Chapter Text
Months One and Two
This is an exciting time! Your body is adapting to a living duplicate of YOU! The aftereffects of implantation—hormones, cellular components and their supporting structures, uterus, fertilized embryo—are all safely in the past now! You may feel a little queasy, so take it easy while your body adjusts. Time to start knitting those adorable booties! No need to worry about what color the baby will like—the baby is YOU! You know what you like!
"Can tell you hate this." Robbie set the small empty plastic rubbish bin beside the couch. He raised an inquiring eyebrow at the blanket, legs, and sprawl that presented itself
James moved his long legs from the couch and folded them to his chest, wedging himself into a corner to make room on the couch for Robbie. He felt sweaty, listless, his gut ached. Wiped out from nausea, he tugged the blanket to cover his knees. "I can't read. Can't eat—" He felt his gorge rising.
"—Don’t!"
James pitched forward and threw up into the bin. He hovered above it, spitting. "Fuck."
Robbie handed James a damp paper towel from a stack on the coffee table before sitting on the other end of the couch. “I'll give your stomach time to settle before I--,” he gestured weakly at the container, “—empty that again.”
“I can handle this. You can tell Laura that you checked in and I’m fine.”
Robbie rubbed his chin, the corner of his mouth turning down. "Been out for over a week."
James crossed his arms over his knees. "It's a holiday," he said, darkly. "All fun and games."
"Can see that." Robbie cocked his head. His eyes moved with deliberate slowness over the stack of books on the coffee table before meeting James' eyes. "Light reading. Ethical Dilemmas in Human Cloning." He picked one up, flipping through the pages. "This one had me on the edge of my seat: Who's Afraid of Human Cloning? and Somatic-cell Nuclear Transfer Versus Pluripotent Stem Cell Transfer: Cost Benefit Analysis and Outcomes. Bit outdated, that."
James' eyes narrowed. "You've taken up genomics research in retirement?"
Robbie pursed his lips. "Maybe I'm planning to grow bigger carrots." He continued flipping through the book. Frowned at a page and then looked at James. "And you? This?"
"I have plans." James hated that his voice sounded weak. He stared pointedly at the overnight bag sitting beside his front door and raised an inquiring eyebrow.
"Are these them?" Robbie turned the book and opened and extended page showing the skeletal schematic of the internal growth of the gestational sac for male cloning.
James settled into a slouch, too miserable to feel anything more than a little defensive. "Why are you here?"
"Heard you were having fun without me. Could use some fun." Robbie gave a tiny resigned sigh, setting the book down.
“What?” The sigh caught his attention, but it was the sad frown that pulled him from his misery. James unfolded himself, swinging his legs off the couch nearly knocking over the bin. “What's the matter?” He almost laughed that his immediate reaction was to protect Robbie. As if the man needed him for anything. As if he could help, given his present state.
Robbie picked up the television remote, turning it this way and that. "Sometimes wish these worked in real life."
"And if they did?"
"Rewind. Would've paid more attention to what was on. Maybe wouldn't have been so quick—ah, hell. I'm no good at analogies." He sat back on the couch, pressed his lips together and regarded James. "Laura and I. And I'm to say it was mutual."
"And was it—mutual?"
Robbie cocked his head, disbelieving. "I was a little slow to realize it, but yeah. Thing is, the first time we held hands, she said, 'We're not in step.' Kept trying to be more than friends. Get in step."
James took a deep breath, recalling Laura's voice greeting them as they entered a crime scene: 'Hi, boys. Always marching together despite the lack of uniforms.'
Robbie gestured with the remote dismissively, and thumbed the television power button, but nothing happened. "It’s not working."
"The remote or the relationship?"
"Both." Robbie leaned back against the cushion, not looking at James. "Let's leave it at that. Just thought you should know." He rubbed his mouth. "She thought you might need some help. Gave me a good talking to about this." Robbie waved a hand over the table. "If you want to have a baby, then you should have a baby. Told me I was being a fool to make an issue of it."
James swallowed hard. He thought Laura supported him—they had talked about this endlessly, it seemed. This was a catastrophe.
“See, I don't think you should do this alone." Robbie said in a matter-of-fact tone. He set the remote aside. "And she doesn’t think you should do it at all. She’s worried about the long term effects on your health. We both are.”
“All the more reason to have a replacement, don’t you think?” James quipped, feeling bitterness at the back of his throat, mind still reeling that Robbie and Laura were no longer a couple. "I'm doing this because I want to."
Robbie settled against the other end of the couch. “Are you having a baby? Or spare parts?”
James shot him a look, because that was the problem, wasn’t it? If he was only doing this for ‘spare parts’ no one would give it a second thought. It was expected now that the option was covered by insurance for those in dangerous occupations. Bank some cloned tissue if you were a copper or a fire fighter to cover catastrophic injury.
But the idea that he might actually want a child? Unthinkable.
“I passed the psychological screening for both options." James bent to pick up the bin, eased himself slowly off the couch and carried it down the hall into the bathroom. He came back to the living room exhausted. He wasn't sure if it was the effort getting up or the effort of going against Robbie.
