Disclaimer: I don't own any characters blah blah blah owned by Anthony Horowitz blah blah blah don't sue me. A medical operation will be mentioned, and preparation for it will be described, but the actual procedure won't be graphically described.
I had two betas and a few other people answered questions on a few topics.
merlins_basilisk told me where I was going wrong with my attempts at Russian, as well as general suggestions.
There was also armassy, [person 2, Likelightinglass, and [person 4] who answered a few questions I had on asexuality. [Person 4] ended up being my sounding board whenever I was asking "Would an asexual person do/think/feel this?", and helped with comments on the general flow of the story.
Without all of them, this would be an inaccurate mess. I'd also probably accidentally offend anyone who read it, so I'd like to thank the 5 of you from the bottom of my heart.
Summary: Human experimentation, as provided by the ICCPR, can only take place when the person being experimented on gives "free consent" and isn't "subjected" to taking part in "medical or scientific experimentation".
Then again, some people have no issue with blackmailing a teenager into doing their work for them, so why would a pesky thing like "free consent" stop them from human experimentation?
Lab Rat
Alex always had two sets of doctors.
He visited the first set in the morning or afternoon during school term. There were toys in the waiting room that he would play with while they waited (when he got too old for the toys, he would instead scroll on his phone). Jack brought him and would accompany him into the doctor's room ("It's called a Doctor's surgery.") where he would tell the nurse what was wrong with him.
They would smile, ask him questions, and look at the affected area if necessary.
They might check his blood pressure, make him read letters off a chart on the wall, or do other simple tests.
Jack usually led him out ten minutes later with a new prescription in her hand. She'd pay at the reception desk, maybe chat with the woman for a minute before they left (when he started going on his own, he would mutter a quiet "Thanks" at the receptionist while they dealt with the next crying/screaming patient).
Ian brought him to the second set. Once every three months, like clockwork, and always at night. They never had to wait - he was always seen the second they walked in.
The doctors (or nurses) wore white coats, goggles, face masks and latex gloves. They never talked to him, merely sticking a needle in his stomach and injecting him with something. They asked Ian questions about him rather than just asking him.
The people seemed to change regularly - that, or they could change their speech patterns enough to make him think they were different people.
When finished doing… whatever it was, Alex would be pushed out of the room, and Ian would disappear up a set of stairs for a long time (once he was gone for over an hour).
He would be given ice cream that evening, sent to bed, and spend the following week with agonising stomach cramps. Worse, Ian wouldn't let him stay in bed, forcing him to go to school, sports classes, and other events his uncle deemed essential (though he wouldn't be allowed to visit Tom or any of his friends during that week).
When Alex begged his uncle not to bring him to the second set - he'd realised pretty early on that it was that group that was making him ill - he'd been brought to them two days in a row, resulting in a fortnight spent in bed after Jack put her foot down when she'd gone to wake him for school and found him vomiting onto the floor.
When he came out as gay after his sixteenth birthday, there were two distinct reactions.
Jack was supportive. She'd hugged him before laughing that they could look at handsome men ("Well, men for me - boys for you," she had joked) together. Alex pretended to be horrified but was secretly happy it had gone so well.
Ian…
Well.
That was a different story.
His uncle had stared at him for five minutes, not saying a word.
Barely blinking.
Until, after slapping him, Ian left the room, followed quickly by the house. They barely spoke after that, and the next time there was a party, Alex had gotten tipsy and found himself a nice-looking boy (John? James? Michael? He forgot seconds after hearing it - something biblical).
He'd had his first kiss in the hall as they stumbled into an empty bedroom. They grabbed some lube and condoms before proceeding to fuck each other (later that evening, remembering what had occurred, Alex thanked the short refractory period youth had gifted him with).
The condom broke when the other boy was fucking him, a fact they only discovered after he pulled out. Thankfully, neither had STDs or STIs (something his second set of doctors seemed to check for obsessively), but it quenched his lust. The other boy apologised profusely (or as profusely as he could while three sheets to the wind), but Alex drunkenly waved it off. He gave a fake number and staggered home, wincing slightly from the slight internal ache.
It hadn't been painful, but neither had it been as earth-shattering as his classmates made it out to be. It just… was.
The following day, he regretted his… activities. He woke with a hangover, mouth tasting like a small animal had crawled inside and died.
To make matters worse, his stomach felt awful (and that was after all its contents had been relocated to the bathroom toilet).
Ian had apparently had to leave late last night (A work conference, the note said), so he had already left the country before Alex staggered downstairs to get breakfast.
By the time the school day was finished, the pain in his stomach was gone, and he no longer felt like vomiting.
His relationship with his uncle never recovered, and when the police informed him about his death, Alex cried more because he didn't feel sad.
Any details about the boy he'd lost his virginity faded over time in an alcohol and grief-induced haze.
It took Yasha a while to realise he was different from his classmates.
First, "the talk"--None of the other boys had needed to escape when their mothers started talking about "females becoming wet when they are aroused." Nor did they spend a few minutes examining the new contents of the toilet bowl. Thankfully, his mother abandoned the topic, and they never spoke about it again.
His differences were only reinforced by his thoughts on having "fun" with himself. When Leo talked about getting an erection at the slightest provocation, Yasha shuddered in disgust at the thought of touching his penis for anything other than its urinary function.
"You're not doing it right," his friend had exclaimed when he'd haltingly stuttered his way through an explanation of his thoughts, thrusting an issue of Красивые Женщины (1) into his lap, "...enjoying yourself is hard without the correct… imagery. Try this."
A few days later, the magazine was returned to its owner.
