#hey at least this title isn't based on a song this time lol

[cchickki]

Surprise! ❤️

another request from the lovely @chrissymodi-frost, sorry it took so long again! this one is short, but i'm thinking about writing a little sequel to it!

summary: Today isn't going your way at all. Miguel attempts to make your day better by bringing you your favorite food, but instead of being a surprise treat for you it makes you sick instead. Your turbulent mood swings and nausea can only mean one thing…

pairing: miguel o'hara x fem reader (no use of y/n)

word count: 1.5k

rating: E / general audiences, no specific warnings (other than descriptions of nausea/vomiting), surprise pregnancy trope, domestic fluff, etc.

also available to read on ao3!

Part ii: (x)

The light shining through the curtains of your bedroom stirred you awake. With a groan, you shove the pillow over your eyes, suddenly and irrationally irritated by the sun’s very existence. You tossed and turned, doing your best to avoid the sun’s annoying light. You weren’t able to lull yourself back to sleep no matter how hard you tried. You kicked the covers off of your body, sitting up and tossing your pillow to the side. 

Waking up on the wrong side of the bed was an understatement, you were absolutely on edge today.

You stomped out of the room, making your way in blind-irritence to the kitchen. Your eyes hadn’t even fully adjusted yet, leaving you to stumble around you and Miguel’s shared apartment. You craved caffeine, hoping that making yourself a cup of coffee would offer you some sort of relief. As you made your way to the kitchen, your eyes snagged on a post-it note left on the fridge by Miguel. 

Cielo,

Went out for a bit to run some errands, let me know if you need anything.

I’ll be back soon,

Miguel

“Hmph,” you grunted, bypassing the note and opening the fridge to grope around for the creamer. 

Sometimes you really hated it when Miguel didn’t wake you up to run errands with him. Maybe you wanted to go with him, knowing the errands would lead to a trip to one of your favorite stores, and just maybe you would be able to stop into a coffee shop and order something. But nooo instead you were stuck making your own coffee at home, that no matter what you put into it never tasted as good as when a barista makes it.

The coffee machine took its time, hissing as it heated up the water and poured into the coffee pot. You rubbed your eyes, willing for the damn machine to go faster. You checked the time from the clock on the stove.

11:24am… You think to yourself as you read the time. 

It was your day off, you definitely could’ve used some more sleep since you didn’t get to bed until nearly six in the morning. You knew your mood was off, wondering if sleep would’ve aided in waking up feeling less piqued since the moment you opened your eyes. But with your moodiness running through your mind and working your nerves, you brushed the ‘what ifs’ aside, and poured yourself a cup of coffee, adding what you wanted to it. 

You anticipated that first sip, waiting to savor the warmth that would spread throughout your body. Instead you are met with the overwhelming taste of bitterness, and you nearly burn your tongue because of how hot the coffee is. You quickly place your mug down on the kitchen counter, scrunching up your face as your taste buds beg for mercy. Of course the coffee would taste bad today, of all days the universe wanted to keep testing your patience in the first fifteen minutes of rolling out of bed.

“Oh- that’s foul…” you wheezed, dumping the coffee out into the sink. 

You dropped your mug into the sink, a little harsher than you meant to. The mug clanged against the stainless steel, for a moment you wondered if you broke it. You inspected the mug, lifting it gingerly in your hands, being sure the ceramic wasn’t cracked. It seemed fully intact. Well, at least you were spared that particular frustration.

You plop yourself down on the couch and begin to channel surf. Informercials, soap operas, and talk shows, and trashy reality tv is inescapable no matter how many channels you flip through. You settle on a specific gossip/talk show program, where the host talks about other celebrities and tends to get a very messy reaction from their audience. It’s not really what you’re in the mood for, but it’s amusing. 

Miguel unlocks the apartment door and enters, greeting you as he closes the door behind him. He has plastic bags in his hands, the scent of hot spiced food filled the apartment. You tend to find the smell appetizing, but for some reason it makes your stomach churn in queasiness. He places the food on the counter, expecting you to pad over and immediately start going through what he’s brought home, but you remain on the couch.

