can i request the joestar family discovering there s/o is pregnant (reverse for Joleen)
Telling the Joestars you're pregnant
Characters: Jonathan, Joseph (Young), Joseph (SDC), Jotaro, Josuke, Giorno, Jolyne, Johnny, Gappy/Josuke (Part 8)
There’s golden light pouring in through the windows, warm against the old wood of the Joestar estate, and the whole world smells faintly like ink and tea. He’s in the study, fingers stained with ink, halfway through reading something ancient and dusty. He doesn’t look up right away when you enter, just smiles softly like he always does when he senses you’re near.
“Jonathan… I need to tell you something.”
Something in your tone makes him freeze. Not visibly. But his shoulders go still, and his fingers tighten ever so slightly on the edge of the desk.
He stands. Slowly. Reverently. Like you’ve just handed him a living fragment of the divine.
“…Are you certain?” he asks, voice low and steady, as if he’s afraid to shatter the moment by speaking too loud.
That’s when it happens. The shift.
Jonathan Joestar - the gentleman, the fighter, the scholar, the man who’s stood against monsters without blinking - falls to his knees in front of you.
Not out of shock. Not out of fear. But with the grace of someone witnessing a miracle and choosing to honour it.
His large, callused hands reach for yours, then pause. Hovering. Always gentle. Always asking for permission.
When you lace your fingers with his, he lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to your knuckles, then rests his forehead there for a long, still moment.
“I-” His voice cracks. Just barely. “I don’t deserve this. But I will spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy.”
You can feel his heartbeat thudding under his skin - fast and anxious and so full.
That night, he doesn’t sleep much.
Not out of fear. But because his mind is racing. He’s thinking about everything - cribs and lullabies and how to make sure the Joestar legacy is something his child will want to inherit. He gets up at least three times to check on you. Not in an overbearing way, just… quietly. To make sure you’re warm. Comfortable. Safe.
“They’ll need a protector,” he murmurs, watching you sleep. “Someone who knows what it means to stand for something. I’ll teach them that.”
He reads every book on pregnancy and parenting he can find: medical, spiritual, emotional, and even outdated alchemical nonsense just in case. You catch him taking notes at one point.
He starts writing letters. To the baby. For the future. In case he’s ever gone. Because deep down, Jonathan Joestar has always known that fate doesn’t play fair.
He talks to your belly every night. His voice is soft, his stories endless. Sometimes about adventures, sometimes about his hopes. He sings, too (badly) but with so much heart you want to cry.
When you’re nauseous, he’s beside you. Holding your hair, soothing your back. Whispering, “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known.”
When you cry over nothing (and you will), he doesn’t tell you to calm down. He holds you. Kisses your forehead. Let’s you vent or sob or curse the world.
And when you’re asleep - curled into his chest, breath slow and even - he doesn’t move.
One hand resting gently over your stomach, the other brushing your hair from your face like he’s afraid to wake a dream.
He’s smiling. Not his usual polite smile, but something smaller. Softer. Like joy made quiet.
“I wonder if they’ll have your smile,” he whispers. “I hope they do.”
He leans in, voice barely audible, like he’s telling a secret to the stars.
“You’re already so loved. You don’t even know. But we love you. I love you. Every piece of you. Always will.”
Then he presses the gentlest kiss to your forehead. And one more to where his child sleeps beneath your skin.
“I’ll be here,” he promises, voice warm as candlelight. “Every step. Every moment. I’ll be here.”
And when he finally closes his eyes - arms wrapped around his whole world - Jonathan Joestar sleeps with a smile.
It’s late when you tell him.
Not dramatic. Not romantic. Just you, in the kitchen, standing barefoot by the sink with a glass of water and a knot in your stomach. He’s rambling about something - some prank he pulled on Caesar, something involving a dress and two bottles of tequila - and he’s so full of noise and motion it makes the silence between your words feel like a chasm.
Literally. It’s like the air skips a beat. Joseph freezes mid-step, mid-story, hands halfway to gesturing some ridiculous reenactment.
His voice cracks at the end. You can see his brain grinding like it’s buffering at 2%. His eyes dart down to your stomach, back to your face, and then he does the worst thing imaginable.
Loud. Nervous. Completely out of pocket. Like he’s waiting for you to break character and yell “Just kidding!” like it’s all part of a bit.
But your face doesn’t change.
“Wait. Wait, wait, wait - seriously?”
You nod. Quiet. No tricks. No backup punchline. Just the truth.
Joseph Joestar has fought Nazis, Pillar Men, and literal abominations.
