Chapter Text
Sansa walked into her condo in a daze, dropped her purse on the floor, and headed straight for the bottle of wine she’d opened for Tyrion last night. Then she remembered – she couldn’t drink.
Having to deal with this news sober felt like proof that God had a sick sense of humor.
She sat on the sofa, unable to even think of what she needed to do first. To-do items danced through her mind in no logical order.
Call my parents?
Pick up prenatal vitamins?
Tell a dozen different men they might be the father of a sex worker’s baby?
Take everything sex-related out of my condo since it seems wrong to raise a child in a home with an S&M room?
Turn one of the rooms into a nursery? Scratch that – move into a new home where I haven’t had insane amounts of paid sex in EVERY room?
Research pediatricians?
Research daycares?
Research adoption? What’s the market like for babies these days, anyway?
Cancel all my appointments for the rest of time because I cannot be a mistress and a mother. Or can I? No… Even if I can, I can’t.
But I’ll miss this job… I’ll miss my clients. I suppose I can keep the ones I don’t have sex with.
Shit, who cares about friendships?! I need to figure out who the father might be!
Because action – any action – was better than wallowing in fear and unproductive, jumbled thoughts, she got out her hand-written planner, a notepad, and pen. She took a deep breath and set upon the task of determining who the father might be.
She was about nine weeks along according to the ultrasound, though it wasn’t super precise, so she’d say 8-10 weeks as the window to start with…
I conceived a child 8-10 weeks ago. Oh God, I’ve had wine so many times since then! Why didn’t I think to ask the doctor about that?!
Sansa wouldn’t have even known she was preggers except that she went to the doctor after a week of stomach flu symptoms that were worse in the morning but didn’t completely go away in the afternoon. Only around dinner time was she truly famished, but even then, certain things turned her stomach. Pork, for instance. Blech! And mayonnaise. Double blech!
Eww, imagine a pork sandwich with mayo—
Sansa ran to the kitchen and hurled into her sink. If she didn’t feel so miserable, she might find her situation humorous. A twenty-first century woman, college educated, went two months without knowing she was pregnant. Despite odd looks from Jory, with a 3-year birth control implant in her arm, it hadn’t even occurred to her she might be pregnant. But she was, apparently, one of the 1%. Not one of the 1% who wins the lottery, no. One of the 1% for whom birth control fails.
While rinsing puke down the sink, she thought back to this morning and the way she just sat in her doctor’s exam room in disbelief. She re-saw the woman’s face go from cheerful as she’d said, “Well, I’m guessing this may come as a surprise, but it would seem congratulations are in order!” to confused then concerned as Sansa almost fell off the exam bed she was perched on.
The rest of the morning still seemed like a blur to Sansa.
After her general practitioner did a urine test to confirm her suspicion of Sansa’ pregnancy, the receptionist was kind enough to call the gynecologist on Sansa’s behalf and get her squeezed in an hour later for an appointment. An ultrasound was done to really confirm the pregnancy and estimate the progress. The birth control implant was removed from her arm. An appointment was made for the following week and Sansa was sent home with a bunch of instructions that, thankfully, the nurse wrote down somewhere because Sansa couldn’t remember a single one. She only remembered the kind doctor sternly telling her that the pregnancy would be considered “high risk” due to having been conceived while the mother – that’s me – was on birth control. But if she was still pregnant at the follow-up appointment next week, the doctor was optimistic. If she made it to twelve weeks without miscarrying, then the doctor expected the remainder of the pregnancy would progress as normal.
Sansa ran a hand down her flat belly. If she was still pregnant in three weeks, that would mean the bun was safely baking in the oven and would come out fresh and perfect in under seven months. So, really, Sansa could ignore this pregnancy for the next three weeks, but that so wasn’t her style. She didn’t cry over spilt milk, as a rule, but she did tend to cry over the glass of milk teetering at the edge of the table. Which meant she needed to take action now so that if in three weeks she was still preggers, she wouldn’t be in shock all over again.
With yet another deep breath, she returned to the sofa where the planner and pen and paper were still waiting for her. Taunting her.
On a piece of paper, she wrote the name of every client she had, not including those who came once and never returned or who she hadn’t seen in a long time – half a year or more. Her brain was going a little haywire and she didn’t want to leave anything to chance.
She then took the list and crossed off the few names of men who she never had sexual relations with.
