I own nothing in this fic.

Pickle

Happy horribly, HORRIBLY late birthday Butterfly's Shadow!

*NOTES*

This is Mpreg as stated in the summary. If that squicks you out, then please leave. It also has no explanation, because I am just as clueless as to how it happened as you are. It's kind of based on the prompt "pickle" and how we had discussed the fact that, in Mpreg, ninety-nine percent of the time, its Mello getting preggers; so I asked if I could do a preggers Matt as a joke, and they said yes. So yeah, like I just said, this is a JOKE. It is not meant to be taken seriously in any way, shape, or form because I sure as heck don't.

Mello POV

I creaked open the apartment door slowly, with the bag of disgusting groceries Matt wanted in my hand. I was afraid if it creaked too loud again (it always creaked anyway but the volume sometimes differed) Matt would go on another rampage. I shut it quietly, and looked around the front room, and saw Matt had fallen asleep, with an Xbox 360 controller in his hands, on the beaten up couch in front of the television again. I went to the kitchen adjacent to the main room on the left, and started to take the groceries out of the bag to put them away, when I heard him croak, "Did you remember to get dill and not bread and butter this time?"

I turned around to face him where he was slowly straightening up with a hand against his back in an attempt to relieve some pain. "Yes. Do you want me to make you a bowl?" He nodded, and I fought back a grimace as I got out a plastic bowl and took out the regular potato chips, and crunched them up then put some in then took out the canned cheddar cheese and sprayed it in. I took that and the jar of pickles to him, and placed them on the coffee table in front of him. He quickly opened the pickle jar, and removed a pickle and used it as a spoon for the disgusting concoction. I fought back a gag as I petted his hair. It was so much thicker and softer now. "What took so long?"

"I had to go to Target. You know how much traffic there is there." He nodded and shifted a bit with a grimace then took another bite. When he shifted again the grimace was deeper. "What is it?"

"It's been hurting since you walked-AAAH!" He let out a moan of pain.

I pulled out my untraceable cell phone and dialed the number I knew by heart. It was the number of a doctor who had four assistants. All of them worked side jobs for the Mafia. None of them would dare breathe a word about the current situation though. My reputation of a bat shit insane man with a constantly loaded gun was for a reason. As soon as they picked up I spoke. "Get everyone to the storage center now or I will hunt you down and…" I chuckled evilly letting him think up the consequences. He gulped and agreed.

Matt moaned again and I helped him stand. He clutched the pickle jar for dear life and muttered angrily in French. It was hard, but I managed to get him to his car and I drove to the storage center on Locust Street, where there was a back room that had long ago been modified into a surgical room. I would have to make sure all the equipment was new and sterile. I cursed the time it took to get there. While Pasadena was great for its allowance of two white guys to live in a poor apartment without many weird looks, and it's allowance to let me wear my leather and blend, in it was still a pain in the ass to drive in. I cursed as I realized that meant all the surgical staff would be late.

I drove up to the metal gate and used a metal remote in between the seats to open it. I then went and parked in the side lot hoping no one saw. Thankfully, Matt's body decided to go into labor when it was dark out. I got out and kissed a steadily more agonized Matt's forehead. "I'll be right back." I went to the back of his car and unlocked the trunk, and retrieved my Beretta, which I stuck in my pants, and a wheelchair.

I went back to the front, and opened the door, and helped him in the wheelchair. As I did, his water broke. "Thank Zelda it wasn't on the seats," he whimpered. I rolled my eyes and locked both doors, and the trunk, and wheeled him to the storage area. I got to storage unit thirty-eight, and bent down and used a key on his keyring to open the sliding door. As I lifted it, I noticed a light switch, built right into the inside of the container, and I flicked it on. An industrial light bulb assaulted our eyes, and I helped Matt onto the surgical bed and sighed. Matt clutched the pickle jar tighter and looked at me fearfully.

"I saw a horror movie like this once Mells," he said and his goggles started to retain water so I removed them.

"No-one will mess with you. They value their lives too much. No-one will even know. Remember that gunshot wound to my arm I faked that would take me out of commission, except to give advice over the phone for a bit?" He nodded. "This is why. No-one will know." I cleared my throat awkwardly and added reluctantly, "Matt I can't care about you or our baby here. It doesn't fit the scary tough guy image. No matter how impassive I am though, know I do love you both, and I do care, and I am going to be scared within an inch of my life, and I am proud of you." I cupped his cheek. "Don't forget that." He nodded and his eyes teared up again, then he let out a scream. I held out my hand for him to hold but he shook his head.