Nothing prepares him for this.
He sits down. Hard. Kitchen chair creaks under him. He runs both hands through his hair, muttering “Oh my god” like a prayer or a death sentence. Then again, louder:
“Oh my god, I did that?? I did that?!”
You’re half a second away from leaving when he jolts upright.
“Wait - no, not like that! Not - shit! I didn’t mean it in a bad way, I just - holy shit, I’m gonna be a dad?! ME?!”
He’s spiralling. Hands flailing. Pacing now.
“Okay, okay, we can do this. I mean- I can… I can barely keep a cactus alive, but this is fine. This is fine! Babies are just loud potatoes for the first couple months, right?”
“…Okay, I’ll read some books.”
That night, he’s lying flat on the bed, staring at the ceiling, arms flung wide like he’s trying to take up all the space his thoughts are spilling into.
You’re not sure if he’s asleep until he says - quiet, raw:
“I don’t know if I’m ready.”
It’s the first real thing he’s said all night.
You shift, curling beside him. He flinches when you rest your hand over his chest - like he’s worried you’re going to take it back, take everything back.
“I’m scared,” he says. “I joke when I’m scared. You know that.”
You do. Of course you do.
He turns to you then. Really turns. No mask. No grin. Just those stormy, wild eyes full of fear and wonder and more love than he knows how to hold in one body.
“But I want this. I want you. I want…” He swallows. “I wanna be there. For everything.”
He reaches out. Presses a shaky hand to your side.
“…I’m not gonna run. I promise.”
He tells everyone. Immediately. The mailman knows. Speedwagon knows. Caesar hears it through a window and nearly drops his espresso.
He becomes insanely protective. You so much as sneeze and he’s fussing over you.
Reads exactly half of a parenting book before getting distracted.
Invents “prenatal Hamon sessions” that are 90% fake science and 10% sincere attempts to “boost the baby’s Hamon potential.”
Leaves you notes on the fridge like: “Good morning, gorgeous + also the adorable parasitic lifeform inside you.”
Says things like “It’ll probably be huge like me. Sorry in advance.”
He’s dramatic. He’s terrified. He’s not perfect.
But he loves you so hard it radiates off him in waves.
And every time he stares at you, like you hung the stars and then casually told him you built a second solar system, he means it when he says:
“I’m gonna be the best dad this kid doesn’t know they need yet. Just wait.”
You don’t even get the whole sentence out before he chokes on his drink.
You were aiming for casual, maybe “Hey, I’ve got some news” or “So, funny thing about my doctor’s appointment…”
Instead, what comes out is a very dry, “Joseph… I’m pregnant.”
And then it’s like you detonated a bomb made entirely of “WHAT?!”
He coughs. Flails. Nearly knocks over the table. There’s peach iced tea on the floor and lemon slices stuck to his shirt and he’s already halfway to standing like he’s about to physically square up with the concept of your pregnancy.
“I-” He gestures at you, then himself, then vaguely at the air like he’s trying to solve an invisible equation. “You – me – how-?!”
You fold your arms. “You know how.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Points a finger. Drops it. Then finally sits down like his legs gave out.
He leans back, hand over his heart like he’s just been hit by a Hamon beam.
“Oh my God. I still got it.”
You stare. “That’s what you’re leading with?”
He grins, roguish and infuriating. “C’mon, sweetheart. Sixty-two and still got it? You’ve gotta admit that’s kind of hot.”
You reach for a pillow to throw at him. He narrowly dodges it, laughing until it dissolves into something quieter and a little softer.
He looks at you again. Really looks.
“You’re sure?” he asks. Not doubting - just… hoping it’s real.
And Joseph Joestar - smartass, war vet, drama king - sits very still for a second too long.
“Okay. Okay, okay, we can make this work. I mean, we have experience… even if it was years ago. Holy turned out fine, right?”
He’s up again, already pacing.
“Do we need to move? We should move. Tokyo’s stressful. Do babies get stressed? Do I get stressed?!”
You say his name once, twice.
Then, finally, he stops in front of you. A little winded. A little wide-eyed.
“I’m scared I’ll screw it up again. That I’ll miss things. That I’ll be too old, or too busy, or too Joestar to get it right.”
He takes your hand like it’s the only thing tethering him to the moment.
“…But I want this,” he says, quieter. “God, do I want this.”
And then, classic Joseph, he ruins the emotional tension by immediately announcing:
“We’re gonna need to hide this from Jotaro. I can already feel the judgment.”