"I don't want to keep you from having fun. I'll find one for myself," Yasha explained when he handed the magazine back, the smile not sitting right on his face.
That was a lie (he was surprised Leo hadn't noticed - it felt like it should be evident to everyone, never mind his best friend).
He'd looked at the images, thinking the women would look nicer with clothes on. How did people get aroused from this? It was… no.
During his only attempt to get himself aroused, his penis seemed to function well enough, but something in his mind shouted No!, and he stopped instantly.
From then on, he tried to blend in with the others, agreeing with Leo that yes, she's hot; yeah, she'd probably beg for it; always taking a little too long to realise what part of the random girl's body each quip was referring to.
He felt left behind, the person in the class who didn't understand the course material but didn't want to admit it.
Yasha hoped it would go away. Something would click, and he'd wake up the next day with the ability to enjoy arousal.
It never happened.
He just got better at hiding it.
Almost two decades later, on a different continent, Yassen finally managed to understand himself.
A few times with clients, they would go to an event, and he would have to accompany them as their head of security - or whatever they'd asked SCORPIA for. He'd pay enough attention to their conversation to be able to interject if needed, but most of his attention would be on assessing everyone's possible threat level.
The client (almost always male) would draw his attention to a random woman with a comment on a body part ("Look at the arse on her - bet she'd feel good with her legs around your waist"; "Wouldn't you just love to bury your face between her tits"; "I bet she's a screamer").
Far from noticing what the client was talking about, he'd consider how big the knife she could conceal under her dress could be.
Whether she could have a pistol in her Gucci handbag.
If she could have a vial of poison in her bra.
It didn't take long for the rumours to spread around SCORPIA.
Gregorovich is married to the job.
He won't even look at a woman.
Do you reckon he's a eunuch?
Growing up in the isolated village of Estrov, then during his time spent on the streets of Moscow, he hadn't even known it was possible for a man to not like females (or anyone at all). He didn't even know why some people wanted to paint rainbows on themselves and talk about being proud - though they never specified whom or what they were proud of - until he entered Contessa's classroom.
A new world was opened up to him, filled with rainbows, unicorns, flags, explanations, and acceptance - if he dared to dip his toe in.
During some free time, when his clients were somewhere he deemed safe enough to leave them for a while, he'd visit a few bookshops that sold literature on human psychology, emphasising romantic and sexual relationships. That had led him to books about people who weren't strictly "heterosexual".
After weeks of research and self-reflection, he found a label that seemed to encompass the feelings - or lack thereof - he felt (not that he told anyone else in SCORPIA - if they wanted to think he was a eunuch or "married to the job", who was he to disabuse them - especially if it made him seem more lethal, kept him safer?).
Homoromantic sex-averse asexual.
Despite his attempts to purge all emotions, something… settled when he had an explanation. It felt better that he knew why he felt this way rather than that way about sex.
It even helped him with his work - never would he be caught in the middle of a "passionate" embrace with anyone.
Never would that small bit of flesh attached to his groin get him in trouble.
Yassen heard about some of his colleagues being caught (literally) with their pants down during their downtime. Visiting a prostitute, dropping their guard and, when intelligence services burst in the door to apprehend them, being unable to escape, too caught up in the demands of their body.
It didn't mean that he didn't sometimes think about having a man who would still want to be with him. Who wouldn't care about having sex (shudder) with him - though he mightn't hate the thought of watching them… enjoy themselves - and would understand his "job".
It remained a hope that dwindled through years of regret, disappointment and (though Yassen tried to deny it) heartbreak.
Greif was arrogant.
That wasn't necessarily bad, but coupled with incompetence, it was a fatal combination.
Yassen's instincts told him he would soon be ordered to do a clean-up job. Thinking about the eight Dollys (2) running around, he found he wasn't all that opposed.
He was making his way towards the entrance (unlike most of those hired by Greif, he could leave whenever he wanted) when movement caught his eye. Having dismissed the person as a possible threat, something made him slow, turn.
Blonde hair. Brown eyes. An almost familiar way of walking.
"Can I help you?"
A familiar angle to the jaw.
He drifted over slowly, allowing himself a look. The boy's face was taking on a decidedly green tinge as he approached, a flash of panic and resignation crossing his face as a hand reached up to his mouth.
"Al - do you need help?"
Instead of answering, the teen turned and vomited, managing to avoid hitting either of them - though Yassen wouldn't want to be the cleaner given the job of scrubbing it off the wall. He slowly moved his hand towards the other's back, telegraphing his movements in case the touch was unwanted. When there was no reaction, he rested his hand on the bowed back, rubbing circles on his back through the yellow jumper.
Reaching into his pocket, he wordlessly offered his handkerchief for the teen to wipe his mouth when he'd finished heaving.
"Sorry," he muttered after a few seconds.
"Do you want help getting to a bathroom?"
"No - it's over now. Something I ate set me off - it's a common occurrence," the teen replied with a dismissive wave.
Something in that statement caught Yassen's attention, and the teen couldn't hide his fidgeting under the renewed scrutiny.
"Do you know why it's been happening?"
(He could guess, but - for once - he hoped he was wrong.)
"I get stomach pains that last a week four times a year, so I'm presuming it's a progression from that. It always starts the day after my uncle brings me to a set of doctors," the teen replied, standing up.
Being sick had obviously made him forget who he was supposed to be - Sir David and Lady Caroline Friend were both only children.
Notwithstanding that, Yassen had recognised him at first sight.
And had had his suspicions confirmed.
"John would have killed them for that," he murmured, knowing Alex (for who else would look like Hunter?) would hear.
