Sasha doesn’t know how long it’s been, can’t think clearly enough to keep track through the heat-haze. He’s never sure how long Malcolm is gone for or how long he stays, is only vaguely aware of days and nights; all he knows is that every — once in a while — Malcolm will put something in his mouth and cover his mouth and nose until he swallows, and even that is quickly forgotten in the surge of hot red emptiness that rises up in his belly.

It doesn’t take much choking anymore; Sasha learns quickly. My good boy, Malcolm coos, so good for me, and through the haze Sasha thinks he recognizes pride.

And then the heat just — stops. Cools. Sasha comes to and he’s in what feels like a puddle of sweat and slick; he’s panting, his head spins. Malcolm kisses him and helps him to a shower and brings him cool water and holds Sasha close when he crashes, so tired he feels half dead, into their bed.

He wakes up wet — he must have been dreaming of Malcolm — and sick. Malcolm kneels beside him in the bathroom and holds his hair back, keeps bringing him water, and the tiles under Sasha’s feet and the water on his tongue are blessedly, blessedly cool.

After three days of this Malcolm makes the appointment and brings him to the doctor’s office and stays with him the whole time.

Sasha clings to his hand as the doctor informs them that Sasha’s pregnant, as she beams, as Malcolm’s face lights up and he turns to Sasha, excited, and —

— and Sasha looks between the doctor, so happy for them, and Malcolm, obviously so pleased, and he’s happy too.

Right?

Malcolm is gentler now that Sasha is carrying his child — not that he wasn’t gentle before, it’s just — it’s just. He cooks more, cleans up more, doesn’t leave bruises except from his teeth, punches the drywall, brings him water and tea and chocolate milk and whatever it is Sasha’s craving this week. He puts his hand, gentle, on Sasha’s belly when they have sex; he rubs Sasha’s ankles and kisses his forehead and looks at him like he hung the moon.

Their baby is going to be a girl, and an omega like them. Malcolm wants to name her Zoe, and Sasha’s too exhausted to come up with a name so Malcolm gives her a middle name too, Zoe Lena Sawyer.

It’s a pretty name.

“She’ll be beautiful,” Malcolm says, “and intelligent, and strong, just like you,” and kisses Sasha’s forehead, his cheeks. Sasha doesn’t feel proud. Mostly, he feels tired.

He doesn’t know whether he falls down the stairs or throws himself down them.

He doesn’t think he wants to know.

He wakes up in the hospital to Malcolm sobbing and the nurse telling him regretfully that his daughter is dead, that he shouldn’t go on any hormonal medications for at least a month, would he like to say goodbye —

He wouldn’t. He wants to go home and sleep. He says yes anyway, holds the bloody lump of meat that could have been his daughter, Malcolm’s daughter, and tries to mourn, and fails.

Three days later he wakes up to Malcolm’s hand over his nose and mouth.

He swallows, obedient, and feels the heat rising up —

— and it's just, it's just, it's always just.