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Arthur still can't believe he agreed to this.
He was hoping for an empty house, but of course there are other people in the waiting room with him. Alphas, obviously, though it occurs to him perhaps they're waiting not for their turn but for a friend, a brother, a partner. Do they think he's gay? He sneaks a sidelong look at the nearest fellow, a thirty-something leafing through a magazine. Nothing about him is suggestive of the camp he associates with Alpha homosexuality in his admittedly inexperienced mind. Francis once told him You're the straightest person I know, but he didn't say it like a compliment. Arthur is fairly certain it's related to the ever-growing array of sweater vests in his closet. It's not like he has Alpha- or Omega-scent on him; he's been single for the better part of a year. Probably everyone assumes he's here because adoption paperwork is too much hassle. Probably, he tells himself, no one gives a toss that you're here. Except Francis and Matthew.
Friendship. That's why he's here. Friendship and family. Wholesome thoughts.
A technician appears in the doorway. "Arthur Kirkland?"
He jumps to his feet, startled. "Yes," he says. Easy as that: fate, sealed.
The Omega (just his luck) smiles at him and holds out a small transparent plastic cup. "Here you go," he says. "Try not to spill."
Oh, dear God. Arthur takes the cup and risks a glance over his shoulder, but the others are seemingly oblivious. Hiding their nerves, like good stoics ought? Arthur can do that, too. If only he can figure out how to make his ears stop burning every time this Omega smiles the smile of someone who has no idea what is about to unfold.
"Er," Arthur says, then immediately regrets submitting to the awkward impulse to fill silence as they walk, "does that happen often?"
"Hm?" The technician's eyebrows lift, still with that same cheerful smile.
"What you said." Arthur's ears will catch his hair on fire any moment now. "Spillage."
"Oh! Well, not often, but sometimes. I hear it's a little tricky." He opens a door and stands aside so Arthur can enter first, a reversal of chivalry. He winks as if they're in on a playful secret. "Most Alphas aren't used to having to aim."
"Right," Arthur says, wishing only for the merciful end at this point. He uses the room as a distraction, takes in the sink, the faded leather chair, a side table adorned with laptop and magazines. Dusty tile floor. Brown water spots on the ceiling. Blinds drawn over the window in favor of one godforsaken fluorescent, though given that they're on the ground level Arthur can't say he'd rather let any natural light in. Best to forget he's even on this planet at all for the next ten minutes or so.
"Here we are," chirps the Omega. "Just come on out when you're finished, and we'll take care of the rest. Alright?"
"Cheers," Arthur says, then feels foolish. The technician just smiles and closes the door behind himself, leaving Arthur standing there in the middle of this prison cell with a tiny cup in his hand.
This is it, he thinks. This is where my dignity shall forever rest.
For Francis and Matthew. Two Omegas can't have their own pup; they need an Alpha, the essential seed, to complete the cycle. Oh, well, he said when they mentioned it, I'm not using my sperm for anything at present. It was a joke, at the time. He didn't think they'd actually take him up on it, goddamn it.
Arthur doesn't dare touch the porn magazines—God only knows—or bother with the laptop—he likes to think he has a good enough imagination not to need such things, not that his internet history would agree—but he does tip his head back. He does a thorough search of the ceiling for anything that might resemble a hidden camera (and, yes, he does mentally admit that the search is pointless by nature). Is someone watching him right now? Perhaps there are people at the clinic who can only get off to watching people get off in the clinic. That's the sort of self-fulfilling prophecy that would appeal to his sense of humor if not for the fact that he's now a cog in this rather sticky machine.
Stop stalling. The longer he takes, the less likely he is to get it done. If he drives himself mad about it, he'll have to come back again or surrender, and both of those options are highly unlikely. His hands go to his belt.
Is he seriously going to do this?
