Disclaimer: Haruhi Suzumiya no Yuutsu is the creation and property of Nagaru Tanigawa, etc. There are no monetary gains whatsoever, I assure you. (If you want proof, see me languish in my day job.)
Musings of the Placental Brain
I am your practical, average joe with your normal nine-to-five job, earning your regular so-so wage. I am married to a nigh divine, stubbornly impractical woman, who is subject to violent attacks of boredom or deadly flashes of ideas she conjures up to combat it, who can earn a cool million in a risky, one-day venture, with barely a sigh to mark her troubles. 'Cause guess what? I get to deal with them.
Now, don't get me wrong. I love my wife. It's not like I married her because I was coerced into it, tied up and dragged to the altar or something. There's this tricky thing about me needing to keep her happy, but isn't that the responsibility of every husband, anyway? But, I suppose, when the universe is at stake, people opt to err on the paranoid side.
So Haruhi's been pregnant for a while now. How the hell did that happen? The usual way it happens to married people. Okay, I admit it. It took me a while to stop freaking out when we first found out. But, I figured, maybe my genes would win over hers. Mom did always say Dad has thick blood. Maybe I inherited enough of it to smother out random chromosomal aberrations.
Notice I glossed over close to eight months of the torture?
Oh, fine. I'll tell you about her food cravings.
You'll probably remember that back in high school, Haruhi and I knew this suspicious bastard who kept smiling all the time. Well, Koizumi's been coming around regularly to bring some exotic food stuff, so Haruhi's palate is usually kept entertained. Haruhi naturally attributed it to his profession, which is something appropriately mysterious and secret. I told her he probably works for an insurance company; the guy did graduate with an actuarial science degree. Insurance for what, Haruhi had countered ominously. Mankind's well-being, I told her, and left it at that.
But I'm getting side-tracked here.
My darling wife's due to give birth in a little under a month. Her uterus is sitting smack on top of her bladder, so nowadays she needs to waddle to the bathroom more frequently and more urgently. She's slightly more mellow, though, probably because her increased girth weighed heavily on her back muscles. There's only so much she could do at that pace, so she had given up on her usual hare-brained schemes a couple of months ago. Most days, she's just dreaming up future projects, demanding my opinions and berating me for them.
Oh, did I say 'mellow?' I meant 'grounded.' There's really nothing mellow about this mother-to-be.
"Why can't men carry their babies?" she has grumbled more than once, these last few months. I've never really worried about it, because Haruhi is a highly intelligent and logical woman—despite evidence for otherwise—and she knows better than I do that male pregnancy is physically impossible.
"So the womb is the magic organ here?" she demanded from me as soon as I walked in the door that day.
I grunted something non-committal.
"It's basically a pouch of muscle that has a very good blood supply—nothing an advanced alien technology can't replicate."
Why does it have to be extraterrestrial? I'd draw your attention to test tube babies, for one thing, and they've been around for decades.
"I suppose, we can start with that," she said thoughtfully, padding over to where I was collapsed at our couch. "Do the fertilization in vitro, then when the time is ripe, inject the zygote into a good mass of muscles. . . like in the abs? And a cocktail of hormones to prepare the subjects body beforehand, naturally. Or maybe some surgical alterations. . ."
What are you doing? The lunatic has tugged off my wrinkled button-downs and was experimentally poking at my torso.
"Of course, we'd have to sustain the pregnancy with a delicate balance of nasty-tasting concoctions," she continued relentlessly. Even your diet and activity would have to be severely regimented. It would be a dangerous mission. "
I tugged my shirt back in place and glared at her wearily. The glare she returned had about ten time more wattage.
"What's with the violent reaction?"
Don't you think my reaction's kinda mild as is, considering it's my own wife plotting my slow, lingering murder?
"Geeze, Kyon, can't a woman have her harmless amusements?"
I am not a piece of meat subject to your maniacal whims and pleasures! Obviously, there are exceptions to that rule, but that's not the point here.
"Why are you being so melodramatic, anyway? It's not like anything like that's even remotely possible with the primitive sort of technology this planet has."
I must have visibly relaxed because she then smiled at me patronizingly. Well, you can't blame me for getting a little nervous. Haruhi was starting to get all scientific and methodical; that's just a few steps from her actually believing that it can happen. . . right?
I'm not overreacting!
For the record, I was not grousing.
"I'm hungry. Go make me something."
Weakly, I groped for the phone at the side table. I just realized that it's been two days since that bastard Koizumi was supposed to show up this week. The last thing I need is a colossal temper tantrum--which I wouldn't really mind throwing at that smiley dog.
Ah, well. The world's been kind to me. Relatively.
"I think I want ramen tonight. Go boil water, Kyon."
Go boil water yourself.
"And don't overcook the noodles, 'kay?"
Really. If this woman wasn't carrying my child–!
"I knew I could count on you! "
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
An old fic from last year I am now posting.
Based on the 31 days prompt: August 14/We will now take the path of courage.