Summary: “My super-potent sperm has knocked up Colin’s man-uterus with a demon child or possibly a ginger. Please help!” said Bradley.
Warnings: Mpreg, craaaaaack, prejudice against vegetarians, demons, waifish nymphets, gingers, and hippies
Word count: 3,223 words
Author’s note: So I was thinking of writing this marginally srz-bzns Arthur/Merlin mpreg fic where Merlin gets knocked up because he’s a *~*~*~magical being~*~*~* or whatev, and then my brain leapt to Bradley/Colin mpreg crack with Colin being wee and Irish and pregnant and Bradley being Bradley and everyone else being bewildered and, yeah.
“Clearly this is all your fault,” said Bradley, looking up from the mess of home pregnancy tests scattered about on Colin’s bathroom counter. “You just had to go around being a vegan, didn’t you? And now look what’s happened!”
“I’m not even vegan,” said Colin, “I’m a vegetarian, there’s a difference. And how do you know this is my fault?”
“Whatev, you enjoy eating salads, clearly you cannot be trusted,” said Bradley. “I told you all those vegetables couldn’t be healthy! If you’d eaten a little meat maybe you wouldn’t have grown a man-uterus and we wouldn’t be in this situation.”
“I believe ‘a little meat’ is what got me into this mess in the first place,” said Colin.
“Ooh, double-entendre with a side of burn, me like,” said Bradley in appreciation.
“Furthermore, you were involved in this too, maybe you’re the one to blame,” said Colin.
“Are you saying I have super-potent sperm?” said Bradley.
“No,” said Colin.
“You are!” crowed Bradley. “You think I’m miraculous and manly and have super-potent sperm and it put a baby in your man-uterus!”
“I don’t,” said Colin.
“It’s okay to feel defensive,” said Bradley. “I’ll still love you even after you lose your girlish figure, I swear.”
“I truly and sincerely hate you, I just want you to know that,” said Colin.
Belatedly: “And I don’t have a girlish figure, you ass!”
“1.” said Bradley, “you totally adore me and think I’m miraculous and manly and want to have a million little blond babies just like me, and 2. you do have a girlish figure, but you won’t now that you’re preggers because pregnant people can’t go around looking like waifish nymphets, it’s unhealthy.”
“You just wanted to say ‘waifish nymphet,’” said Colin darkly. “You’ve been saving it up so you could call me that, haven’t you?”
“I would never,” said Bradley. “Well, maybe.”
“I can’t believe you’re going to be the father of my biologically-impossible child,” said Colin.
“I’ve been telling you salads would make you grow a man-uterus,” said Bradley. “All this time, I’ve been telling you.”
“You haven’t,” said Colin, protesting. “Not that warning specifically, at least.”
“This child better not be a vegetarian,” said Bradley. “I mean, you’re a vegetarian, I’m a meat-and-potatoes man. Our child will be so culinary confused!”
“I think our child’s food choices are the least of our concerns right now,” said Colin.
“Why, what else do we need to worry about?” said Bradley.
Sometimes, Colin thought uncharitably, he considered that he might not have chosen the sharpest sword in the forge, if you get my meaning. By which I mean that Bradley was occasionally very dim. But the sex was quite fabulously good and Bradley was entertaining, so that generally made up for it. And plus there was that whole bit where Colin was desperately in love with him, but Colin preferred not to think about that.
“Well,” said Colin, “we need to figure out how to tell people about this, and keep it from getting into the tabloids, and find a doctor, and, oh yeah, defy all reasonable expectations by actually becoming good parents.”
“You need to know that I only ever understand about half of what you’re saying at any given time,” said Bradley, “especially when you get all worked-up like this and start speaking fast and your accent flares up.”
“You. Me. Parenthood,” said Colin.
“Yeah, we’re going to be parents, got it,” said Bradley. Then: “…Oh god, we’re going to be parents. I’m going to be a daddy.”
