights. “The chips! I was just getting the chips. I’m fine, see?” He tried for a smile, but it was tremulous.
Perth didn’t release him. He kept his hands on Santa’s waist, his grip firm but not painful. The scent of his concern, sandalwood turned sharp, almost smoky, filled the space between them. He gently steered Santa away from the stool and crossed his arms over his chest, his doctor face firmly in place, but his eyes were soft with worry.
“Tata,” he began, his voice carefully controlled. “You’ve been dizzy. You’ve been hiding things from me for weeks. The coffee, the fatigue, the way you jump every time I get close. And your scent…” He took a slow, deliberate breath, letting the sweet, warm, new life fragrance wash over him. “Your scent has changed. What are you not telling me?”
The dam broke. Santa’s carefully constructed facade of normalcy crumbled into dust. The panic he’d been holding back for weeks surged forward, and the words tumbled out in a rushed, terrified confession.
“I didn’t want you to lock me in bed for nine months!” he blurted out, his voice cracking. “I saw what you did to Phuwin and Phi Pond! You’d never let me work, or see my friends, or even climb a stupid stool for chips! You’d treat me like I’m broken!”
Perth was momentarily stunned into silence. He blinked, processing the outburst. Of all the things he’d expected: an illness, a secret project, cold feet about their mating, this was both the most obvious and the most heartbreaking. He let out a long, slow sigh, the exasperation melting away into a profound, aching softness.
“You think I’d do that?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. “You really think I’d lock you away?”
Santa looked down at his feet, his shoulders slumping in guilt and exhaustion. The fight drained out of him, leaving only a weary, emotional shell. “You always worry too much,” he mumbled, the protest weak now. “I’m fine. Really.”
Perth didn’t argue. Instead, he uncrossed his arms and knelt down in front of Santa, right there on the kitchen floor. He reached out, his movements slow and deliberate, and rested one large, warm hand over Santa’s lower stomach.
The contact was electric. It was a claim, a comfort, and a confirmation all at once.
He looked up into Santa’s wide, shimmering eyes, his own gaze filled with so much love and awe that it stole the air from Santa’s lungs.
“You’re not fine,” Perth murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re pregnant.”
Santa stared at him, his mouth slightly agape. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. All the secrecy, the acting, the frantic energy, it had all been for nothing.
“You knew?!” The words were a breathless, disbelieving gasp. “For how long?”
Perth’s lips quirked into a faint, tender smile. “I could smell it since week two. Maybe even before I was consciously aware of it. My alpha knew. I was just waiting for you to tell me yourself.”
The sheer, utter relief that washed over Santa was so powerful it made his knees buckle. Perth’s hands shot out to steady him, but he was already sinking to the floor, collapsing into a cross legged heap in front of his kneeling alpha. The tears he’d been stubbornly holding back for weeks finally broke free, streaming down his face in hot, silent rivers.
All the fear, the loneliness of carrying the secret, the pressure of pretending, it all dissolved in the face of Perth’s quiet, patient knowing.
“I’m sorry,” Santa choked out, covering his face with his hands. “I’m so sorry. I just… I didn’t want you to stop me from being me. From working. From living.”
“Oh, Tata.” Perth shuffled forward, closing the small distance between them. He gently pried Santa’s hands from his face, cupping his wet cheeks in his warm, steady palms. His thumbs stroked away the tears. “Look at me. I’ll never stop you from being you. You’re the most brilliant, vibrant, infuriatingly stubborn person I know. That’s why I fell in love with you. That’s not something I would ever want to change.”
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Santa’s, their breaths mingling. “I just want you to be safe. Both of you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. Not to cage you, but to make sure you have the strength to fly.”
It was the perfect thing to say. The words settled deep in Santa’s soul, soothing the raw, frightened parts of him. He let out a watery, half sob, half laugh.
“You’re too nice,” he mumbled, leaning into Perth’s touch. “It’s annoying.”