Sure enough, the teen almost got a crick in his neck due to how fast he looked up.
"You - who's John?" Alex asked, trying to cover up his verbal stumble.
His eyes gave him away. Too many emotions were in them for anything other than a thirst for information.
"I know who you are, Alex Rider. Your father… taught me what I know, and you look too similar to him for it to be a coincidence," Yassen deflected.
The teen wouldn't come with him if given the truth about his father, which he found… displeased him.
If they ever got to the point when the teen trusted him, and they were still alive, he would tell Alex everything.
For now…
"Were you with him in the Paras?" was the next question, the vomit dripping down the wall forgotten in the quest for information.
"No, but we were in a similar industry. For now, I'm getting you out of here before that becomes obvious," Yassen said, already calculating what needed to be done to make it possible.
Kill the clone.
Give the Board a reason to keep their attention off him and his activities for the next few months.
Make Blunt and Jones believe Alex was dead (or, at least, been taken by someone other than SCORPIA).
Find a safe place to settle.
Acquire a sufficiently discreet medical practitioner - preferably a-
"Wha- no! I can't! What about- why? Before what becomes obvious? Who even are you?" the teen denied, backing up a step.
"You have to, now - this conversation is likely being recorded, and your cover is blown. If my… employers know about this, we'll be… painfully removed. Blunt can - and will - find another agent to send in your stead if you go missing, so there is no need for you to be here… why you were sent in the first place is beyond me. Spying is for adults, and you aren't one yet. Your medical condition will soon be obvious to everyone - it's already changing you. I can assure you that you do not need the increased scrutiny the Department would put you under if Blunt became aware of it," Yassen responded. He hesitated for a second, considering the options.
"My name is Yasha."
(The weight on his shoulders eased incrementally.)
(Always hiding. A line from that obnoxious film the daughter of one of his clients had insisted on watching repeatedly kept floating through his mind—conceal, don't feel. He hated the song, especially how catchy it was, but the sentiment wouldn't leave him alone.)
(He also hated that he knew the lyrics in multiple languages.)
Alex scoffed.
"You think I want to be here? He told me it was either work for them or Jack would be deported, and I'd be put into foster care. I didn't have a choice!"
He blinked.
That explained things.
"If you were to "disappear", they would have no reason to threaten… Jack. Come with me - I will help you. I know what you're suffering from, but I can't tell you here - anyone could be listening in. I will tell you when we are far away from here," he entreated.
(For the first time in a decade trying to persuade someone to do something without threats, Yassen thought he wasn't doing too bad.)
"But-"
(Maybe not.)
"Please," he begged
Yassen blinked.
He'd begged.
He was losing his touch.
"Ok."
(He did not silently sigh with relief.)
"How are we getting out?" Alex asked.
"Leave that to me."
When they eventually reached a house in the countryside (they had flown for an hour, stolen multiple cars and driven for varying lengths to arrive here), Yasha cooked them dinner - a simple beef stew that Alex devoured, returning for seconds.
He knew he should stop eating so much - he was becoming fat - but he couldn't stop.
When they had sat down to their first dinner together, Lady Caroline had commented with amusement, "If you weren't a boy, I'd think you're pregnant".
(She hadn't been as amused when he'd shouted at her before storming out of the dining room.)
(Nor had she been amused when, the following morning, she caught him badgering the staff into making him pickles and apple slices dipped in ice cream.)
(He'd been hungry, dammit.)
When they finished eating, Yasha removed a laptop from his bag and appeared to start working after typing a frighteningly long password (Alex stopped counting after fourteen taps).
He stood up, grabbing the dishes to wash them, but stopped when a hand grabbed his wrist.
"Leave them for now. There's a document I have to read. You will also have to read it if my hunch is correct."
He shrugged, put the plates down and retook his seat.
A few minutes later, the older man said something in (what he reckoned was) Russian. Judging by the tone, it wasn't a compliment - a thought that caused an unpleasant feeling to settle in his stomach (it could have been the food either. Anything was possible).
"I assume your hunch was correct."
In response, the laptop was spun around, showing a PDF of something that looked like a research paper. Alex leaned forward, looking for the title.
Growing A Uterus In Human Males And The Consequences, Symptoms Effects Of The Procedure
Alex blinked, looking at the man.
"I thought you were giving me something serious - is this a joke?"
"Read it," Yasha repeated, rubbing a hand over his smooth face.
With nothing else to do, he did.
Human experimentation… utero masculus… The subject is to be injected with a course of hormones every three months… the subject gets cramps in the abdominal region that last a week… subject has grown a womb… subject produces eggs, which will be removed during every visit so the subject doesn't menstruate... Unlike when the same treatment is given to rats, the human subject did not develop sufficient reproductive organs for a successful birth… foetus would have to be delivered by caesarean section… recommend impregnating the subject by artificial insemination when the subject is twenty, to allow the body to have developed fully and adjust to the changes pregnancy will cause … the subject's guardian has been told to dissuade the subject from engaging in homosexual relationships… the subject's guardian said it won't be necessary due to the subject being "straight as an arrow"... the subject's guardian entered in a huff… said the subject "came out" to him…
With his stomach feeling like it was twisted in a knot, hand unconsciously rising to rub the paunch from his slight weight gain, he scrolled down to the bottom of the page.
Signature of subject: N/A (Subject is under 18)
Signature of subject's guardian: Ian Rider
Overseeing Agent's signature: Ian Rider
Alex looked up, locking eyes with Yasha. The older man, who hadn't appeared unruffled by anything (even when he'd almost vomited on the man, his tone would give the impression that was a regular occurrence), looked slightly concerned.