Tapping the pen against her lips, she then crossed off the names of men who never came inside her vagina, ignoring the flush of shame she felt in lieu of imagining the kick Arya would get out of this story later. Much, much later…
With a list of nearly ten men who she didn’t let herself call ‘potential baby daddies’ even in her head, she opened up her planner. She flipped to the period of time 8-10 weeks ago to see who she hadn’t had an appointment with. From this she eliminated Roose, Tywin, Garlan, Tyrion, and Stannis. Of course – my richest and/or most normal clients. Well, at least I won’t have to tell Jory that Buffalo Bill knocked me up.
She grimaced down at the list that had been winnowed down to five names: Petyr, Jaime, Tormund, Willas, and Harry. Her entire body flushed again, this time with nervous sweat. It was the bravest thing she’d ever done as she thought of her encounter with each man during the time period in question.
Let’s see… Harry hadn’t been let out of his chastity cage because he only got me off once in eight minutes. Oh yeah, Arya is gonna have a field day with this one.
She crossed off Harry’s name.
Jaime… Jaime… Let’s see, we ate junk food and watched The Office and… And I gave him a blowjob! Yess! No intercourse!! But damn, he’d make really cute babies. But, urgh, that’s not important right now!
She crossed off Jaime’s name.
Okay, Willas next. Willas… Willas… Why can’t I remember what we did nine weeks ago? Oh! That’s right! He had to cancel last minute because his grandmother was in the hospital! By damn, he’d make cute kids, too! But I guess it’s good that I don’t need to think about my baby being conceived while I was wearing a horse costume, so there’s that…
She crossed off Willas’ name.
Petyr… Oh God, please don’t let it be him! He will be even more of an egomaniac! Ugh! Think, Sansa! He… We… He… Aha! He came on my face, which really pissed me off since that’s the ONE thing I don’t like. Yesss!!!
She crossed off Petyr’s name and stared down at the list in her hand that could no longer rightly be called a list.
Tormund.
Could it possibly have been that easy to narrow down the suspect pool? He definitely came inside her roughly nine weeks ago, because that was specifically what he came to her for. To fantasize about being a stud who was used by his beautiful redhaired owner for the express purpose of impregnation. Well, and orgasms. He had cum inside her four times. Within two hours. While she begged him to breed her. He had barraged her poor cervix with sperm until it had no choice but to yield.
Then, later, as she rolled over and watched him dress, he had cracked his hand on her ass and given her his trademark line: “Someday my sperm is going to overpower your birth control.”
“Fucking dick!” Sansa shouted to no one in particular.
She grabbed her phone and rather than scrolling through contacts began dialing a number she knew by heart, cursing Jory when she noticed the name that popped up associated with that number wasn’t “TB” but “Papa Bear”.
Me: Are you in town?
It took ten minutes to get a response, during which Sansa paced and cursed and wondered if Tormund had some kind of weird super sperm. ImpregnoMan!
Papa Bear: Just got back yesterday. Lil mama miss me?
Me: Not even close. Need to talk ASAP
Papa Bear: OMG…
Papa Bear: Is this about what I think it’s about?
Me: You asshole! Did u do this on purpose?
Papa Bear: How? Ur on BC right?
Me: YES! But apparently that isn’t enough
Papa Bear: WOOOOOHHHHH!!!!!! When do u go for a picture of the cub? I want to come!
Me: I already have a picture. And wait, aren’t you curious if the cub is yours?
Papa Bear: I had a dream two nights ago that I was surrounded by bear cubs. All gingers. I was trying to cook dinner but they were underfoot so I wrangled them up and put them in the bathtub.
Me: OMG this is just my luck. I got knocked up by my one client who is legitimately crazy.
Papa Bear: 😊 Thx
Me: Wasn’t a compliment
Papa Bear: Was to me. I’m coming over. Just need to make a quick stop first
Me: Good I want to scream at u in person
Papa Bear: Whatever mama bear wants, mama bear gets
Tormund’s idea of a “quick stop” apparently was a three-hour detour. He arrived at her condo at dinner time with a giant basket filled with everything he considered to be necessary for a pregnant mother, plus greasy takeout that he rightly assumed she’d be in the mood for. She devoured a bacon cheeseburger with extra bacon, cheese, and pickles (how did he know to hold the mayo?!) while glaring at him as he proudly took each item out of the basket.
