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Jamie holds Roy's hand, both looking at the screen of indistinguishable images in black and white. They've seen ultrasounds of family and friends, but this was theirs, and they couldn't for the life of them make out a single thing.
“See those round dots? Those are your pups,” the doctor says, her finger hovering over the screen and the other pressing the transducer against Jamie’s toned stomach. “You have a litter of four.”
“Fucking four?!” they both shout, their eyes wide at the screen, their clasped hands tightening and squeezing hard.
Jamie's over the moon. They were expecting just one because they did the math with Roy's infertility and their families’ genetics, but hearing that he was carrying a bundle of four was a blessing, a miracle even. He's an idiot to think nothing could top the spontaneous pregnancy test he took when he craved sugar 24/7 and got emotional over a commercial, and here he is, getting hit harder than any tackle he’s taken in his life—and he got his leg tangled by Roy once, and that fucked them both up for a bit: Jamie’s guilt and Roy’s right femur.
How I Tackled Your Father, cute, he thought, and would laugh if he wasn’t so overwhelmed—maybe he should stop looking at the screen… But he can’t when his babies are on full display, and the longer he stares at them, with eyes tracing the four tiny round blobs, his vision blurs with the water clinging to his eyelashes.
They’re just raspberries right now, like the ones he cradles in his hand in the mornings for his smoothies and yogurts, tiny little things rolling off his giant hand. He chokes up at the thought of his babies in his cupped hands, so small and round and mewling for their father, and how big they’ll get in the coming months.
Jamie breaks away when he hears a gruff sniffle and looks to Roy, whose gaze is so loving and sweet, eyes just as wet as his. He’s seen all the sides of Roy’s gorgeous (sexy) face, from the anger on the pitch to vulnerable pleasures in bed—this one was new, and it was making him whimper.
It's only 9 am, and the waterworks are starting up. The little stick told them he was positive, and the dozens more Roy forced him to do to make sure—all that, and it still didn't sink in until now.
It’s officially official.
They’re going to be parents.
Holy shit.
He opens his mouth, and it’s a whisper that shakes out. “We gots four footies in me, Roy. Oh me god.” He covers his mouth to stifle back a cry.
“Baby,” Roy takes Jamie's hand and kisses it lovingly a dozen times to calm him down. “Four pups in you. My pups… Fuck, you're amazing.”
Jamie would take the compliment and throw it back as a joke, ‘I know I'm amazing, duh,’ but what’s thrown back is a small and soft pule, and a single kiss back on the hand, and it's the heaviest one out of dozens Roy's given. They've talked and pictured themselves in this exact moment, all while blissed out in their rutting daze, dreaming of something they secretly accepted wasn't going to happen—it was fun to pretend it could, and Jamie always held hope.
Now here they are, no longer pretending and living hundreds of dreams at once.
The doctor shares their excitement with smiles and small laughs, rolling the transducer over the stomach and the image of four oblong shapes, now obvious, moving about on the monitor. It’s surreal to think they'll grow with each passing day and take up the screen, curled and swimming in his womb.
“Because of this amount, they will be born prematurely. Your uterus does not have the space to hold a litter this size. It’s common for male omegas to have a smaller uterus than females, due—“ the doctor explains what every single child learns at the age of 12, and Jamie's nodding in understanding while Roy's pretending he knows what's being said because he's a bit of a dolt—he told Jamie as much about how he slept through the educational talks in his biology classes.
“The estimated week for labour then?” Jamie asks, and he's the only one asking questions because Roy's afraid to ask a stupid one and look unfit to take care of his pack.
“Single pregnancies are 40 weeks. Prematurely, it's 30 weeks, 25 if there are complications, and 20 if it's dire, but that's extremely rare, so much so that it's only under a single percentage. You’re due in late September to early October instead of mid.” The doctor finishes up and starts to clean off the gel in gentle swipes.
“October babies would be cute. Put them in lil’ costumes!” Jamie gushes, and it’s making Roy giddily squirm in his spot. “Four babies means mor’ outfits. Endless possibilities~!”
“There goes a whole fucking paycheque,” Roy chuckles, and their hands loosen. “A few more months and I can properly focus on this, us,” he whispers with a hand smoothing over Jamie's stomach when it’s free of gel, pressing down at the navel. “I just wish I were by your side every step of the way, but fucking lads need me,” he says, the regret strong in his tone.
Jamie gives a small shake of his head and places a hand on top of Roy's, both pressing down on his stomach.
“I know yer doing yer best, babes.” Jamie smiles at him. “Read the articles. Chelsea's picked up slack since yer strict arse took over.”