Absolutely uses the pregnancy as an excuse for more affection. “You’re carrying the next Joestar! You get foot rubs. That’s in the rules.”
Comes up with terrible baby names every day.
Can’t decide between things so just buys everything.
Tries to convince you the baby might inherit a Stand in utero and brings out tarot cards to test your belly.
Jotaro finds him talking to your stomach and immediately walks out without comment.
Buys a ridiculous number of books, reads zero. Claims he’s going to “wing it with style.”
Has one night of complete meltdown where he panics about being older, about making mistakes and you hold him while he spirals, until he falls asleep muttering, “I’ll be there. I swear it.”
He’s dramatic. He’s inappropriate. But he shows up. He loves fiercely, makes mistakes loudly, and keeps coming back. He may not always get it right but he’s never going to stop trying.
And when he holds your hand, when he presses his palm to your stomach like he’s making a pact with the future, he whispers-
“I’m gonna love the hell out of this kid. You better believe it.”
You tell him the way you have to.
Not dramatic. Not poetic. Just… plain truth.
You don’t plan it. There’s no romantic setup. No flowers. No “World’s Best Dad” mug waiting on the kitchen table.
It’s late, the lights are low, and Jotaro’s halfway through reviewing marine data, glasses perched low on his nose, a pencil tucked behind his ear. The room smells like coffee and salt air. He’s quiet. Focused. Calm.
His hand stills over the paper.
A long, thick silence settles between you. Not awkward. Not cold. Just heavy. Full of something that doesn’t have a name yet.
He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t move. You wonder if he heard you.
His voice is low. Level. But not unfeeling.
You nod. “Yeah. I’ve taken three tests.”
And you’ve never seen that look before.
Not fear. Not joy. Not even shock. Just… stillness. Like he’s caught between the version of his life he’d planned - and the one you just gave him.
His jaw tightens. His eyes search yours. And then, softly:
He stands up. Walks over to you.
His hands hover for a second, then settle on your shoulders - warm and steady. The space between you closes.
You expect more questions. More reaction.
What you get is his forehead against yours. Steady.
Just breath. Contact. Connection.
Later that night, you find him on the balcony, lit by starlight, staring up at the sky like it’s suddenly got answers. His coat is draped over your shoulders—left there without a word.
You sit beside him. Don’t press.
“I don’t know what kind of father I’ll be.”
You rest your head on his shoulder.
“I think you’ll be better than you think.”
And the silence that follows feels like belief settling in.
He doesn’t look at you but he squeezes your hand. Hard.
He doesn’t talk about it much. Doesn’t announce it. But you catch him pausing longer in the baby aisle at stores quietly reading labels.
Buys parenting books. Science-based ones. Annotates them like marine biology research and cross-references sources.
Rewrites his entire schedule. Late nights out? Gone. Conference travel? Postponed. Patrol shifts? Shortened. He doesn’t say why. No one dares ask.
Every time you so much as wince, he’s there. Doesn’t say “Are you okay?” - just is there. A hand on your back. A glass of water. A calm, firm “sit down.”
Keeps a medical file for you thicker than his thesis. Tracks vitamins. Memorises everything. Subtly corrects the doctor once.
Starts researching the safest bassinets and strollers like it’s his final Stand battle. Refuses to settle for anything with fewer than five-star reviews.
You wake up from a nap once to find his hand resting over your belly. Not moving. Not even fully touching. Just there.
You pretend to be asleep. Because if he’s letting himself have this moment, you won’t take it from him.
One night, he hears you talking to the baby - and later, when he thinks you’re not listening, you hear him murmur: “You’re safe. I promise.”
He never screams. Never breaks.
But you feel it. Every day.
The way he walks a little slower now when you’re by his side.
The way his gloved hand hovers before finding yours.
The way he says, in the dark, half-asleep:
“If anything ever tries to hurt them… I’ll stop the world.”
And you know he means it.
But he’s already a father in every way that counts.
You don’t mean for it to come out the way it does.
You’re not sure how you meant to say it, honestly. Maybe with a little more prep. A lead-in. Some grounding. Not while he’s halfway through trying to microwave his supper, still in his uniform undershirt, badge clipped to the counter, and humming along to the Morioh radio jingle like the most chaotic domestic golden retriever known to man.
But you’re watching him - hair a little tousled, sleeves rolled up, gold chain catching the light - and your brain just… says it.
He doesn’t even turn around at first.
Just kind of nods like you said something casual. Nice weather today or the mail came.