"Having cloned tissue makes sense," he managed.
“You’re not doing that. I know you.”
“I started to." Hathaway sat forward. He thought of the past week, heaving until his back ached and wrestling with his thoughts. "Now, I don’t know. I’ve got another week or so to decide."
"It’s a baby."
"You're very confident, given that it's not your body." Hathaway crossed his arms protectively across his belly. He’d attempted carrying a clone the year before, but no one had known.
It had been one of his first duties as a new inspector. A box to be ticked. Bank cloned tissue. Everyone signed up.
He was surprised when he was notified that based on his test results he would be allowed to carry a clone to term if he wished. A congratulatory package of materials appeared on his doorstep, including a copy of What to Expect When You're Expecting Your Clone and a yellow baby shirt that exclaimed: "I'm YOU!"
Improvements in technology had made the vast majority of clone pregnancies uneventful. He was stunned by his reaction when the implant failed. Somehow—in his mind—he caused it to fail. Logically it shouldn't matter if a few implanted cells weren't viable enough to continue. Or if he chose to terminate. It was his body, after all, and his right to choose. The literature suggested he shouldn't even care since he could get pregnant again. And again. And again. But the fact that the choice was taken from him was devastating. Was it something he ate? Did he somehow jar it loose while chasing a suspect? Was it from drinking tonic water instead of beer? Stress? The alignment of planets? He kept wondering what he did wrong.
And he wondered why it affected him so profoundly.
He wondered why he kept the tiny yellow shirt tucked in his sock drawer, visible on a daily basis, a constant reminder of his failure.
So maybe the desire to try again was Robbie's fault. Maybe it was seeing Robbie and Laura settled. Happy. Well, mostly happy. Because Robbie longed to be with his family. Grandson Jack was into the stage where being with Granddad wasn't the thrill it once was. The days of paddling that canoe were long past. And Robbie wasn't shy about telling Lyn he was hoping for another grandchild. Laura had cautioned him more than once, but he persisted in needling his daughter.
Robbie persisted, too, in advising James to 'find someone' because he said he couldn't bear to see James alone in the world with no one to look after him.
"I have you," James had said dryly.
"Right. But when I'm gone, who will be there for you then?" Robbie's mouth turned down.
"You'll never leave me." James smirked, first trying to make a joke and then trying to ignore the way Robbie accepted this statement as a fundamental truth.
"Not willingly." Robbie shot him a look. "You shouldn't be alone, James."
James had been convinced of wedding bells in the near future for Robbie and Laura. He'd been happy for them. But for him, it was as if the sound of some secret hope had faded in the distance, silenced forever.
Robbie was right. He shouldn't be alone. Had never wanted to be alone, if he was honest with himself.
And it struck him that if he had a baby, he'd have Robbie and Laura, too. He'd have a family.
It was a romantic cliché, getting pregnant to nab the man of your dreams.
Except that he wanted to be pregnant. And the man of his dreams was already taken.
So he'd have a baby.
It would solve his problem of being alone. As the adverts said, "If you have a clone, you're never alone." First he looked into adoption only to be dismissed because he had no partner. The more he thought about having a partner—other than Robbie—the more he thought of having a clone.
Having a surrogate grandchild would make Robbie happy; he'd certainly think twice about leaving Oxford if there was a little Hathaway to bounce on his knee. If Robbie was happy, then Laura would be happy because they wouldn't have to move to Manchester.
It had all the makings of a perfect solution except for one small problem.
He'd have to have that baby.
He liked children. Always had. And he was good with them, too, especially teens. Robbie had once joked that he was good with children because he was a child once himself. Did that make him childlike or childish? Most of the time he naively believed that people were fundamentally good or that truth and justice would prevail. Sometimes he surprised himself with his immaturity—desiring to pound a suspect in the interview room or discounting a young suspect because they shared the same taste in graphic novels.
Because he was destined for the priesthood, though, he'd never given any thought to having children of his own. It wasn't prudent to show too much interest in kids as a single young man, he'd found.
The more he thought about having a child of his own, the more he noticed children around him.
Everywhere he looked—babies. Sweet faced, sticky fingered, drooling babies. Wide eyes, toothless grins, baby hands, tiny feet. Chubby cheeks and dimpled knees. Oh, and that moment before they started to wail--pouty mouths and devastated eyes raw with need-- it was all he could do not to pick up and comfort a stranger’s child. He made a point of smiling at them to see if they smiled back. And they did. It was the sweetest communication imaginable—acceptance without reservation, conditions, or judgment.
He took some time and arranged for the implant. Confided to Hooper while pouring coffee, confident that within the hour everyone in the station would know he was banking tissue as part of the insurance plan.
No one's business if he decided to quietly miss his 'tissue deposit' date. And the next available date. And the next. He'd been busy. He'd been on a case. He had Things To Do.
He'd been at Waterstones looking at children's books.
So James--eight weeks in—was having a baby. His baby. All on his own. It was a miracle.
Like seeing the man sitting next to him 'for the duration' was a miracle.