Bradley was suddenly breathing very quickly (no matter what Colin might tell you, it was not hyperventilating. Bradley would never disgrace himself in such a way, and if Colin has been saying otherwise then clearly that means that Colin is a wretch and a hussy whose hobbies include lying, being a lie-teller, and lies).
“I’m going to have a child, and responsibility, and a baby-momma, and probably a mortgage,” said Bradley, sweating.
“I don’t even know what a mortgage is!” said Bradley. “Don’t make me get a mortgage, Colin, please,” he said imploringly, and passed out flat on Colin’s floor.
“Did you just call me your baby-momma?” said Colin.
Bradley made no reply.
“It could be a demon child,” said Bradley from the couch sometime later, as Colin handed him an ice-pack.
“It’s not a demon child,” said Colin, sitting down beside him.
“It could be,” said Bradley. He held the ice-pack against his head (which had gotten a bit knocked-about during Bradley’s faint. Or, as Bradley was calling it, his manly tumble, though Colin—being the lying lie-teller that he was—maintained that there had definitely been some swooning involved).
“I mean, it’s unnatural, right?” said Bradley. “I’ve seen the classic movie-films Rosemary’s Baby and The Omen, I know how these things work.”
“I’m relatively certain I’m not birthing the Antichrist, Bradley,” said Colin.
“You just tell yourself what you need to,” said Bradley.
A pause. Colin laughed.
“What if—” said Colin, “what if it were a ginger?”
“It’s not!” said Bradley. “Unless you’ve been hussying around on me. You haven’t been, have you, you hussy?”
“Don’t worry, the potential devil-baby is definitely yours,” said Colin. “Take that as you will.”
“I think I need to ponder the direction my life is taking,” said Bradley.
“Ponder away,” said Colin, and flicked on the telly.
After some degree of life-pondering, which yielded no revelations to Bradley at all except that:
A) he was excessively fond of Skittles (they were bright and rainbow-coloured, which Bradley enjoyed immensely. Really, that should have tipped Bradley off at least a little sooner that he was gayer than a gay, gay thing, which Bradley hadn’t figured out for himself until the night Colin had kissed him and ended up pinned to the bed with his knees hooked over Bradley’s shoulders)
B) Colin’s eyelashes were really quite lovely, especially up-close when Colin fell asleep on the couch with his head resting against Bradley’s shoulder, which made Bradley want to coo and cuddle him and call him tender things like “lamb” and “sweetling” and “darling light of my life,” which Bradley had never before wanted to call anybody until Colin had come along being all Irish and comely and shaggable
—anyway, after that Bradley decided to go to the person he always went to when he had a problem, which was basically the only person in the world who wouldn’t shout at him if he banged on her door at four-thirty in the morning.
“Angel!” said Bradley, banging on her door.
“Bradley,” said Angel, “it’s four-thirty in the morning and we’re due up by six. Go away.”
“But I need your unjudging wisdom and guidance!” said Bradley, making excessively sad faces at her.
“What is it?” said Angel, leaning against the doorframe and wishing she weren’t quite so obliging.
“My super-potent sperm has knocked up Colin’s man-uterus with a demon child or possibly a ginger. Please help!” said Bradley.
“It’s too early for pranks,” said Angel, and closed the door.
“So much for wisdom and guidance,” said Bradley, put-out.
Because Angel was being decidedly non-angelic and totally unhelpful, Bradley was forced to turn to his next resource. This time he had to wait until he got on-set.
“Gaius, I need your help!” said Bradley.
“Bradley, I’ve told you before—” said Richard. “Gaius is not my name. I only play Gaius on the telly.”
“I need your medical expertise regarding a very delicate matter in which I expect full confidentiality,” said Bradley.
“He’s a fictional character,” added Richard. “He’s not real.”
“I’ve gotten Colin up in the duff, do you know where the birth canal will be?” said Bradley. “Also if you have any parenting advice that would help us nurture our demon child, I’d like to hear that too.”
