Walter Sullivan had been scarily ecstatic when he announced to Henry that "Mother" wanted grandchildren. The man had just come out of their room, after one of his long sessions of simply laying on the bed and staring creepily at the ceiling. Henry assumed he was "speaking" to his "mother" somehow, or that he was possibly just speaking to himself and thought it was his mother who replied.
Nevertheless, Walter had declared that Mother wanted grandchildren. Immediately. And, being the dutiful son that he was, he sent Little Walter to bed early, pulled his twenty first victim into the bedroom and attempted to begin making one.
Henry hadn't shared that enthusiasm, however, and had instead found himself laughing hysterically, as the big, bad Walter Sullivan was obviously more naïve than anyone ever could've imagined. After all, two men couldn't have children, as neither had the proper reproductive organs. Period.
However, upon informing Walter of this, the man had simply laughed and replied that he, of course, knew that, as he had gone to medical school, after all. How did Henry think he'd expertly removed hearts from the chest cavities of his first ten victims and then sowed them up?
"Silly, silly Henry," he'd said. "Now, let's make a baby!"
Henry had shaken his head in disbelief, but indulged his murderer.
But, nine months later, he wished he hadn't.
The mood swings were the worst -- he would be happy one minute, crying the next, then wrathfully angry. He was unpredictable at best, and completely insane at the worst. Even Little Walter had taken to avoiding him like the plague, despite his fascination with the fact that he was going to be a "brother".
The cravings would come next on the scale of mental torture. Being woken up at two o'clock in the morning due to an intense need for marshmallow-chocolate cheeseburgers with a side of sugar-coated mashed potatoes and a refreshment of peppered fruit punch vitamin water was not a pleasant thing, though when he ate it, it was even worse.
Swollen ankles, hands, fingers, toes, knees, and legs also popped up around the beginning of the third trimester, prompting Henry to wildly wonder why that would happen when he was, technically, dead, and had been for quite a long time.
In fact, (in addition to the little thing that this was impossible because they were both, you know, male) wasn't it strange that they could conceive a child when they were both dead, and therefore more-than-likely infertile?
"Henry!"
The shriek jolted him out of his reverie. He whipped his head to the side, locating both Walters on the other side of the living room.
"He -- he said I-- I--" cried Walter through fat tears which streamed down his face. He raised a shaky hand at his counterpart. "He said I was -- was a -- a dummy!" Walter sobbed.
Henry glared at Little Walter, quickly moving to embrace Big Walter. "Why did you say that?" he snapped.
Little Walter squirmed under his gaze. "He's mean to me!"
Walter began sobbing louder. "I'm so sorry if I was mean!" he declared, his hurt feelings abruptly vanished. "I don't want to be, I swear! I'm just so hormonal!"
Little Walter smiled slightly. "That's okay, Walter," he cooed, moving towards him. He wound his arms around the man's neck and pulled him into a hug. "I'm sorry for calling you a dummy."
Walter sniffed. "And I'm sorry for calling you an insufferable moron."
"Apology accepted," said Little Walter, resting his head on Big Walter's massive belly.
Just a few more days, thought Henry desperately. Just a few more days and he'll give birth, a few more days, a few more days . . .
Author's Note: It's crack, people. It isn't meant to be taken seriously. I thought this up last night in bed when I was half asleep, and I don't know why I wrote it. I guess there has to be one Walter/Henry mpreg out there. Anyway, this takes place after the 21 Sacraments ending, though Walter brought Henry back, blah blah. Just read it and don't take it too seriously!
-snarryvader81 (aka Anna)