James hadn’t moved from the couch except to vomit, drink water, and vomit some more. Morning sickness was a misnomer—it lasted all day. He was heaving so hard at times that his ribs ached. Smells set him off, sounds made his ears ring. These were good signs, his doctor insisted. It meant the embryo had attached successfully to the womb-like superstructure implanted weeks before.
Helluva way to celebrate, James thought as he threw up, feeling sorry for himself. Obviously he was hormonal—it was in the packet. He felt pathetic and weak as a kitten. Speaking of which—
"You brought Monty for a visit?"
Robbie stroked the cat where he settled between them. "He goes where I go."
"Thought that was me."
"The two of you."
"Laura did not make you leave."
"Daft sod, of course she didn't make me leave." Robbie picked up the remote again and handed it to James. “Came of my own accord. His carrier's on the porch. Thought if you didn't want me here, I could go to a hotel. But I can't take my cat."
"You're not going anywhere."
"Thanks, man. Watch some telly. I’ll lay in some weak tea and biscuits.”
James shook his head slightly, taking in the solid presence of the man sitting on the other end of his couch.
Robbie sighed. Glanced at the floor, and admitted, "Laura told me to come. Ran into Jean Innocent and she told me to come. But it was your bloody sergeant that forced me to come over here."
"Lizzie misses me?" James said incredulously.
"Ah, hell no. She wants to make sure you stay at home. 'I've got it all under control. Tell him to take his time.' You need better control of your sergeant."
"Well, you would know." James lay back against the cushions. He tapped the remote on his thigh absently. Couldn't think of a single relevant thing to say.
"Nothing clever comes to mind?" Robbie put his hand on James' shoulder, startling the cat, who jumped to the floor.
Damn the man for reading my mind. James gave him a speculative look, but said nothing, afraid that if he opened his mouth he'd either throw up or say something to drive Robbie away.
“Right. Maybe I'll get something herbal for breakfast.”
“I can’t eat breakfast.”
“Maybe you can’t, but I can.” Robbie got off the couch. “Here for the duration, man. The world needs more Hathaways.”
James gave him a soft half-smile and scooped up the cat.
+++++
Robbie bustled back into the Hathaway’s flat, juggling shopping bags. "Thought you could do with some cheering up," he called from the kitchen.
Hathaway snuffled—what was that smell?--opening bleary eyes to focus on the flowers that Robbie was holding.
“Shit,” gulped James, spattering vomit all over the flowers, the coffee table, and Robbie.
++
“That might have gone better,” Robbie admitted.
“Don’t see how,” James groused. “Unless I was supposed to vomit and then swoon.” He sat on the edge of his bed, freshly showered, wearing a clean t-shirt and soft running shorts. Utterly miserable.
“Drink your tea.”
James stared at the man. “Tea? I’m just going to throw it up. All I do is sweat and hurl. This is my last clean t-shirt.”
“Thought you slept in the nude.” Robbie dragged out the last word and pursed his lips in mock disapproval.
James snorted and settled back against the pillows piled high at head of the bed. He picked up the tea, passing the mug beneath his nose to catch the scent. “Ginger tea,” he said, wonderingly. “My aunt loved ginger tea." He gazed up at Robbie, “Said it settled her stomach.” The corner of his mouth curled up. “Cheers.” He set the cup on the nightstand. “I’m fine. All tucked in. Go home. Laura’s probably worried. Monty can keep me company.”
Robbie sat on the edge of the bed. "Thought I'd kip in your spare room, in case you need me. I made up the fold-away while you were in the shower. I'll just stay till you're feeling better."
The scent of the tea in the close quarters of the bedroom brought back a sudden, intense recollection of his aunt and his mother, having tea while he sat on the floor between them their chairs, playing with blocks.
Tea and companionship.
Odd, that. Didn't usually think of his family. Never anything positive, at any rate.
Robbie rubbed the back of his neck and stretched. “Can’t say it hasn’t been a day. It has.” He stifled a yawn. “Between you and the murder case we caught—“
“—A murder?” James said, picking up his cup and sipping his tea.
Robbie had sponged the worst of the vomit off his trousers and shoes, and was letting his clothes dry in the bath. He was wearing a pair of Hathaway’s track bottoms that dragged on the floor and an old concert t-shirt. “Think I could do with a shower?”
“No. What case?”
“Would it bother you if I had one of the beers I bought?” Robbie left the bedroom.
“Yeah, since I can’t drink one too.” James called after him. “What case?”
Robbie returned with a beer in one hand and plain buttered toast on a plate in the other. The toast was cut into triangles. “Just a bite. And I’ll tell you about the case.” He sat up against the headboard beside James.
Monty jumped onto the bed to nose the plate.
James eyed the toast, dubious. "I'll throw up again."
Robbie smiled slightly, offering the plate and shooing the cat to the end of the bed. “Savor my culinary expertise before you do.”
"Hand me the bin." James set the bin next to the bin. He took a sandwich triangle, nibbled tentatively. “The case, Robbie. Tell me about the case.”