“I’m an old man, I shouldn’t have to deal with this first thing in the morning,” said Richard, filling up his coffee cup.
“You’ve been no help at all, Gaius,” said Bradley.
“Katie!” said Bradley.
“No,” said Katie.
“You don’t even know what I was going to ask,” said Bradley.
“The answer is still no,” said Katie.
“Anthony Head, there you are!” said Bradley.
Anthony Head stopped trying to creep out of the window and gave Bradley a pained sort of smile.
“Anthony Head, I let my little head do the thinking and now Colin’s preggers. I need you to use your head and advise me about demon-baby maintenance so Colin and I won’t go out of our heads,” said Bradley.
Anthony Head twitched.
“Sometimes I worry you’re not quite right. Mentally, I mean,” said Anthony Head.
“I can call you ‘Giles’ if you want, Anthony Head,” said Bradley magnanimously.
“Connect me to Santiago,” said Bradley to the telephone.
The telephone replied in French.
“CONNECT ME TO SANTIAGO,” said Bradley.
“Bradley, is that you?” said Santiago.
“Yes, now listen,” said Bradley.
“I pine for you,” said Santiago.
“I’ve gotten Colin into a bit of a state,” said Bradley.
“I long to dance in the parade of sunlight in your hair,” said Santiago.
“I knocked him up with my amazing sperm,” said Bradley.
“Your sperm is like Superman if Superman was sperm,” agreed Santiago.
“And, I dunno, now I’ve just been doing a lot of pondering. Life-pondering,” said Bradley.
“Your lips are like a red rose in bleak winter reaching long arms to the sky,” said Santiago.
“I’m glad we had this chat,” said Bradley.
“Kiss, kiss. I bleed until we speak again,” said Santiago.
Life-pondering complete, Bradley moved on to the very serious business of informing his parents about his and Colin’s Satan-fetus.
“Mum, you’re going to be a grandmamma,” said Bradley.
“Pardon?” said Bradley’s mum.
“I’ve gotten someone pregnant,” said Bradley.
“MOTHERFUCKER YES!” said Bradley’s mum, who very much wanted grandchildren so that she could one-up Mrs. Parker from across the street, and so saw this as a great victory.
“But wait,” she said after a moment. “What about Colin, does he know?”
“…Why do you ask?” said Bradley.
“Because you’re dating him, of course,” said Bradley’s mum. “If you’ve gotten some girl preggers, you need to fess up.”
“How—I—how’d you know we were dating!” said Bradley.
“Well it’s quite obvious, isn’t it?” said Bradley’s mum. “Especially after you introduced him to us as the ‘darling light of your life,’ really dear. Everybody knows.”
“Everybody?” said Bradley.
“Everybody,” said Bradley’s mum.
“Crazy Auntie Agnes?”
“Well this is unexpected,” said Bradley. “But it does make it easier to say this. Mum, Colin is the person I knocked up.”
“That’s marvelous!” said Bradley’s mum. “Just think if the child had his cheekbones and your eyes. Mrs. Parker would be sick with envy! Oh, but tell Colin he needs to eat more, love, we can’t have him looking like a waifish nymphet while he’s expecting.”
Colin also rang up his family with the news. His exchange went slightly differently.
“I’m pregnant with Bradley’s child,” said Colin.
“Bradley?” said Colin’s mum. “Bradley James?”
“The very one,” said Colin.
Colin’s mum said some very foul words in Gaelic.
“On the plus side,” said Colin’s dad optimistically, “at least we know it’ll be an attractive child.”
Dr. Poivre was screaming in the medical supply closet. The sequence of events that led to this went as follows:
“Monsieur Morgan,” said Dr. Poivre, looking down at the pregnancy test results (all five of them, repeated with varying degrees of shock and disbelief). “I can confirm that you are, in fact, pregnant. Excuse me, I have to go get something from the medical supply closet.”
