knock up your robots

To say Alan was the black sheep of the family was an understatement. He was more like the rainbow-colored zebra holding a burning American flag who inexplicably got mixed in with the shepherd’s herd. His parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles were all the type of moderate-to-Democrat who loved beige and insisted that unions were a “complicated issue.” Alan’s mom had an actual “live, laugh, love” sign in the bathroom. 

Meanwhile, Alan was a raging polyamorous bisexual trans man with pink hair and pronouns who had literally given birth to a demon. Out of wedlock, no less.

A knock came at the door, and Alan took a breath and opened it. He let it out when he saw who it was.

“Hey,” said his brother. Avery (the only cis Avery, Alan liked to joke) peeked around the corner, voice hushed. “How’s Benny?”

“Oh, I got him down an hour ago. I’m just using him as an excuse to hide up here.”

Avery nodded. “Wise. Well, unfortunately, you’re gonna have to come down. I am literally fighting to the death trying to keep these people from storming up here to see the ‘precious little baby and his daddy.’ I think Aunt Mabel is going to knife me.” He flicked his eyes up and down. “Nice shirt. You look appropriately lame.”

“I look pregnant,” Alan mumbled. “There’s no way everyone doesn’t figure it out immediately, right?” He realized he was unconsciously leaning over, trying to obscure his middle. Even the slight bend made him feel like his organs were in a juicer.

“Listen, I’ve done my part. Your turn now, oh master of disguise.”

“Shut up.”

“No, but, seriously, if anyone’s a dick about it…”

“I’ll send all dicks your way,” Alan said, nodding appreciatively. Alan’s older brother was more or less the only reason Alan had any contact with the family at all. He’d been Alan’s number one support for as long as he could remember, always making it extremely clear that he would take no shit. Mainly through the standard policy of “if you are transphobic/homophobic/fatphobic/an asshole to me and my brother you will never see us or his adorable baby again.”

Which went a long way, but unfortunately it was apparently impossible to keep them from just being fucking weird about it all. Which was why Avery was also the only person here who knew Alan was pregnant again. Including their parents.

Closing the door gently behind him, Alan slipped into the narrow hallway, the sounds of a small crowd bubbling up from downstairs.

“Are Mom and Dad back yet?” Alan asked.

“Nope. I think they’ll be back soon, though.” They’d gone the long round trip to pick up an aunt, and Alan had arrived after they’d left. He would have vastly preferred an awkward airport pickup reveal over seeing them in front of their entire extended family, but here they were.

There was a landing in the middle of the staircase, so stage-like in its position that Avery and Alan used to put on “plays” there as little kids. And there, as Alan walked out on display, the entire crown of relatives looked up. And literally went silent.

Alan took about a half second to think, I thought this shit only happens in movies. He felt his lungs crushed against his spine, pulling his stomach muscles as tight as he could get them, and panicked. He was an idiot, of course they could still tell, of course they would clock it, why else would they be staring—and then he took another half second to remember that most of these people hadn’t seen him since his last pregnancy made him grow fucking demon horns and a tail.

“Alan!” his Aunt Laura cried, flinging her arms wide and somehow not spilling a drop of her wine. She set it down, rushing to hug him at the bottom of the stairs. He tried to act normal, ignoring how his bump pressed into her stomach. Laura tapped a horn. “Wow, these are cute! So is this a new trend? Little horns like these? I always like hearing what you kids are into.”

“Um,” Alan said. “They’re—”

“Alan, my man, come here!” Uncle Reg clapped him on the shoulder and gave him the most repressed masculine man hug Alan had ever experienced. Greeeat. Gender affirmation from Uncle Reg. “How the hell are ya, kid?”

“Don’t call him kid, he’s a mo—I mean, he’s a father now!” Aunt Mabel, Reg’s wife, wormed in, holding a cocktail in a manicured hand with the single most boring bracelet Alan had ever seen around her wrist. “Where’s the baby?”

“He’s asleep,” Alan said.“I’ll have to feed him in a couple hours, maybe I can bring him down—”

He was interrupted by being crushed to death. Once all the air finished exiting his already cramped lungs, his grandmother released him and kissed his cheeks. It was astonishing how old ladies managed to do that in a way that somehow hurt. “Alan, honey! So good to see you. Hair still pink, huh?” She laughed, and then tapped a horn. “Oh, it’s a shame about these, isn’t it. Have you tried clipping them off?”

