Title: Something Unpredictable (Prologue/?)
Rating/Warnings: G (for now), Mpreg
Description: Jack finds himself with a 51st century predicament in a 21st century world.
A/N: One thing I love about Torchwood is that mpreg can actually work. I don't know where this crack came from. I read a couple of mpregs over the last few days, and I had it on my mind to write something. I'm going to try and make it slightly different. Let's just see where this goes.
Jack smelt pizza crust above all else. The smell was absolutely dominating his senses, combined with the thick and gooey combination of cheese, pepperoni, and beef. It was also known as Meat Feast, an order that – once just a rather punny joke – was now a Hub staple.
Any other time and he would be wolfing it down. But now, he could barely look at the stuff let alone put it in his mouth. At least, not without crashing toward the toilets in a not-so-graceful manner.
Gwen had already come down with the flu once this season, and although Jack knew he had more than enough immunity to bypass easily contagious viruses, it was a believable story and he was sticking to it. But then, Jack was no imbecile; there was no need to piss on a stick or get probed by Owen to know what his body was set out to do – what it had done centuries in the future, a time when expectant fathers didn't make the headline news.
But even then (in his younger days, that is, before the Doctor, before Torchwood), he had been an experiment, a systematic trial-and-error guinea pig through an agency called LifeSmart Corporations, "Paving Mankind for a Better Future."
Jack was a willing participant since day one. He read the provisions and fine print until he had it memorized like the back of his hand, but less for himself and more for the man he was most attached to at the time, a man not so different from Ianto, actually. He could still remember his name, Kavin, a boy about twenty-six. Kavin was different than other men Jack had wooed. He actually cared about him; one of the few, in retrospect. More than a shag partner, he was a friend, too, and the one who made Jack - the man he once was, the one with a different name - sit down, read, and re-read every pamphlet until his eyes blurred.
Sweet Kavin. Jack knew, even then, he'd make a bloody good father. Jack had also already known the surgical process: a quick, non-intrusive, laser transplant to the lower abdomen fused together by energy and laced with blind hormones, which would activate if the male, in question, was with child.
At the time, Jack was told that his pregnancy would follow the patterns of a normal female, with roughly the exact same gestation and in the same ballpark of thirty-eight to forty weeks. For the first few weeks, he was wired to the gills on a semi-regular basis. Though he could leave the agency and live a normal life, a temporary badge was adorned to (where else?) his gut, monitoring any irregular movement and energy.
The first trimester had been a rollercoaster of emotions and physical sensations. For one, Jack was a complete horn dog, even more so than before. It wasn't necessarily a bad thing, but it became a nuisance at times when all he wanted to do was, say, get the mail. So long as he was still fit to shag… well, shag he did. Day one at the agency, he'd asked if that was all right, if it would hurt the baby, or if the monitoring devices were because they were all "voyeuristic, body tracking kinksters." He was quickly pacified. Sort of. He probably would have liked it either way.
Secondly, and even worse, was the nausea. Never in Jack's life had he ever had issues with gagging up at any notice, but all of that shot to the wind in a matter of weeks. His first nemesis, even at the time, was pizza, which he quickly learned to push out of his diet at whatever cost. What followed were the various 51st century-type foods, some as bizarre as simple pills you popped to add natural flavors to bland food, others as classic as bangers and mash. Nothing slipped past his nose. It was a humiliating sight to see, and he hated close to every minute of it.
By the time his second trimester crept in, fourteen whole weeks, he could only sigh with relief. Even Kavin was quietly chuffed. The agency continued to study his vitals, though they urged him more to stay on his feet and keep active, which was no problem for Jack, a man of unlimited energy. In fact, Jack grew quite fond of this stage. His nausea had worn off considerably, his taste buds were off the charts, and on top of that, his body was finally beginning to show the physical ramifications of pregnancy. Luckily for him, he carried the extra weight well, and evidence of a pregnancy was barely noticeable until his fifth month. Even then, it looked as though he'd only gone overboard on the pudding. For all intents and purposes, he did.
However, on the second Sunday in April, year 5008, in his sixth month of gestation, Junior kicked Jack so hard that he nearly fell over. Twenty minutes later, when Jack moved into the restroom, tracks of blood lined his trousers and leg, and he knew it was over.
To add insult to injury, Kavin disappeared from Jack's life all of three weeks later, lost in the void. Jack scavenged for an entire six months to find the man he'd grown close to, but to no avail.
Nature had taken its course. It was as if… it never happened. Jack had wished so many times that the Time Agency could have stripped those memories from him, taken away the guilt.
And so Jack sat in his chair at the Hub, his fingers crossed at his chin as he attempted to read Ianto's new inventory list for the Hub, a weekly checklist that had become commonplace as food and Windex magically vanished by the day. Jack's mind was a million miles away – centuries into the future, yet so deeply rooted in the present.
He asked himself silently, how could this happen? Earth was not even flourishing with the enzymes needed to cause a reaction or adhere to the biological technology of the future. Besides, he'd had plenty of partners in the last century – some protected, most not – and nothing, nothing ever happened. Not until he met Ianto, a 21st century mortal completely in the dark.
He wringed his hands and put his full concentration into the list, jotting down extra requests, adding numbers, brands, costs, and a lump sum balance for Ianto to spend. He left his usual innuendo and general silliness ("more lube," "Owen's nappies") off the page for the first time in as long as he could remember.
Tonight, he would relieve himself (again). He would possibly rest. Tomorrow, he would pull Owen aside and ask for a scan.