And then Dr. Poivre had walked into the closet, shut the door gently behind him, and started screaming.
“AHHHHHHHH,” screamed Dr. Poivre in the closet. “MY WORLDVIEW, IT HAS BEEN ROCKED.”
“I like him,” said Bradley. “He seems very knowledgeable.”
“THIS CANNOT BE HAPPENING. THIS IS HAPPENING. IS THIS A DREAM OR IS IT REALITY? EVERYTHING I KNOW ABOUT MEDICINE HAS BEEN UPTURNED. WHY, WHY, WHY!”
“He came highly recommended,” agreed Colin.
Dr. Poivre opened the closet door and stepped out.
“Please excuse the interruption,” said Dr. Poivre.
“So how is this even anatomically possible?” said Colin. “Do you know?”
“I have a theory about that, actually,” said Dr. Poivre, taking a pen from his coat’s breast pocket. “Monsieur Morgan, do you eat a lot of salads?”
“…Yes,” said Colin, wary.
“I see,” said Dr. Poivre, making a note on his clipboard.
“And Monsieur James, would you say that you are exceptionally manly?”
“Extraordinarily so,” said Bradley.
“Hmm,” said Dr. Poivre, making another note.
“I believe, Monsieur Morgan,” said Dr. Poivre after a moment, “that your excessive salad consumption caused your body to grow a man-uterus, and that when it was inundated with Monsieur James’s super-potent sperm—”
“It’s the Superman of sperm,” said Bradley.
“Who told you that?” said Colin, snorting.
“Santiago did,” said Bradley.
“Santiago’s infatuated with you, don’t listen to a word he says,” said Colin.
“What? No he’s not!” said Bradley. “I would have noticed.”
“As I was saying, when Monsieur Morgan’s man-womb was inundated with Monsieur James’s unusually potent lovejuice, conception occurred,” said Dr. Poivre.
“Doctor, I have some worries,” said Bradley. “What are the odds that this child could be a demon or a ginger? Or, god help us, a demon ginger?”
“Well that depends,” said Dr. Poivre. “Monsieur Morgan, have you engaged in intercourse with any demons or gingers in the last several months?”
“No, just this idiot,” said Colin.
“I’m so manly it’s like shagging twelve men, really. Colin’s a right lucky bastard,” said Bradley.
“Then I’d have to say that the probability of you birthing either a demon or a ginger is very low,” said Dr. Poivre.
“Oh thank goodness,” said Colin, relieved.
“I am concerned about your eating habits, however,” said Dr. Poivre. “Being a waifish nymphet while you’re expecting just isn’t healthy.”
“Not a word,” said Colin to Bradley.
Skip forward a few days. Okay, stop—
“Colin!” said Bradley.
“Whu’?” said Colin, still half-asleep, struggling up from the warm haven of his bed sheets.
“I just realized that our baby is going to be born out of wedlock,” said Bradley.
“How’d you get in my room?” said Colin.
“I bribed the maid,” said Bradley.
“It’s—” said Colin, squinting at the alarm clock, “four-thirty in the morning, Bradley, no maids are even working.”
“Fine, I swiped your extra keycard,” said Bradley. “But that’s not important, we need to be focusing on the bigger problem right now.”
“What bigger problem?” said Colin.
“Haven’t you been listening!” said Bradley. “Our baby is going to be born out of the sacred bonds of matrimony, which makes it a lovechild, which is only one step away from being a dirty hippy! My child cannot be a dirty hippy, Colin, my mum would never forgive me. We need to fix this.”
“…Did you just propose to me?” said Colin, blinking. “Is that seriously what just happened here?”
“We’ll nip over to Belgium for the ceremony tomorrow, what do you think?” said Bradley. “And afterwards, I’m thinking waffles.”
Colin rolled over and went back to sleep.
“This is kidnapping, you realize,” said Colin at the alter. “I’ve been kidnapped.”