"I… I'm… I'm preg… pregnant?"
A slow nod was his only response, the worry growing on the other's face.
"There is a high chance, especially with the experiment your uncle allowed to be conducted on you. It would explain your vomiting, weight gain and any abrupt mood swings you may have experienced."
He nodded slowly, his head feeling lighter than air.
The world sped up suddenly, everything tilting to the side. A pair of calloused hands grabbed him, slowing the world down as his head was placed on something comfortable.
Oh, he thought woozily, I fell.
His vision went dark a second later.
Having zero previous experience with pregnancy left him with nothing to compare Alex's to.
He heard the odd complaint from women he'd passed in various countries - swollen ankles, morning sickness, strange cravings, mood swings, an increased frequency of trips to the toilet - so he had an idea of what to expect.
Unfortunately, it didn't help Yassen help the teen.
(Or himself.)
How to navigate through conversations when a question like "Would you like me to buy you new clothes?" when Yassen had been about to go shopping resulted in having to dodge household items being thrown at him by an angry teen who'd construed it as a comment on his weight.
How to cope with having his sleep interrupted by his new house guest getting up multiple times at night to go to the bathroom.
How to not react when Alex would request sautéd apple slices covered in hot sauce.
(He'd tried one, wondering what the fuss was about.)
(If a pregnant person was willing to eat it, it had to taste better than it sounded.)
(It tasted worse.)
He had briefly considered, less than a fortnight after moving into the safehouse, leaving a leaflet for an abortion clinic on the table (under his awkward instructions, Alex had been able to determine that he did not have a vagina. After researching the options available, Yassen discovered that caesarean births had a maternal mortality rate of 0.00013% - vaginal births "only" had 0.00004%.) (3)
(Since there were no reported cases of men giving birth - he was not including that movie about the male scientist who stuck an egg inside himself to test a fertility drug (4) - there was a high chance of complications.)
He had gotten rid of that idea upon remembering the clothing debacle.
Alex had quickly grown attached to the foetus inside him (once he'd gone through six weeks of being horrified, terrified, and homicidal in turn - thankfully, the murderous tendencies were directed towards those who'd put him through the process needed to become pregnant, rather than the result), regularly talking to his growing bump, hand unconsciously caressing it…
Yassen decided not to rock the boat.
He was getting old, after all, and he wouldn't want to be put into early retirement due to an injury caused by being hit by an irate, pregnant Alex - who'd taken to staring at him when the teen thought he wouldn't notice.
Instead, he read anything he could find on pregnancy and caring for newborns (the former might help him understand what the teen might be going through; the latter would hopefully be helpful if he was allowed to look after the baby).
Asking for the identity of the second parent hadn't done them any good.
"Even if I could remember his face or name, he can't be involved," Alex had (correctly) pointed out, "He won't believe me. At best, he'd think I adopted a child (or had one from an affair with a random girl) and wanted to raise it with him. At worst, he'd talk, and word might get back to Blunt. I am not letting him near my baby."
Looking at him, one arm protectively covering his stomach, Yassen had made a mental note to not even think about causing harm to the child when it was born.
"The… occasion that… led to this - was it… consensual?" Yassen had enquired, fighting his rising bile, hoping the teen hadn't had his first time taken from him (like him). He'd gestured at the bump in response to the confused look he received.
"You're asking… no. I mean, yes! I consented, Yasha. He didn't rape me," Alex had replied, blushing.
Somehow, while trying to care for a pregnant teenage boy (and that was something he never thought he'd have to do. The "care for a pregnant person" part, irrespective of their gender), Yassen had found time to return to Point Blanc and kill the eighth clone.
"Julius" would cause Alex no problems in the future.
On the contrary, he'd helped sell the narrative to Blunt and Jones that Alex had been discovered spying and was killed.
Of course, they were suspicious that three of their agents (conveniently ignoring that one of their "agents" was there under threat of blackmail) had all died on the same mission, but that had been bound to happen.
"The operation is ruined," he'd told the Board on the encrypted line, "The Department is suspicious that three of their agents have died since they started investigating Greif. I am willing to clean up - there might be links between us and him."
Yassen had forced himself to sit, awaiting their decision.
Anything else would have raised suspicions and led them to take a closer look at him, likely discovering Alex's condition.
He found that he didn't like the mental image of the pregnant teen, strapped to Dr Three's lab table, going through labour under the Chinese man's clinical gaze.
(He'd be made to watch the Doctor dissect the child after its birth. Watch its - mother? father? - parent be dissected in turn.)
"Proceed," the robotic voice had ordered, the call ending seconds later.
He'd looked for Alex, finding him asleep on the couch, and, after covering the teen with a blanket, had walked out the door to begin.
Somehow, they'd never talked about how Yasha had known his father.
He looked too young to have been in the Paras at the same time - unless his father had been an instructor.
No. That couldn't be it - Yasha would have joined the Spetsnaz, not the Paras.
Maybe they'd met at a military event - except he'd mentioned he left Russia for the first time when he was 19, and he knew his father had been dishonourably discharged before then.
Alex knew he should give up when he ran out of possible theories from the (limited) available information. But his mind wouldn't leave it—wouldn't leave Yasha—alone.
Regardless of how they'd known each other, the Russian was looking after his baby (and him).
That was all that mattered.
He didn't seem to work much, though the man was frequently on his laptop (perhaps he worked freelance?).
He also put up with a lot from Alex, who tended to cry at nothing.
Or get angry about stupid stuff.