“Grandma,” Avery said, warning. Before Alan could explain that not only would that probably hurt quite a lot as he could feel them, he also liked them, she put her hands on his shoulders and stepped back.

“Now let me have a look at you.” Alan stood stock still as she gave him a once-over. He stood up straighter, pulling his stomach in enough to feel light-headed. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as he thought, but…oh no, why was she squinting her eyes—

“You look great!” Mabel said, rushing in to cover whatever his grandmother was queuing up.  “I mean, you look more awake than I ever did with a six-month-old. And don’t worry, the baby weight’ll just drop off you eventually. I can show you some exercises I did—”

“So are you… breastfeeding?” Reg jumped in, possibly in response to Avery’s don’t make me give you a three-hour lecture on antifatness look. (He was bigger than Alan, and took no shit about it.) “Or, sorry, I’m supposed to call it chestfeeding, right?”

On the list of things Alan did not want to discuss with a guy who had an actual “man cave” in his basement, breasfeeding and politically correct terminology were probably in the top ten. Yet Reg persisted, with an expression of comedic discomfort. “Must be pretty weird as, you know, as a guy, right?”

“Hah! Look at you, Alan, you still look pregnant!” Yet another voice entered before Alan could respond. The warbling old voice of Alan’s grandfather still managed to drown out anyone else in the room. He laughed, and clapped Alan on the shoulder. “Oh, that is delightful, just like your grandmother. You should have seen her, people thought I’d knocked her up again for nearly a year after your mother was born!”

“Oh, but it wasn’t like this,” his grandmother said, smiling. “I don’t think I ever had a belly like this while I was pregnant!” She laughed, and waved a hand. “Oh, I’m just teasing you, Alan.”

“Oof, imagine!” Reg laughed. “Having another baby right after your first? I would have died. Mostly since Mags would have killed me, hah!”

“Mom. Dad,” Laura said, ignoring her brother, “He does not look pregnant. Everyone has a bit of a belly after giving birth. We don’t body shame, remember?”

“Well, of course he’s got belly some left over, the baby was huge, right? Your dad told me he was eleven pounds! I can’t imagine what you looked like—” Mabel said.

“Oh my god, really?” Laura’s brief enlightenment evaporated, and she turned wide-eyed to Alan. “Eleven? Did you have a c-section?”

At this point Alan was having a bit of trouble following the conversation. Both because everyone kept talking over each other, and because he was starting to feel slightly lightheaded. Boy, he would really love that lung space back. He blinked himself back into focus. “Um, no, I didn’t.”

“Ahh!!” Laura waved her hands, and Mabel clapped a hand to her chest behind her. “Oh, you have to tell me all about it, I love hearing everyone’s birth stories—have I ever told you about how when June was born, she almost—”

The rest of the story (which Alan had absolutely heard before, multiple times, in great detail, while he was preparing to give birth himself, which was just super fun and helpful) was cut off by the sound of a door, a sing-song “helloo-oo!” and a chorus of exclamations. Alan’s parents were home.

In the brief moment of distraction, Avery leaned over. “I’m going to kill our entire family,” he muttered.

“We can take them together,” Alan whispered back. “Except I might pass out first.”

Alan guessed that he had about sixty seconds until his parents rushed over to see their beloved boy. They’d always been clingy, but becoming grandparents had apparently turned their blood into pure sugary mush. He tried not to breathe.

And, of course, everyone just happened to scatter into the perfect position to make a clearing between him and Avery and their parents, so that the first thing they saw when they walked into the room was him, still standing at the foot of the stairs. They entered, looked right at him, and stared.

Alan felt his ears burn. The rest of the family hadn’t seen him, at least not since the early summer when a few had come to meet the newborn. But he’d seen his parents just over a month ago, at Thanksgiving, when he had very plainly not looked like he’d swallowed a watermelon. Just keep holding it in. Do NOT relax. It’s just one night. You don’t have to breathe all the time, you’re just being greedy.

“Oh, Alan!” his mom said, rushing over to hug him, his dad right behind. And, to Alan’s dismay, she looked right down at his belly, as flat as he could possibly get it, and back up at him. “Alan, are you—you’re not—”

“Mom…” he grimaced.

“Alan, are you pregnant again?” his dad asked, loud enough that everyone else in the room fell silent.

Next to him, Avery gave him a look. Sorry, bud.