“Just say ‘I do’ and sign the papers and then we can go have waffles,” said Bradley.
“If I go through with this, you’re not allowed to call me your wife,” warned Colin.
“But—” said Bradley.
“No,” said Colin.
“Then what am I supposed to call you, then?” said Bradley.
“Husband?” said Colin.
“That’s so gay,” said Bradley.
“Bradley, you’re marrying a man,” said Colin. “You’re gay.”
“Not all-the-way gay,” said Bradley. “Only, like, three-quarters. Five-sixths at most.”
“You liar, you’re a big flaming homo and you love it,” said Colin. “Also, how about ‘life partner’?”
“That makes us sound like dirty hippies!” said Bradley.
“Well what do you suggest then, Mr. Brilliant?” said Colin.
Bradley thought. And thought. And thought some more. And thought a bit extra, for the novelty of it.
“I’ll call you my love-muffin,” said Bradley finally. “My sweet little Irish love-muffin from the oven of wishes and dreams.”
“Fine,” said Colin. “I do.”
Eventually they had to tell the producers.
“So Colin and I have been bumping uglies for a while now, and also I’ve gotten him preggers,” said Bradley.
“I feel like we could have announced that better,” said Colin.
“Oh my,” said executive producer Johnny Capps. “We’ll have to introduce Merlin’s magical baby storyline a bit earlier, then, I think.”
He chewed pensively at the end of his pen, then wrote NEEDS MOAR GAY on the upcoming script. And underlined it twice. And bolded it.
“Anything else?” said Johnny.
“Well now that you mention it,” said Bradley, “we eloped to Belgium last Saturday, just thought you ought to know. Ta!”
“Oh my god,” said Angel. “Oh my god, Bradley James, you utter twat!” She struck him violently with the flat of her hand.
“OW!” said Bradley, rubbing his bicep. It stung; Bradley thought Angel might secretly be a ninja or something. She must be taking lessons from Katie.
“Why is Johnny going around telling everybody that Colin and you are married and that Colin’s carrying your miracle baby?” said Angel.
“Uh, ’cause it’s true?” said Bradley. The duh was self-evident.
Angel raised her hand menacingly.
“Stop accosting me with your ninja fury!” he told her.
“My what?” she said.
“The source of your ninja power,” said Bradley.
Angel blinked at him.
“Is it really true, what he’s saying?” she said after a second. “You’re not just having us on?”
“I wouldn’t lie about that,” said Bradley.
“Oh!” said Angel, overcome, and grabbed Bradley into a hug.
“I’m just so happy for you,” said Angel, sniffling. “It’s such a beautiful love story!”
“Sure, I guess so,” said Bradley, patting her on the back, and didn’t even complain (much) when her tears soaked into his shirt and costuming made him change.
“So you and Bradley and a ring and a baby, huh?” said Katie.
“Yeah,” said Colin.
“Yeah?” said Katie. “Congratulations,” said Katie. She smiled.
Colin smiled too.
“I really am too old for this,” said Richard, refilling his coffee cup.
Fast-forward five months. Past Colin saying, “You’re not carrying me across the threshold Bradley put me down!”
Past Bradley saying, “How hard could it be to assemble it ourselves?” followed shortly by Colin’s “That…is not a crib, I think.”
Past the tabloids with electric headlines like Gay pregnancy shocker!!! Read more inside! that fade away after a few weeks because, after all, Colin and Bradley aren’t A-listers and eventually people get bored of them and go back to reading about Angelina Jolie out toy-shopping and whatnot.
Past Dr. Poivre pointing to a spot on a sonogram and saying, “See that flutter, there? That’s her heart.”
Go past all that, then stop. Here. Right here.
“Huh,” says Bradley, leaning down to look at the wrinkly pink bundle in Colin’s arms.
He touches her soft baby-skin with the pad of his fingertip, careful, and she burbles at him and grabs his finger in one tiny fist.
“Well, you’re alright then,” says Bradley, fond.