Perth chuckled, a low, rich sound that vibrated through both of them. He leaned in and kissed Santa’s forehead, then the tip of his nose, before finally capturing his lips in a soft, lingering kiss. It was a kiss of forgiveness, of promise, of a shared future. As they kissed, Perth began to scent him properly for the first time in weeks, rubbing his wrists and jaw gently against Santa’s neck and glands, surrounding him in a cloud of safe, happy, sandalwood and linen alpha scent. The tension Santa had been carrying in his neck and shoulders for weeks finally began to unknot.
They sat there on the cool kitchen floor for a long time, wrapped up in each other, the bag of forgotten shrimp chips still waiting on the top shelf.
The dynamic shifted after that night. The secrecy and suspicion were replaced by a new, profound partnership.
Perth did slow Santa down, but it was in gentle, negotiated ways. He didn’t command. He suggested. He brought him snacks and water while he worked, so he wouldn’t forget to eat. He gave him foot rubs and back massages in the evenings when the aches set in. He insisted on naps, but would often join him, curling around Santa’s back, a living, breathing weighted blanket that made sleep come easier than it had in months.
Santa still grumbled. He pouted when Perth hid his sketchbook after 10 p.m. He complained loudly about the “boring” prenatal vitamins. He rolled his eyes when Perth meticulously researched the safest brand of pregnancy safe body wash.
But secretly, he loved it. He loved the way Perth’s eyes would light up when he felt the faintest flutter of a kick against his hand. He loved the way Perth had started reading baby development books aloud to him in bed, his clinical doctor voice softening when he described the size of their baby, comparing it to a blueberry, then a lime, then an avocado. He loved the small, secret smile Perth would get when Santa was absorbed in his work, a look of pure, unadulterated pride.
Perth, in turn, had started a new journal. It wasn’t a medical log, but a small, leather bound book where he wrote down all the funny, nonsensical things Santa said during his cravings or in the throes of pregnancy brain.
“Page 7: Santa cried because the mango wasn’t ‘emotional enough.’ Then demanded I drive him 20 minutes for Japanese cheesecake. Ate two bites and fell asleep on the couch.”
“Page 12: Tried to put the milk carton in the cupboard and the cereal box in the fridge. Stared at it for a full minute before declaring, ‘The system is broken.’”
“Page 19: Woke me up at 3 a.m. to ask if I thought the baby would like the color periwinkle. When I said yes, he sighed with relief and went immediately back to sleep.”
It was their new normal. A dance of love, care, and gentle resistance.
The story ended as it had begun, late at night. But this time, Santa was on the couch, buried under a soft blanket, a slight pout on his lips because Perth had “confiscated” his tablet to force him to rest after a long day. His belly was a pronounced, beautiful curve beneath the fabric.
Perth walked in, holding two cups of caffeine free tea. He set them down on the coffee table and sat on the edge of the couch by Santa’s hip. He leaned down, his lips finding the permanent, faded bite mark on the junction of Santa’s neck, his claiming mark. He kissed it softly, a gesture of eternal belonging.
“I’ll take care of you,” Perth whispered, his breath warm against Santa’s skin. “And the tiny you, even if you hate me for it.”
Santa rolled his eyes, the gesture fond and familiar now. But he couldn’t suppress the smile that tugged at his lips. He reached up, his fingers threading through Perth’s soft hair.
“You’re impossible, Doctor Alpha.”
Perth nuzzled deeper into his neck, breathing in the sweet, safe, beloved scent of his mate and their child. He pulled back just enough to look Santa in the eyes, his gaze unbearably soft and full of a love so vast it seemed to fill the entire room.
“And you,” he replied, his voice a low, tender vow, “are everything worth worrying about.”
Santa’s smile finally broke free, warm and genuine. He settled back against the cushions, his hand resting over Perth’s on his stomach, feeling their baby stir beneath their joined palms. The fear was gone, replaced by a steady, thrumming joy. Maybe hiding the pregnancy hadn’t been the most brilliant plan he’d ever concocted. It had been born of fear and a stubborn desire to hold onto himself.
But as he lay there, swaddled in the love of his alpha, the future stretching out before them bright and full of promise, he thought to himself, his heart full to bursting:
Maybe hiding wasn’t such a good plan, but at least it led to this.