Work Text:
You stare at the pregnancy test in your hands. A few days ago you went to the doctor to verify this test’s result with your regular doctor. You are indeed pregnant. What you once thought had to be an impossibility is now growing inside you. The idea of objects in your house being brought to life and impregnating you is almost as ridiculous as falling in love with not only one, but two of the objects. Your lovers always talk about the idea of making you pregnant, but you never really thought it would happen. You had thrown caution to the wind and did not get your last IUD replaced, but nearly three years later, here you are. An impossibility has become a reality, and you have to decide what you are going to do about it.
A car pulls into the driveway and you quickly slam the test into the nightstand as you try to force your body to relax. You need time to think about this. Sure, you missed two periods already, but you still have time to think things through. Lost in your own thoughts, you did not even hear Dunk bound up the steps.
“Hey, beautiful. I was calling you, but you didn’t answer. You all right?” Feeling like your eyes are round as dinner plates, you look up to stare at Dunk, which does nothing to reassure him. “Do you feel sick? You didn’t get that cold that all the kids had, did you?”
You shake your head and attempt to regain control of your face. “Sorry, I was just thinking about work.”
“Hey, now. Remember what we said. We leave work at work.” Dunk walks over to you and offers you his hand. “Still up for some badminton in the backyard?”
“Sure. That would be great.”
You volley back and forth for a good half hour, noticing Dunk seems to be taking it easier on you than usual. A little irked by this change in his behavior, you try to make him work for a few of your next returns. He runs from one side to the other, and then you hit it hard, causing him to go far back. A light tap from you to drop it right over the net and the shuttlecock hits the ground.
“Hey, nice one!” Still full of cheer, Dunk comes up to the net to pick up the birdie for you. When you take the shuttle, he grabs your wrist to keep you there and gives you a peck on the cheek over the net. Then he drops your hand and goes back to wait for your serve.
Your cheeks are flaming red as you go to serve again. The two of you play for another half hour, enjoying an easy back and forth. Finally, you call it, and Dunk runs into the house. He meets you on the patio swing with the customary post-workout smoothies. You take exactly three sips before you blurt out, “Why were you taking it easy on me today? I thought I was getting better?”
“You are! I didn’t take it easy on you!” You glare at him. “Okay, I made sure you didn’t have to move much, but you seemed kind of stiff out there.”
The two of you swing in silence as you try to work out if he knows. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. You carried yourself differently than last week. You kept your arms near your core, not a lot of reaching. I figured maybe you were sore from being at that desk all day.”
The two of you sip your smoothies as you try to come up with a response. The swing squeaks each time it moves backward. “Sorry. I suppose I am acting a bit weird today. Thanks for not making it a big deal.”
He turns to you, pulling one bent leg onto the swing bench. Gently he takes your free hand in his. “No problem, beautiful. I had fun. You know I always love playing with you. I will ask next time before I change the way I play.”
“No, you are right. I am holding myself differently. I guess I didn’t realize how noticeable it was.”
“Did you injure yourself? We could do some stretching exercises or a nice massage before bed?”
“Thanks, Dunk. I’m okay.” The two of you slowly swing as you finish the smoothies. You take the empty cups and put them on the table next to you before turning to him. The sun is low in the sky, and you hear the neighbors' sprinklers running. Children play somewhere down the street. Kicking off your shoes, you pull your legs up onto the bench swing. Dunk moves to take your feet and massage them, and you swat his hands away.
Dunk looks confused, and then his smile grows big as he grabs your thighs and pulls you so that your legs are over his lap. Eagerly he leans over to kiss you, and you let him as you enjoy his attention. While the two of you make out in your own backyard, the sounds of the neighbor children seem so much louder.
“Can I help you with dinner tonight, Mom?”
“Dad, can you play catch with me?”
“Yay, Mommy’s home!”
“I want Dad to read me a story tonight!”
Dunk rests his forehead against yours as one hand holds you to him and the other wipes the tears from your cheeks. “Hey, hey. You okay? Did I do something wrong?”
You huff out a laugh. “No, no. You are wonderful. You did nothing wrong. It’s me. I need to tell you something.”
“Take your time. Breathe with me.” His hand, which had been whisking your tears away, takes your hand and he counts, “One, two, three, four.” Lifting your hand to breathe in and lowering it again to breathe out. Together, the two of you breathe until the tears have stopped falling and your face is no longer warm from embarrassment. When you are breathing normally, he pulls you into his lap and hugs you nice and tight to his front. The swing groans under all the weight centered on one spot, but you both ignore it. It would not be the first time it has had to withstand such circumstances, and probably not the last.
The two of you giggle, both probably remembering the last time the swing made such a sound, and you burrow your face into his neck and smell his musk and a bit of sweat. As you calm down from the memories, a few words slip out. “You are going to be such a great dad.”
Dunk’s grip never wavers, and it takes you a moment to realize that he has gone still. You push against his arms and chest, but he does not lessen his grip. A shudder goes through his body, and again you try to free yourself. He whispers, “It’s not going to happen, is it? It’s been almost three years. Even if we went to the doctor now, what would we say? I used to be sports equipment, so can you check to see if I can have kids?”
“Dunk.”
“No, beautiful. It’s all right. I have the kids in the peewee basketball, the minor league baseball team, and the high school football team I work with. I still get to help kids figure themselves out. Being a dad just wasn’t meant to be. It’s okay. Coach Dunk has lots of kids.” He presses you close and your mouth is against his neck. You suck on it increasingly harder until he pulls you back. “Ow. Not really in the mood for that.”
“Dunk.” Your hands frame his face. “I’ve been trying to tell you. You are going to be a father. I’m pregnant.”
You wait and watch his face. There is a bit of a delay, then suddenly his eyes grow wide and he grabs your hips. Standing up, he crows as he turns in a circle, lifting you up. Your instincts would normally scream at you to claw at him until you feel safe, but knowing you are in Dunk’s arms, you just melt into him. When he finally sets you on the ground, the two of you are in the middle of the yard. He kisses you before collapsing onto his knees, hands hovering around your middle.
“How long?”
“At least a couple months? Not sure yet.” He leans against you, his head resting above your belly as he wraps his arms around you. “So you’re happy?”
Hopping back onto his feet, he leans down to kiss you. “I’m the happiest I could ever be, second only to when you told me you loved me.” He kisses you passionately again. “You are amazing. We are going to have a little family.”
“We are! A little Dunk!”
“No, no. I want a little you!”
“Whatever we have, it’s going to have the best dad ever. I love you, Dunk.”
“I love you.”