“Ha, ha. It's only because I banned junk food. Fucking Mod, Jason and Garett brought family-sized crisps every fucking day to work. Savages.”
“Gods, don’ even talk to me about banned foods.” Jamie groans, playfully narrowing his eyes at Roy. Ever since the pregnancy announcement, Roy's trashed every single thing that would bring harm to the litter: no coffee, fish, refrigerated meats, brie and feta—that itself brought tears to Jamie's eyes. Sugar was strictly monitored, and an alcohol ban was placed in the household. Never did Jamie think he would see Roy dump his whiskies down the drain.
While Jamie could enjoy the things that were prohibited if cooked properly, he was a notorious snacker who would roam the halls late at night and mindlessly eat cold salami at 2 am from the packet, half asleep and mumbling for pasteurized cheese.
Call Roy paranoid, but he wasn’t risking anything, not when they worked this hard.
“For your own good,” Roy teases and leans in to give a kiss on his forehead and rub their noses together, his growls purring.
Jamie rubs back, quietly boofing at the affection—fuck, he loves it when Roy gets all soft and sweet, and because of the pups, he's gone sweeter than usual.
The doctor wraps it up, and they force themselves apart from the shared warmth, leaving Jamie shivering. Roy's quick to give him his jacket and help him off the exam bed, and it makes Jamie feel like a character from those movies with stupid, silly boyfriends giving their girlfriends jackets and rushing to get the door.
And Roy does just that, already at the door and opening it for him. Jamie would roll his eyes all snarky, but he relishes under these clichés.
“Such a gentleman ye’ are,” Jamie passes him with a wink. If there were a puddle anywhere in his vicinity, Roy would probably plank over it to keep his trainers clean.
“Mhm. No more slacking." Roy follows from behind, and they both have a laugh—when has Roy Kent ever slacked off?
“Wow! Uncle Jay, four?” Phoebe holds up the ultrasound to the light, all three seated at the table for dinner. “That's a lot! More than our families ever had.”
“Mhm. Me arse breaking world records in this family,” Jamie says proudly and pats his stomach. Even his own family tree didn't carry more than a single pup. His mum was one and done, and his father's side was the same, all litters of one. “Remember, this is a secret until I start showing.”
“Okay! Can I name one, pretty please?” Phoebe asks excitedly, still looking at the ultrasound. “We can name each one!”
Jamie laughs, scooping up his food and wagging it at Phoebe. “Ye’ may, but I need to approve of it. No names of people we know.”
“Pft. I already got the names.” Roy says smugly, and Jamie raises a brow at him.
“Okay, shoot.” Jamie takes a bite of his food and leans back, giving Roy a nod. He has an idea what the names are, but wants to hear it from the man himself.
Roy sets his utensils down and coughs into his fist. “Royce, Rory, Royson, and Ashley with the middle name Rachel.”
Phoebe and Jamie stare at him, then at each other, and back at him.
“Wow, okay.” Jamie is speechless. It was clear Roy wanted his little army to have their father's name attached, and they all sounded nice, but Jamie was not going to handle four Ro's in this house. He did like Royce from the way it rolled off the tongue and how luxurious it sounded.
“Uncle Roy, that's a lot of R's.” Phoebe giggles, putting the ultrasound back in the folder. “Ashley?”
Roy scoffs, his face going flush and his ears burning. “I like Ashley. Endless nicknames. Ashe, Lee, Lele, Assley. I just like it!”
Jamie nods, a finger on his grin. “I was thinking of Ashley, too. Girl, boy, footie, no matter. Works both ways. I like Rachel as a middle name. Ashley Rachel. Put it on the list of approved names. Still early, but I really like it.”
“Yea?” Roy looks hopefully at Jamie, and he gives him a little kick to his ankle, and Jamie nudges back, their way of communicating a yes. Phoebe's foot slides in, tapping both of their ankles. They give her a look, and she shrinks in her seat, her foot sliding away.
“Sorry, I wanted to play footsies too.”
“Footsies are for couples only, missy." Roy gives her foot a tap. “If someone at school plays footsies with you, kick them hard.”
Jamie scoffs, his fork pointing to Roy. “He's lying, pebbles. He played footsies with me on the field before we got together. Always kicking me, pushing me, getting up in me face and barking.” Jamie winks at Roy, making the man go redder than he was. “The tackle that took him and me out sealed our fate. I knew he was the one for me.”
Such a rush of raw power and pheromones that day, too. Jamie never believed in soulmates until that moment, and he had almost followed Roy when he limped away, denying the stretcher.