“Hey, I brought you home something.” Miguel calls from the kitchen, studying your frame as you keep your eyes forcefully glued to the television. “It’s your favorite.” He adds with emphasis, now going through the kitchen cabinets to grab some plates and blows.

You sigh, swallowing down your nausea. You make your way to the kitchen, giving your lover a wry smile. To be honest your moodiness is still at an all time high, still stung that Miguel left you to run errands. He circles the kitchen table, planting a kiss on your forehead and you feel yourself melt into it instantly. He had a way of bringing peace and relaxing you, no matter how volatile you were feeling. 

“You okay?” He questioned, cocking an eyebrow as he took in your disheveled appearance and slightly waned expression. 

“Why didn’t you invite me along?” You mutter, staring up at him. 

He smiled down at you, reaching out and stroking your cheek with his thumb. You soften again, the muscles in your face relaxing.

“You seemed like you needed the sleep, cielo.” He replied.

You crossed your arms, displaying your physical frustration, but it was mostly feigned at this point. You jut out your lip in a pout, not breaking eye contact with him.

“Well, I still wanted to come…” 

Miguel puts his hands up in playful defense.

“Okay, next time I’ll be sure to wake you from your peaceful slumber and drag you along.” 

You rolled your eyes at his sarcasm, but couldn’t help but crack a smile. He always had a way of disarming you. You finally decided to go through the plastic bags full of take out boxes on the kitchen table. You picked one up, noting how hot the bottom of the Styrofoam box was (your poor fingers). You place it on the kitchen table, and open it up. You’re greeted with your favorite meal and a huge waft of steam erupts from the box, making your eyes squint. Spicy curry chicken with basmati rice, something that you’re almost always in the mood for and usually makes your mouth water. For some reason the sight of it doesn’t appear as appetizing to you, and the smell is absolutely assaulting your senses.

“I know it’s kind of early for spicy food, but these past few days you seemed like you needed the boost.” Miguel interjected, vaguely watching you stare down at the food as he empties the rest of the bags.

The pit of your stomach churns uncomfortably, you can feel the sickeningly horrible anticipation of bile raising in your throat. You slap your hand over your mouth, unable to contain the nausea any longer. You dash to the bathroom, Miguel calls after you, confused as he follows you. You throw up into the toilet.

“Whoa, are you okay?!” Miguel exclaims, rushing over to you so he can pull your hair back from your face. 

You groan in response. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, standing up wobbly as Miguel helps you. You hobble over to the bathroom sink, rinsing your mouth out as he rubs your back, waiting for an answer.

“Was there something wrong with the food?” He asks, concerned.

You shake your head, trying to catch your breath and slow down your labored breathing. 

Between the whip-lash and drastic differences of your mood swings and strange appetite this past week, a sinking and sudden epiphany comes to you. Your cravings have also been somewhat off lately. Just yesterday you asked Miguel to make you a bowl of SpaghettiOs with a side of cut dill pickles. He didn’t question you outwardly, but you could see the quiet judgment as he watched you consume the meal with such vigor it was like you hadn’t eaten in days. 

You stare up at Miguel, clearly worried as he peers down at you, still waiting on you to speak. 

“I think… I think I’m pregnant…” you finally manage to say.

Miguel’s eyes widen, his gaze averting from yours as his eyes dart around the bathroom. He rubs the back of his neck, his cheeks glowing scarlet as the realization of your words processes. He looked like he got the wind knocked out of him.

“I don’t think it’s that shocking, Miggy.” You deadpan, trying to make light of the situation. You give him a lopsided smile, unsure how to properly react.

Your answer grounds him, bringing him back to reality. He closes the distance between the two of you, pulling you into a tight hug. He holds you, stroking your back, a breathless chuckle exiting his lips. The sound of his laughter calms you, making the anxiousness you felt a minute before ease. He pulls you away, grasping your shoulders as he stares down at you, a wide smile stretching across his face. You return his smile, unable to deny how his giddiness is contagious. 

“We’re going to be parents…” he states, his voice trailing off.

You laugh, “I need to take a pregnancy test first to confirm it.”

“Well, let’s go get you one.”