His face goes through all five stages of grief in under two seconds. Denial. Confusion. Visibly questioning his own fertility.
“Yes, Josuke. That’s… how pregnancy works.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Points at your stomach. Points at himself. Points back at your stomach. And then:
He takes a step back like the concept physically hit him. His brain is racing - you can see it. There are so many thoughts colliding in his skull that nothing is coming out of his mouth except-
“Do you need water?! A chair?! A chair and water?! What if you pass out?! What if I pass out?! Okuyasu’s gonna pass out when he hears!!”
You sit him down. He’s flailing. Verbally. Emotionally.
“I - shit, okay, no - this is good! I’m not saying it’s not good! It’s just like… wow! That’s a person. Inside you. That we made. That’s not important. I just - whoa.”
He rubs his face with both hands. Still wearing his patrol belt like that’s going to help.
And the second he sees that, the panic fizzles.
He exhales hard. Eyes wide. Heart full.
He says it like he’s trying the word on. It fits. Too big right now. A little terrifying. But… right.
He grins. Big, shaky, earnest.
Then completely breaks down into happy tears two minutes later while hugging you. Still smells faintly like coffee and traffic stops.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes, wiping his face on the back of his wrist. “I don’t even know why I’m crying. I’m just - shit, you’re so cool. You’re so cool and you’re pregnant and you still wanna be with me?! Like, this is my kid too? Really?!”
You kiss his forehead. “I’m very sure.”
Buys so many toys for the baby.
Googles “how to be a good dad” while Okuyasu hovers behind him eating chips and yelling, “DUDE! DUDE! You gotta teach it how to fight!”
Starts keeping a second notepad in his patrol car - one for ticket logs, one for baby name ideas and “things I wanna teach them someday.”
Tells every coworker in the precinct that he’s going to be a dad. Every single one. Including his supervisor. Multiple times.
Panics over every little sound you make. Slight groan? Crazy diamond is ready.
Spends literal hours talking to your stomach. Tells them about the arcade. How to dodge punches. Who to trust. Which diners in Morioh are the best (Tonio’s).
Is lowkey insecure. He tries to hide it, but one night you catch him sitting at the foot of the bed, whispering, “I’m not my dad. I swear I’ll try harder than he did.”
Rohan finds out and starts sketching a crazy one-shot called “The Hair Heir”. Josuke prepares to torch his house.
His mom is THRILLED. Starts crocheting blankets within minutes.
Josuke insists on building the crib himself. It’s crooked. He cries. “I can’t even fix it with Crazy Diamond.”
He’s not ready. God, he’s not ready.
But he shows up. Every day.
Pompadour perfectly styled. Badge on his belt. Lunch packed with too many snacks. Ready to protect Morioh with one hand… and hold your hand with the other.
And when he looks at you?
It’s not just love. It’s awe. It’s joy. It’s you’re my whole world now and I’m gonna be the best dad in this town.
“…You know,” he says one night, curled around you in bed, voice soft and full of wonder, “if they’re anything like you… they’re gonna be amazing.”
You smile into his chest. “They’re gonna be half you, too.”
And he just pulls you tighter.
“I hope they get your laugh,” he mumbles.
You tell him they probably will.
And if they get his heart?
You don’t say it like it’s a confession. You say it like you’re handing him a mission briefing.
Something final. Important. Irrevocable.
The words hang in the air between you, quiet and clean.
He doesn’t speak at first.
He just stops what he’s doing, his pen frozen mid-signature over a document marked for Passione territory logistics, and lifts his eyes to meet yours.
Still, calculating, but never cold.
“…How long have you known?”
You answer. Calmly. He listens. Silently. Then finally, he sets the pen down. He crosses the room in three slow, even steps.
He’s the boss of Passione.
You’ve seen how he handles problems.
The way she was stolen, pursued, nearly carved up just for being her father’s daughter.
And the man who let it happen wore the same crown Giorno wears now.
He doesn’t calculate risk.
He reaches for your hand like it means something, like you mean something.
His fingers wrap around yours.
And when he speaks, it’s not just certainty. It’s something softer.
“Thank you for telling me.”
And it makes your chest ache.
That night, he doesn’t sleep.
You wake once to find him on the balcony, overlooking the city, suit jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled. The moon turns his hair to molten white, his eyes sharp in the dark.
He doesn’t hear you at first.
Then says, “The world isn’t kind. I’ve worked every day to change that.”
“But I have a new reason to succeed and I won’t stop until this city is safe for our child.”
A quiet shift rolls through Passione. Nobody speaks of it, but things change. Layers of extra security around you. Routes rerouted. Meetings relocated.