He would apologise once he calmed down, and Yasha wouldn't bring it up after.
(Though he had noticed the Russian sometimes approached him like he was a predator.)
(Reluctantly, while ensuring there were escape routes nearby.)
Alex was amused that a charismatic man who had survived so much was yet cautious of little pregnant ol' him. Thanks to his small bladder they'd had to share the bathroom on occasion. He'd gotten a real eyeful when the man had been showering. He had never seen anyone with scars like that—or a physique like that, his traitorous mind supplied.
On other days, he wanted the man to fear him.
(Yes, it was nice of him to not-so-subtly leave leaflets comparing the various birthing options around the house, but they were useless since he wasn't a woman!)
It depended on how much sleep the little one had let him get the night before (very little, usually).
As the baby grew, he couldn't move around as quickly. Swollen ankles, sore back… they conspired to leave him seated on the couch for most of the day, and he quickly grew bored.
Yasha earned his eternal gratitude after his offer of foot rubs.
If whatever career he was in didn't pan out at some point, the Russian had a bright future as a masseur.
They both panicked when the Braxton Hicks contractions started at 29 weeks of pregnancy but were relieved when they stopped a few minutes later.
That seemed to be when it fully sank in for both of them.
He was going to have to give birth to a child!
Without a vagina!
He didn't - and didn't want to - think about whether his anus could dilate enough (or if it could dilate at all), or whether it had the necessary muscles, to push a baby out, so he finally decided on delivery by caesarean section.
Yasha selflessly spent the next two days speaking on the phone to various people in French, Spanish, German, English, what he presumed was Russian, and a few others Alex didn't recognise, looking for someone to perform the C-section.
When the man had found someone that met his criteria (why would it matter if they had any family members working in Italy?), he'd booked the woman into the "nearby" (an hour's drive away) hotel for two months or Alex went into labour, whichever came first.
When the morning began with Alex swearing through another Braxton Hicks, he knew it wouldn't be a good day.
There was something almost… domestic about their situation. Living together gave them a lot of time to learn each other's habits and live with them. He'd forgone eggs for a while when he noticed their scent sent the then five-months-pregnant boy running for the bathroom. In turn, they didn't speak for the first hour of the morning while Yassen read the newspapers he subscribed to (under false names, of course - he wasn't a novice).
One thing he'd picked up on was the effects of Braxton Hicks on the teen's mood. He'd be snappy and fidget excessively, and it would throw his appetite off for the rest of the day - either scarfing everything in sight or barely picking at a slice of toast.
Yassen shut his eyes for longer than average on his next blink, the only sign of his weariness.
Alex was overdue.
Three days, admittedly, but it felt like three weeks.
(He wouldn't tell the teen, but the contents of the shed attached to the house had been moved to one of his storage facilities and the shed was now full of items he'd ordered for the child.)
(Moses basket, bottles, boxes of baby formula, nappies, a changing table, a few parenting books, a pram, baby carrier, baby toys and clothes, soothers…)
(He may have gone overboard, but he could afford it.)
Though Alex (bitingly) insisted that he was going through another round of Braxton Hicks, he had his doubts. The pregnant teen couldn't seem to settle, rising to his feet, pacing, going to the toilet, rubbing his stomach and sitting back down. Yassen may have dropped the subject (he didn't want to deal with another flare up in pregnancy hormones), but he was thinking about the unsettling implications.
Yassen's patience was wearing thin when it had continued until after the teen had picked at his lunch (an apple) and was making biting remarks about how uncomfortable the sofa was.
It isn't Alex's fault, he tried to tell himself, that his uncle signed him up to be experimented on. He might be in immense pain. It's never been done before, and nobody knows what long-term effects this might have on him.
That only worked for so long, and he was becoming irritated once after another glance at the clock told him it was still 15:21.
"There are no more in the house," Yassen replied to the latest demand for more cushions, "- you already have them all."
"Then get some more," the irritating teen snapped, shifting around on the sofa, bulging stomach looking like it would burst.
"I am not a miracle worker - I can't make new ones appear from thin air, and I don't want to leave you alone while I drive to the shop to buy more."
"I'm pregnant, not helpless - I'll survive until you return with more pillows!" Alex yelled, head tilting insistently towards the door.
"Knowing you, I'd return to find you dead after something gave out as your body tried and failed to give birth."
""Knowing me?" You don't know a thing about me!" the teen yelled, annoyance visibly turning to anger as he tried to sit forward, his pregnant stomach getting in the way, "The only one who does is Ian."
"Ian," Yassen scoffed, his patience almost getting a bullet to the head, "must have known you very well, especially with all the information those "scientists" gave him as they injected you with hormones to make you grow a womb. He probably knew you as well as you didn't know him - otherwise, you wouldn't have been surprised that he could do it."
"Maybe I didn't," Alex grudgingly admitted in his anger, lying back on the sofa, "but he was the only family I had left."
"Alex, he is dead and the reason for your current situation. Without him, your drunken fumble at the party now would be forgotten. He is no longer your family - he or she-" he gestured to the other's distended stomach "-is the only family you need to worry about."
"Get out!" Alex growled, wincing as another Braxton chose that moment to hit him, "We'll agree to disagree, but for now, I want you out! Stress isn't good for the baby, and everything is already against me - I won't make things harder for us by arguing with you when I'm overdue."
Yassen hesitated, irritation fading as he noticed the hand on the teen's stomach, but walked outside after a finger was pointed at the door.
Spurred by… something, he started running, randomly picking a direction after checking the property boundary. Yassen fell into a mile-covering pace, thoughts fading into the background at the familiar action.