There were pregnancy books by authors who clearly veered toward the… alternative. Comfy sweatpants. Hot and cold compresses. Nonalcoholic “wine” that was rich in probiotics (she was pretty sure it was kombucha in a wine bottle and probably set Tormund back $100). Dark chocolate. A foot massager. A skin cream that would help prevent stretch marks even though he said stretch marks were beautiful. A gift certificate to an ice cream parlor two blocks away. A neck pillow. A special pillow that would go between her knees when sleeping on her side. A fuzzy blanket and matching fuzzy slippers.
She finished her burger and moved to the sofa with a sigh, “Tor, this is really sweet, but you need to not get your hopes up yet. Me being on birth control means this is a high-risk pregnancy. There’s a strong chance I’ll lose it within the next three weeks.” She felt bad delivering the news even though part of her (a part that might be evil) was hoping for that outcome. Tormund was so excited at the idea of becoming a father, even with someone who wasn’t his significant other, that she just felt horrible to burst his bubble. And maybe – maybe – seeing how attentive he was kind of made her look forward to experiencing pregnancy.
“That’s why Papa Bear is here,” he lifted her off the sofa bridal style, carried her to her bedroom, set her down next to her bed, and undressed her like she was a kid and he her parent.
“Lay down, little mama,” he spoke softly as he pulled back the blankets.
She blinked up at him, “It’s not even seven o’clock.”
“We’ve got to keep you horizontal as much as possible.”
“Tor, I don’t think gravity is the reason women miscarry.”
“But it probably doesn’t help. Come on,” he pointed at the bed and implored her with big puppy dog eyes.
She sighed and lied down, letting Tormund fuss over propping her feet up just slightly and tucking her under her feather down comforter. “Be right back,” he kissed her head.
He returned with a heating pad he laid on her tummy, a glass of water, vitamins, and a book to read about water birthing. Then, with no more fanfare than anything else he’d given her, he handed her a diamond ring. A big ass diamond ring.
“Uh… Is that what I think it is?”
Tormund shrugged, “So you don’t feel ashamed once you start to show. Not that you should be ashamed, but I remember you once told me you have very traditional parents. But I hope over the coming months you’ll see that I’d make a good Papa Bear and a good husband. Really, I’d rather be married if we’re going to raise a cub together. I’m a bit old-fashioned myself.”
She snorted, “Clearly.”
“But don’t worry about that now,” he kissed her head again, “Just think happy thoughts. Visualize the wee one growing inside you, and it will. Visualize it warm and safe in its little den, not wanting to leave.”
She did, and teared up a bit, which Tormund took as a very good sign, “Feeling emotional? That’s good. Your body’s producing the hormones needed to grow our little cub.”
She sighed, “I think you’re right.”
With another kiss he left her to read or nap in peace, but he didn’t leave her apartment.
Instead of reading, she thought about whether she could see herself with Tormund as more than co-parents.
Without a doubt, he was good-looking. Did she prefer men with dark features? Sure. But picking a man based on hair color was pretty damned shallow.
Without a doubt, he was sweet. He’d take care of her and their child.
He was wealthy. Shouldn’t be a factor but… well… kids were expensive little buggers, weren’t they?
He was fun.
He was funny, even if in a very offbeat way that she’d sometimes feel the need to censor. Like when introducing him to her parents. Oh God, I’ll have to introduce him to my parents! They’ll want to send me to a psychiatrist!
Focus, Sansa.
She suspected he would be loyal. If Mama Bear told Papa Bear not to sniff around any other dens, he wouldn’t.
Was she in love with him? No, but she wasn’t in love with anyone. She hadn’t permitted herself to feel that emotion with any of her clients, because that was a dangerous proposition.
But could she see herself loving him in time?
She pictured Tormund holding a daughter for the first time. She pictured him giving a shoulder-ride to a son. She pictured him letting a whole hoard of kids crawl on him. They’d pretend to be dogs trying to take down the giant bear. (She pictured the unfettered grin that would be on his face the entire time.)
Then she pictured him putting those kids to bed after reading them an inappropriate bedtime story. Afterwards, he’d come to bed and ask if she wanted another little one. And after joking about how she already had her hands full, she’d say, “but maybe one more wouldn’t be too bad…”
And he’d give her one more. Slow and sweet, he’d put another cub in her belly.
Sansa realized she was smiling to herself and rubbing her belly over the heating pad.
Oh. Fuck.