For friendship, damn it all. He unbuckles and unzips before he can rethink, then winces. Does it have to be so bloody cold in here? Surely that proves a hindrance for some. He palms himself through his briefs, trying to ignore the encroaching dread: What if I can't get hard in here? He sits in the exhausted chair, legs apart. Think of . . . well . . . think of erotic things! A vague abstraction of flesh and lips passes through his mind. Getting there. Thighs? Thighs are quite good. Spread thighs, even better. Arses and hips and the underappreciated dimples at the small of the back. And, of course, the fleshy bits that can't be mentioned at the supper table. His thoughts flit to ninth grade, a middle-aged health teacher barking about respecting the clitoris. No, no, not that. He lets his head rest against the wall, looks up at the ceiling, tries to refocus his thoughts as he nears half-mast. Something like . . . sex. Cowboy. An Omega bouncing, smiling breathlessly down at him. The technician? There is something about the bubbly virgin types, some old temptation to ruin them perhaps, the tainting of the white dove. Hasn't worked out in the long-run for him, but that's irrelevant right now. Yes, the technician, his hands on those hips. Gasping breaths, the slap of flesh, desperate cries in that squeaky voice . . . higher and higher . . . higher still, bleeding into the demanding wails of—oh for the love of—the wails of a newborn, the absolute worst transition his nomadic thoughts have ever taken. Once the thought's in, he can only honor it. What he's doing now will create a child, a living, breathing creature he will one day meet. Uncle Arthur.
"Good God," he mutters under his breath, hands falling limp. This was already perverse, but now it's obscene. How do couples share knowing smiles before sex when they're trying for a baby? And what do they do afterward, pop champagne to celebrate a successful fertilization? In his humble opinion, there is nothing romantic—and most certainly nothing sensual—about the thought of having a baby. He's generally avoided thinking about that potential outcome, in fact; it's certainly never been the goal of this particular exercise.
Get it over with. Stop pussy-footing. That turn of phrase conveniently returns his capricious mind back to task. Sex. Naughty things. Come on. No matter what he pictures, however, all the positions and situations he fabricates, everything only feels clinical, objective, like he's separated from all the carnal intensity by this sterile room. Think of something. Anything.
And then, for the first time, it occurs to him to wonder how they'll get his delivery into Francis when the time comes. It actually jolts him a bit, this gap in his knowledge. They've been friends for years, have spoken to no end about plenty of off-color topics, but the specifics of this process never came up in all the months Francis and Matthew have been doing research and consultations? What will they do, he puzzles, put Francis to sleep and he'll wake up pregnant, hey presto? (Or, more fittingly, voila.) Or is it just . . . a turkey baster?
God help him, but a shiver of arousal tingles through his veins.
It's a light at the end of this tunnel, and he's not passing it up. He gives himself over to the thoughts, pictures Francis with his feet in stirrups, open for the taking, a doctor plunging Arthur's seed deep inside him. Claiming, ah, yes, even in a distant way; the Alpha instincts awaken, slathering at the thought. Mine. His hand pumps faster. Francis with a bulging belly, heavy with pup that will always be biologically his, all of him glowing and lusciously fertile—and needy, going to Matthew at all hours for relief when he and his body both know what will truly sate him is to be filled up with hot spurts of—
Arthur scrambles for the cup, nearly forgetting it and then very nearly dropping the blasted thing on the floor. He thanks every deity in existence when the cap is safely screwed on. Done. A nap might be in order now, if only he didn't have all this expired anxiety and mortification prodding at him. He cleans himself up at the sink and meets his gaze in the mirror. The thoughts that carried him to completion turn over in his mind, far less enticing now he's over that despicable, delectable edge. He breathes in deeply. I just wanked to the thought of getting my best friend pregnant.
Friendship, indeed.
He shakes his head in the mirror and turns to go.
The technician is waiting for him just down the hall. He takes the cup and labels it with some foreign code. "How was it?" he asks, absent but amiable.
Arthur cuts his gaze toward the waiting room, much closer than he thought to that little room. "Ah—fine." He must know Alphas picture him naked when they're in there. There's no way the thought hasn't at least crossed his mind. "I just wondered, erm—are the rooms . . . ?"
"Sound-proof?" At last, a knowingly amused look. "Yes. Don't worry. What happens in the donation room stays in the donation room." He gives the cup a bit of a shake. "Except this, of course!"
"Of course," Arthur repeats, and gives a numb smile.
There is one other chestnut that escapes the donation room. He and Francis never do tell Matthew why they can't keep a straight face when he's basting the Thanksgiving turkey, but by now he knows that, with Arthur, sometimes it's better just not to ask.
The End.