He ran without destination, pace or goal in mind, thoughts beginning to intrude despite his best efforts.
He might have blown it.
Alex might not want him involved with the baby.
He certainly wouldn't be allowed if Alex found out he'd killed Ian.
Yassen wouldn't blame him.
His life had been a series of choices that kept him alive at the expense of others; suffering.
He shouldn't expect this to be any different.
He stopped abruptly, annoyed that his thoughts hadn't gone away, and what he'd done in his attempt to get them in order.
The teen would depend on him: Alex wouldn't be able to run for four months after the c-section and would need him to be in peak condition if someone attempted to harm him or the child.
And what had he done? Ran away like a засранец, (5) leaving them alone when he could go into labour at any time.
Silently berating himself, Yassen turned around and jogged back to the house.
He'd let Alex dictate how close he was allowed, when he'd leave and what (if any) relationship he was allowed to have with the child.
He stopped jogging at 16:34 and slightly over a quarter of a mile from the house, fading into the trees at the side of the driveway as his ears picked up a faint sound.
It was… someone… male… in pain, and it seemed to be coming from the house.
Блядь! (6)
Yassen had heard a lot of people scream in pain before.
Since he'd never heard someone screaming in labour, he didn't know whether Alex had been found and was slowly being tortured or had gone into labour in the intervening hour.
Before he could decide, it faded, replaced by someone screeching at the top of their lungs.
Hoping he was making the correct decision, he sprinted towards the house, leaving his gun in its holster.
Note to self, he thought faintly, that is what someone in labour sounds like.
When he burst in the door, he'd been greeted with the sight of Alex on all fours on the ground, legs spread and moaning as his body twisted, trying to relieve the pain of the contractions he was going through.
Yassen… hesitated. He knew he had to call the midwife and give her their location so she could perform her job.
If he didn't, the teen, baby, or both could die if the unborn infant tried to exit through the anal passage.
He'd probably been in labour since the morning, an idle thought floated through his mind, so he's going on seven and a half hours. If he tries to push the child out soon…
The teen's latest cry served to snap him out of his fugue, sending his hand shooting for the phone on the table. He unlocked it, opening the app he used to message, quickly typing out the coordinates for the house and hitting send.
Job done, he discarded it, falling to his knees beside the panting teenager.
"You're back," Alex panted, red-faced, "I yelled your name for ages. Why'd you take so long?"
Thinking that "I went for a run and only came back a minute ago" wasn't the best answer, Yassen squeezed his hand instead.
"I'm sorry I left - I thought it was what you wanted. I'm here now."
Alex's reply was lost in favour of yelling as another contraction wracked his body. The teen's hand squeezed his in a death grip.
If it had been in any other circumstance, he would have been impressed by the strength of the grip. As it was, he discreetly shook it out once his hand was freed.
Yassen stayed by his side while they waited for Amanda, helping Alex sit, stand, kneel and walk as needed.
He only left when the sound of a vehicle coming up the lane reached his ears, looking out the window and his hand grasping the gun in its holster (concealed from sight by his body position). Some of the tension left him when he saw the midwife he'd arranged for leap out of the car and hurry towards the house.
"When was the last time Alex ate?" she asked, laying out her equipment.
"He had a small bit of an apple around four hours ago."
"Unfortunately, we don't have time to do blood tests, so I won't be able to determine whether the… new parent is anaemic - unless you know?"
Yassen blinked, remembering the file on "Alex Friend" he had read in Point Blanc.
"Alex is type A (8) and has slightly high iron levels."
"That will be helpful. It would be easiest to do this on a flat surface - the bed? Also, pull his top up - enough to expose his stomach," Amanda ordered, pulling out the general anaesthetic, antiseptic, medical-grade sterile cloth and compression socks.
He grabbed and pulled the compression socks up Alex's legs (he was in the middle of a contraction when the socks were put on, so he didn't notice). He looked away when he saw the catheter and accompanying bag, rubbing the teen's back as he went through another contraction.
"I'm sorry, Alex, but under the circumstances, I'll have to put you under general anaesthetic. You will sleep through your child's birth, but your partner will be watching over you and the baby until you wake up," Amanda declared apologetically after she'd set up the mask, placing it over his mouth.
Yassen watched as Alex's eyes latched onto his face, looking panicked. He tried to make his face look reassuring but wasn't sure how successful he was.
Regardless, he was unconscious within a minute, and the midwife began.
The caesarean section only took fifty minutes, though he wasn't aware of anything after the first ten minutes. The midwife gave the baby to him, giving him precise instructions on how to clean and check the newborn while she finished the procedure.
He'd heard of the phrase "love at first sight" before, dismissing it as trite nonsense.
As Yassen looked down at the infant held against his chest ("Babies need skin-to-skin contact after birth. Since Alex can't, it's your job to provide it."), he admitted he was wrong.
Even if Alex never let him near them again, he would kill - die - for this innocent child without a second thought.
Alex slowly blinked as his body woke up. His head seemed fuzzy, and something felt different. He went to sit up, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him.
"Don't sit up or try to move. You could hurt yourself."
He slowly turned his head, searching for the voice.
It took him longer than it should to focus on Yasha, who was sitting …bare-chested?... on a chair beside the bed, holding something…
His hand shot towards his stomach, panic briefly overwhelming him when it felt different.
"Where-?"
"She's here," the Russian said, smiling softly at the child held against his chest.
His breath caught when the man stood up. The picture presented in that split second - a handsome, shirtless older man smiling at his daughter before putting her in Alex's arms sent a bolt of inappropriate lust (down, boy - you just woke up after having a c-section. Now is not the time!) through him.