Your doctor receives an anonymous “gift” of new equipment, better staff, and the silent understanding that any failure will be unacceptable.
Giorno never says the word “Papa” out loud, not at first. But he makes space for the role in his world: time in his schedule, protection in his plans, softness in the places no one sees.
Gold Experience becomes hyper-responsive to your state. Once, when you stumbled, it moved faster than either of you - Giorno caught you, and Gold Experience stabilised the ground beneath your feet with vines.
He builds a nursery hidden within his villa, soundproofed, sunlight filtered. Quiet. Secure. Untouchable.
At night, he begins speaking to the child - not with soft lullabies, but with truth. “The world will challenge you,” he says to your stomach. “But you will not face it alone.”
Giorno doesn’t fall apart.
He doesn’t shout. Or cry. Or spiral.
Because to Giorno Giovanna, being a father is not just a title.
It’s a new kind of mission.
And just like he swore to defeat Diavolo and end suffering from the inside-
He swears now, in quiet moments between breath and heartbeat:
“No harm will come to you. Not while I’m still breathing.”
Because this is Giorno Giovanna.
And when he decides to protect something?
The world shifts to let him do it.
She tells you while walking.
Just blurts it out while crossing the living room, pulling on a hoodie, tying her hair back with fast, restless fingers like she’s trying to keep her hands busy so they don’t do something else, something stupid, like shake.
No soft lighting or pastel sweaters.
Just: “I’m pregnant.” Said like a dare.
She stops. Doesn’t turn around. Just lets the silence hang there for a few seconds too long.
When you don’t respond right away, she does turn - arms folded, jaw tight. There’s a flicker of something in her eyes: not anger, not quite. Bracing. For judgment. For abandonment. For anything but support.
You step closer, slow. “Are you okay?”
That catches her off guard.
“What? Yeah. I’m fine.” “Well - no, I’m throwing up like every morning and I’m pretty sure my boobs are trying to murder me, but other than that - yeah. Totally peachy.”
You almost smile. She notices and scowls.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like I’m gonna cry. I’m not.”
“…Okay.” She pauses. Then: “…I might.”
You sit down. She doesn’t follow.
“I didn’t plan this,” she says. “And I’m not gonna pretend I’m one of those people who always wanted to be a mom or whatever. I didn’t.”
“But it’s here now. And I’ve been thinking about it. A lot. And…”
“…I wanna try. I wanna do better than what I got.”
You stand. Take her hand. Her grip is tight - like she’s afraid if she lets go, the ground will open up and swallow her whole.
And when you finally pull her into a hug, she sinks into it like her body’s been waiting for permission.
Jolyne insists on doing everything herself. Carrying groceries? Climbing ladders? Lifting furniture? You have to beg her to sit down.
Refuses to read parenting blogs. “They all sound like they were written by rich suburban yoga weirdos. That’s not my style.”
Starts researching genetic Stand inheritance like a college thesis. “If this kid ends up with a string-based power, I need to prepare for that. I didn’t inherit my dad’s but it’s possible”
Keeps pretending she’s fine, then collapses onto the couch with a heating pad and a bowl of mac and cheese. “Don’t say anything. Just let me die for twenty minutes.”
When the nausea gets bad, she talks to the baby like it’s an annoying roommate. “You better come out cool, or I swear I’ll put you back.”
You catch her late at night, hand over her stomach, eyes unfocused. She’s whispering something soft. You don’t interrupt.
Tells her dad eventually. Pretends not to care what he thinks. But she doesn’t stop pacing until he says:
“You’ll be a great mother. Just like your mom was.”
Keeps your sonogram photo tucked in the back of her phone case. Pretends it’s no big deal.
Jolyne doesn’t change overnight.
She’s still fiery. Still loud. Still the girl who’d punch someone for looking at you wrong and then complain about how sore her knuckles are.
But there’s something gentler in the way she carries herself now.
Just… stronger. In a different way.
And when she curls up next to you at night, one hand resting on her stomach, she murmurs into your shoulder:
“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
You press a kiss to her temple. “Neither do I.”
“…We’ll figure it out, though.”
Because if there’s one thing Jolyne Cujoh knows how to do - it’s fight for what matters.
You don’t plan how to tell him.
Because how do you prepare someone who’s survived what Johnny has?
You can’t soften this kind of truth.
He’s out on the porch when you find him. Hat tilted low, boots kicked up on the rail, something unreadable in his face as he watches the sky go gold over the horizon. There’s a calm to him lately - not peace, but the kind of stillness you get after years of running.