“I remember that tackle! It was the tackle of the season,” Phoebe says, pushing her plate away. “Mum said the same thing. She was, Oi Phoebe, yer uncle has a thing for that young man, swear down he does! Look at how he ran into him. That's an alpha going for it. Gr hur gr! Yer uncle is such a knobhead!" Phoebe mimics her late mother's mannerisms, both in words and actions, and Jamie howls at it while Roy slinks into his chair.
“There was no reply from the back of the car. Sand-castles, paddling his bucket ail across the harbour, and the sea air had proved too much for Paddington…” Jamie whispers to a drowsy Phoebe, her lids heavy and breaths as soft as his voice.
“He was fast asleep…” Jamie closes the book, A Bear Called Paddington, and sets it on the nightstand. He tucks Phoebe in and kisses her on her forehead. She stirs but doesn't wake, and Jamie slips away, flicking off the lamp and closing the door behind him.
The house is quiet now, cold and empty of the warmth their old one held back in Richmond. He runs his hands on the plain walls and imagines them filled with photos of their past and future, with new adventures of a place he has yet to accept, with wins or losses that bring them closer, and with beaming faces of old and new. He continues on, walking down the barren halls and pretends little bare feet are slapping around, with joyous laughter filling the still air.
He passes unoccupied rooms that will one day house what he homes inside him, each one decorated to their tastes—blues, greens, pinks, or purples? Or all the same swirling together—who knows, he thinks. When the time comes, he'll be the one to paint it for their majesties.
Stopping at the window, he looks out and stares at the unfamiliar streets under the same skies he grew up in Manchester through Richmond, with stars that come and go, yet always stay where they need to be.
Like him, he goes where he needs to be, but he stays where he has to be, and it’s scary to be here, and he hates how he feels a bit of resentment about moving far from a life he's worked so hard to achieve. It's not at Roy, never at Roy, and it's more personal and complicated—something for his therapists ears only.
Sighing, his eyes wander along the clouds that soak in the light and tracing the stars to make shapes of the blobs he saw earlier today—tiny dots glowing brightly against the dark. He puts a hand on his stomach and inhales deeply, his heart beating along four more.
He stands there for a few minutes to take in the moment, just him and maybe Ashley, Royce, Royson, Rory, maybe Jaxson, Jackie, Jaster, Grace, maybe Ashton, Ace, Alice, Zachary, maybe Lucy, Lucifer, Lewis, Kathy, maybe Benson, Brittany, Beau, William—just him and his four footies.
Jamie strips his clothes off and slips into bed and up to a snoozing Roy, his arms wrapping around him. He tries to be sneaky, but Roy stirs and awakens the second he's held and cracks a single eye open. The only light in the room is the moon spilling in, its ambient glow softening all under its gaze. It sharpens the shadows on Roy's face and brings out the strong features.
“Baby,” Roy mumbles sleepily, bringing an arm over Jamie and resting it along his shoulder and arm. Jamie instantly melts under the heavy weight and nuzzles his face into the crook of Roy's neck, inhaling the musk of earthy tones and soured liquor. He pules softly at the scent of his beloved, giving small kisses along Roy’s jaw with squirms of his body.
Roy chuckles through the dark, shifting from his spot and rolling over on top of Jamie, head dipping down to return his own kisses hard and lovingly, the beard roughly scratching along. He buries his nose in the crook of Jamie's neck and inhales deeply—Roy tells him he smells like fresh linen on a field of daisies under the warm sun and the sweetness of fruit, especially honeydew.
Roy gives a small lick and bites down gently, tugging at the neck for a second, and lets go, kissing the spot. His lips then trail down the toned body slowly, each one planted throbbing on Jamie's skin.
“Oh, Roy,” Jamie moans quietly through it, widening his legs for Roy to settle himself between. The lips stop right at his stomach, and Roy kisses it with purring growls. He stops after a thousand or so kisses to inhale again—taking in the scent—and when he exhales, his body goes lax right on Jamie's. His head rests on the stomach, ear pressed against it to listen as he wraps his arms around the waist.
Jamie smiles warmly at him, hand going to Roy's head and stroking through his short, dark hair. He keeps quiet when he can’t find the words.
“I love you,” Roy says to him, “and I love you four—Daddy loves you all so fucking much." He rubs his face along the abs, his purring growls growing intense till they're little whimpers, and Jamie feels the warm beads of tears spilling from Roy's eyes, slicking his stomach, and it's making his own vision blurry and everything that glows under the moon twinkling under his lashes.
“We love you too,” Jamie coos, “so much.”
And they fall asleep shortly after, with Roy as Jamie's blanket to keep him warm through the night, like in those stupid, silly, cliché movies.