As the Russian pulled away after ensuring he had a proper hold on her, he quickly arched his neck up, pressing a quick kiss to the other's mouth.
Immediately, he knew he shouldn't have done it. Yasha froze before stepping back, showing as much sign of life as a corpse.
"Shit! I'm sorry - I shouldn't have - it was just you - and you were holding her - and you looked so in love with her - I'm sorry - I'll leave as soon as I can move-"
"No - it's not you… it's… I'm - I've never… enjoyed… doing that… sort of thing," the older man stuttered, looking more uncomfortable than he'd ever seen the man.
It took his brain a while to parse together the sentence, longer still to understand what the Russian meant.
"You're… asexual?" Alex questioned, watching Yasha nod jerkily in response.
He turned that over in his head, checking what his reaction to that was.
Not much.
"If I didn't have any issues with that, would you be willing to be in a relationship with me?" he asked hopefully.
"Why - don't you understand what you'd be giving up? I - I will never want to have sex with you. The thought alone is…" the Russian insisted, head snapping up and a shiver wracking the man's body at the end of his declaration.
"So? I can still wank - or, if I'm desperate, there are shops where I can buy… "adult toys"... for myself. Besides - that could be a good thing if the womb sticks around," Alex responded, gesturing towards his stomach, "you'd just have to make sure and tell me if I did something that made you feel uncomfortable. We're adults - well, I'm almost one - we can try a relationship for… a year? If one of us isn't comfortable, then we end it, with no hard feelings. We can, of course, end it sooner if needed."
Yasha looked at him. Something that might have been longing crossed the older man's face as he looked at them lying in the bed.
"Ok."
There was a knock on the door before he could respond, the older man moving quicker than Alex expected to open the door, letting Amanda in.
"Ah - excellent, you're awake!" the midwife said, smiling. "How are you feeling? Any pain?"
"No, thankfully."
They watched the woman as she checked the infant held against his chest, Yasha hovering nearby. She wrote a few things on her form before looking up.
"Is the baby ok?" the Russian asked for both of them, as he was looking down at his slightly fussing daughter.
"Despite the circumstances of her birth, there doesn't seem to be anything wrong. She is flourishing - 3.5 kilograms is a healthy weight for a newborn, and Alex, thankfully, hasn't had any complications. He shouldn't do anything strenuous for six weeks and slowly ease back into other forms of exercise over the following months. Common convention says that breastmilk is best for newborns, but-" she gestured at Alex's breast-less chest, "-that's impossible in this situation. Baby formula is a suitable, readily available alternative. Don't hesitate to call me if you need any more information or require further information."
Yasha nodded, then pulled out a gun.
"NO!" he yelled, stopping the older man from pointing the gun at Amanda's forehead.
"Yasha, what are you doing?! Why are you going to kill her?" he asked, his newborn daughter cradled protectively in his arms.
"Making sure no one finds out about you giving birth," Yasha responded, not looking away from Amanda's rapidly paling face.
"That doesn't mean you need to kill her!"
"What if she talks?" the Russian snapped, turning to look at him (Alex noticed that the gun was steady, even with his attention divided), "What if word gets back to the people who did this to you that you successfully carried a child to term? Gave birth to a healthy child? They would take our daughter away and run more tests on both of you. I can't let that happen, Alex. Dead men - or women, in this case - tell no tales."
"I - I won't tell," the midwife sputtered, unwisely drawing the older man's attention back to her, "Alex might have complications further down the line - male bodies aren't biologically made to carry a foetus to term. Since I already know, I'd be the logical person to come to, and you wouldn't have to risk telling anyone else. Besides, I won't help people who break the Hippocratic Oath, especially those engaging in unethical human experimentation on minors."
From his view of both adults, he saw Yasha slowly raise his brow, unconvinced. Alex moved slowly, trying to find a more comfortable position, and prepared himself for the fight of his life.
Amanda would die if he failed.
Thankfully, his pleading and arguments resulted in Amanda walking out the door (face pale as a ghost after the Russian whispered something in her ear, expression fierce). He only sat back down on the bedside chair when he was satisfied she had left.
"Look - I've figured out that you were in the military or something similar, and I'm glad you decided to stick around. That doesn't give you an excuse to point your gun at anyone you want," Alex declared, looking up at the older man, "and we're going to need baby formula… nappies… a cot…"
"Alex-" Yasha started speaking but was railroaded by the teen's panicked thoughts.
"Oh God, what if she dies of hunger while we're trying to find baby formula?"
"Alex, listen-".
"Clothes! She'll grow out of them so fast - how am I going to be able to afford it?"
"Alex, if you'd let me finish-".
"I'm a single parent! I won't be able to get a job-".
"Alex!" Yasha raised his voice, snapping him out of his negative spiral. He smiled apologetically.
"You don't have to worry about any of that. I… hope you don't think I was being presumptuous, but… the shed in the garden may have… most of the things she'll need for a while - I… bought a large amount of baby supplies a few months ago…" the Russian trailed off.
He looked at the older man, a wave of fondness sweeping through him.
"You want to be part of her life," he realised, smiling as he looked at his daughter, "and don't try to deny it - I heard you call her "our daughter" when the midwife was here."
"I hoped - hope - that you would… allow me to see her semi-frequently. Everything will, of course, be up to you. Even if you tell me to leave right now, I changed the house deeds to be in your name, so do not feel obligated to do more than you want," Yasha stated, looking him straight in the face.
"Of course, you'll be allowed to see her - you're living in the same house as us," Alex declared with a grin.