"We both need you with non-b-broken hands a-and you're too tough to-oo hold mine." He tried to unscrew the top of the pickle jar with unsteady hands. I took it and opened it, knowing he shouldn't be eating, but I couldn't refuse him much considering all the pain he was in for me. He surprised me, though, by grabbing a pickle and squeezing it like it was my hand. I heard a Caucasian man and an Asian- American woman run in.

The woman went to a metal closet on the other side of the room, and pulled out three sets of scrubs, as well as some antiseptic shaving cream, and some hydrating fluid for an IV. The man got the IV pole, and took out a few machines from the corner then, went to the closet and began applying sterilized devices. Matt whimpered.

"He needs to be naked," the woman said, and I took the pickle jar from Matt's left arm, and the pickle from his right hand, and placed the pickle back in the jar, and the jar on the floor, then I undressed him, and she placed shaved his lower stomach in a professional manner and placed some paper over his waist. "You need to be in scrubs," she told me, and I glared but took the scrubs and changed when she left. I folded my clothes and, with a wince, placed them on the ground with my Beretta. I made a mental note to have them cleaned. I assumed the nurse was changing somewhere privately. I looked at Matt, who was now biting his lip in an attempt not to scream, and I retrieved the pickle and handed it to him. About two minutes later, a blonde woman retrieved some scrubs and, presumably, joined the Asian-American woman, and two African-American men joined us and changed quickly. One of them was the head doctor, while I assumed the others were actually nurses. I was told to stand back as the IV was hooked up to Matt, and he was given a local anesthetic so only part of him was numbed but he was still alert.

It took all of my strength to remain impassive as a catheter was inserted to empty Matt's bladder, which made him blush deeper than I had ever seen, then had to see Matt's abdomen and oddly-existing uterus be horizontally sliced open. They had a drape up blocking Matt's view, but he still had his eyes clenched tightly shut. He was squeezing the pickle to death. It was unsanitary, but they knew not to question me on it. The surgery took about six minutes, until a baby boy was extracted and a machine sucked the placenta from his nose, and mouth, and his umbilical cord was clamped, then cut and tied, and he was taken to where they had a tiny sink set up in the far left corner of the room, and he cried when he was being rinsed. I clenched my jaw to keep from biting my lip with emotion.

While Matt was being sewed up with dissolvable stitches, I was handed my son. I stared down at his skin, which would be red for a bit like all newborns', and he opened his eyes a tiny bit, and I sucked in a quiet breath as I saw my eyes –exactly my eyes– staring back at me. His cherry red hair had definite blond highlights without any sun exposure at all. I noticed the doctors and nurses were cleaning up Matt, and I went up to him and gently gave him our son. We had agreed since our child wouldn't have a legal birth certificate, we would keep their name quiet. Our choice if we had a boy, though, was Matejek Niko Keehl, or Matt Nicholas Keehl as is more commonly said in English-speaking places, despite the names not being English. Matt made cooing noises and blushed, but fed Matejek as he grew sleepy. I knew he couldn't leave, and we needed to eat, and I needed to sleep, but I hadn't figured out what to do. They gave us a diaper to put on Matejek, and asked for a name but Matt shook his head and I glared, and they backed off.

The head doctor handed me some strong pain medication. "It isn't safe to stay here even for you. He really shouldn't be moved but you don't really have a choice." He gulped nervously at his wording, but I curtly nodded and retrieved the wheelchair from outside the storage area. I dressed Matt in his pants and boxers, despite them having amniotic fluid all over them, and eased him into the chair with Matejek. I ignored the pickle jar as I gathered my clothes, and his, as well as my Beretta, and wheeled him to the car still in scrubs. Matt was pretending to eat Matejek's hand, which made Matejek make gurgling noises. He was too young to smile. I loaded them into the car, and I could tell Matt was struggling to stay awake and hold Matejek.

After the long drive back, I did my best to smuggle them both up to the apartment, and amazingly, succeeded. I took them to our bedroom, and placed Matejek in his bassinet, and stripped down to the nude, and removed Matt's dirty clothes, despite him hating sleeping without clothes on, and I lay next to a dead to the world Matt. I kissed his forehead and whispered, "I love you both," and joined them in sleep hoping I would get at least an hour… Hey a guy can dream right?

Thanks to Banen for help with a realistic place Matt and Mello could live in L.A., if they were real, that fit my standards of what I thought they would have.

Also, YES if this was real, Matt would probably have died, along with Matejek, I'm not stupid. This was all I could think of, though, other than an abandoned hotel room, which only had the main doctor when I envisioned it. Also shameless pimping but yes, Matejek is from You Can Bet On It. I figured it would work. Matejek Niko = Slovenian so yeah… Oh, and I've been told some people think Matt is Spanish, but unlike Mello I have no evidence via his name, so I said French at first and that is why I'm sticking to it, even if I may be wrong. (On other words, I don't care)