A lot of tension left the older man as he relaxed into the chair.
"Have you decided on a name for her?"
"I was thinking of Dorea Yulianna Beckett. (10) I want to disassociate her from the Rider name and those that would try to use her against me."
"What made you think of Yulianna?" Yasha asked.
"You, actually," Alex replied, "I was looking into possible Russian names - I considered Svetlana, but-"
"Please don't," the Russian implored, shuddering, "that name brings back… bad memories."
"I won't," he promised, curious as to what the man would consider "bad memories", but pushed it aside in favour of more immediate concerns.
"Could you move some of the baby stuff into the house? We're going to be needing it soon."
"Of course," the older man said, standing up.
"Wait!"
The Russian stopped, eyebrow rising inquisitively.
"I know kissing makes you uncomfortable, but are you ok with me holding your hand?"
"Probably," Yasha mused after a while, "though it's been a while since someone last held my hand, so I could be wrong."
Alex tentatively reached out, grasping his hand. It was warm, with clean, filed nails and calluses on both hands (though there were slightly more on the right one).
When there was no adverse reaction, he stroked the top of the other man's hand with his thumb.
"Thank you," he stated emphatically, "for everything."
"There's no need to thank me," the Russian responded, gently pulling his hand away and walking towards the door, closing it silently behind him.
"There is," he muttered, "every reason to thank you."
Alex looked down at his chest, where his daughter was lying.
"Isn't there, Dorea?"
It was a pity Rider had died, Alan mused, watching their pathologist examine the boy's body; they hadn't had a chance to see if the hormones would allow the male body to carry a foetus to full term.
Tulip stood beside and one step behind him, her silence carrying a pointed edge.
She'd been against involving the boy in the Department in any capacity, protesting despite Ian's permission for both plans.
Of course, he'd probably planned on being around long enough to see them come to fruition, but nobody got everything they wanted.
They'd sold it to the Prime Minister as a way to help win voters over in the LGBT community; a chance for more LQGTBITABCDE (or however the acronym went) couples to give birth to children with the DNA of both parents, and had received full funding approval.
What Blunt hadn't mentioned was who they would be experimenting on.
Or their age.
Or the real reason he wanted to find a drug that would work.
They had been running out of informants in the Middle East who were in a high enough position to give them helpful intel and needed ways to persuade others to take their place.
Bribery always carried the risk of them becoming too greedy, and blackmail only worked if there was something they could use.
So they made it.
The Department's RD wing had calculated that giving an adult a once-off dose of the hormones, twenty times larger than what Rider had received, would be enough to grow a womb.
The Middle East was notoriously antagonistic towards homosexuals…
An injection, allowing one of his agents to have some… fun… with the individual, an offer of sanctuary once his neighbours became hostile as the evidence of his preferences became obvious ("However, we'd need a small favour first…") - they'd be receiving reliable intel in no time-
"Mr Blunt," said the pathologist, interrupting his thoughts.
"How did he die?"
The man, uncharacteristically, hesitated. His gaze sharpened, fixing on the man with laser-like intensity.
"You mentioned that the boy had been receiving experimental treatments to grow a womb and other necessary child-bearing organs?"
Alan continued staring at the man, who didn't appear surprised.
"That, as of the last check-in, ten or eleven months previous, it was successful?"
He blinked.
"I can't speculate on whether something happened in the meantime or if he took something that had a negative effect, but there was nothing there."
"Explain," Tulip ordered.
"I did! The stomach, the small and large intestines, the liver, the spleen, the gallbladder, the pancreas, the kidneys, the ureters and the bladder were all present and in good condition, but there was no sign of the uterus that the study assured me would be there! I can't explain it-"
Alan let the pathologist talk, mind picking apart the possibilities.
Rider could have had it removed (there were no scars consistent with abdominal surgery), lost it (there would be marks on the other organs), or…
He smiled.
It was not a pleasant sight.
Project Gemini.
Clones.
Which meant Rider was alive.
Alan planned on getting him back.
He might as well test out the womb's capabilities himself.
Críochnaithe
(A.N:
This is my first fic featuring asexual characters, and I am grateful to the various people on Discord who answered my questions (no matter how stupid they were).
There will be a sequel.
Eventually.
I just have a few…
*looks in notebook called Ideas I Want To Write A Fic For*
*flicks through the pages*
Make that a lot of ideas I have to get through first.
(1) Russian for "Beautiful Women", according to my beta merlins_basilisk. Not an actual porn mag, but…
(2) A reference to Dolly the sheep, the first animal cloned from an adult somatic cell
(3) "The American College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists (ACOG) estimates there are about four maternal deaths for every 100,000 women after vaginal deliveries compared to 13 in 100,000 after caesareans (though some of these women would have been at higher risk of complications to begin with)."
(4) Junior (1994), starring Arnold Schwarzenegger, Emma Thompson and Danny DeVito
(5) What are the best Russian swear words? :) - Reddit (apparently, it's something parents would call their son, meaning something along the lines of "asshole". Don't quote me on this, though - I saw it in the above-mentioned Reddit thread)
(6) Russian for "fuck!", according to merlins_basilisk
(7) "If it is your first labour, the time from the start of labour to full dilation of the cervix (10 cm) is usually 6 – 12 hours" = Stages of Labour - www.rotunda.ie
(8) Mentioned in "Snakehead"
(9) Any information about c-sections comes from this website: https/www.betterhealth.vic.gov.au/health/healthyliving/caesarean-section
(10) Dorea means "gift", Yulianna means "youthful" or "Jupiter's child", and his mother's maiden name is Beckett.