He doesn’t look at you, just shifts slightly to make room.
“Johnny,” you say, carefully. “I’m pregnant.”
Just lowers his boots to the porch floor with a quiet thunk.
His eyes are still on the sky.
Silence. Long and full of gravity.
His hand curls against his knee, knuckles pale. Then-
He finally turns his head, slowly. There’s no panic in his expression, but it’s not blank either. It’s focused. Serious. Like he’s just been handed a question he doesn’t know the answer to yet.
He breathes out through his nose, slow and controlled.
And then he says, very quietly:
You’re not sure what you expected. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t flinch. Just sits with it. Like he’s testing the weight of this new future in his hands and deciding whether or not it’ll crush him.
He leans back against the wall. His gaze drops to the floorboards.
“I thought I wasn’t the kind of person who get this,” he says after a minute. “Family. Future. Normal stuff.”
“I’ve spent so much of my life trying to outrun who I was. And then trying to prove I’d changed. And now this…”
There’s no fear in his eyes.
“…I want to get it right.”
In the weeks that follow:
Johnny doesn’t tell anyone right away. Not because he’s hiding it—but because he’s keeping it close. Letting it be real before letting it be public.
He starts making lists. Quietly. Supplies. Books. Things to fix around the ranch.
You catch him once, in the barn, practicing how to hold a newborn with an empty feed sack.
He builds the crib himself. Doesn’t ask for help. It’s a little crooked, but steady.
When you feel sick, he doesn’t panic. He just gets up, makes tea, rubs your back, and mutters, “Alright, kid. Go easy on ‘em.”
Once tells a horse, very seriously, “You’re not the baby anymore,” before giving it a carrot anyway.
Starts whittling random shapes out of spare wood and leaving them on the windowsill “for luck.” One ends up looking vaguely like a baby with a cowboy hat. He pretends it doesn’t.
You catch him dancing in the kitchen with his shirt halfway unbuttoned, holding the laundry basket like it’s a toddler. He doesn’t stop when you walk in, just gives you a lopsided grin and keeps going.
It’s not easy for Johnny to be hopeful.
But he shows up. Every day. Even the hard ones.
And one night, as you’re getting ready for bed, he slips a hand to your stomach and just… stays there. Not saying anything. Just holding on.
Because underneath everything - the anger, the hurt, the things he’s done and the things he’s lost - Johnny Joestar is someone who fights to move forward.
And now, he has someone new to carry with him.
Josuke Higashikata (Part 8)
You don’t think it’ll be a big moment. You don’t plan to say it while he’s rinsing off a bunch of fancy grapes in the kitchen sink, humming that off-key little tune he picked up from TV commercials, sleeves rolled up and face slightly flushed from the sun.
He looks up, blink-blink, fingers still tangled in the grape stems. His shoulders go rigid, like someone just hit a switch in his spine. He blinks again. His lips part - like he’s going to say something. And then?
He very calmly puts the grapes back into the bowl.
Wipes his hands on the dish towel.
And turns to face you, dead serious.
He stares at you for a second longer, then turns around and walks directly into the edge of the kitchen counter.
“Okay – ow - okay,” he mutters, putting a hand on his hip like that’ll help. “Okay.”
He doesn’t freak out. Not exactly. But you can see it in his eyes: the math scrambling to finish itself, the swirl of how? and what now? and am I ready for this?
“…I thought you were gonna tell me you smashed a plate or something.”
“I mean. This is… kind of better.”
He rubs the back of his neck, flustered but smiling. That weird, soft, sheepish smile he gives you when he’s trying really hard to look cool and emotionally balanced.
Then he says it - quietly:
“I’ve never really thought about stuff like this before. I was so occupied with my past I never really looked forward.”
You don’t say anything. You just take his hand, and he squeezes it like he’s trying to ground himself in you.
Starts carrying a little notepad with reminders like “prenatal vitamins,” “don’t let them carry heavy stuff,” and “ask what a onesie is.”
You catch him reading a baby book with a totally blank expression. “What the hell is a swaddle? Is that a Stand?”
Asks you at least five times, dead serious, “Do you think it’ll have four balls, too?”
Asks Yasuho for help picking out baby-safe shampoo. She immediately starts crying. He panics.
Draws a “baby Stand” design and shows it to you like it’s a science fair project. It’s weirdly cool.
Touches your stomach like it’s the most delicate thing he’s ever seen. Doesn’t always say anything. Just… rests his palm there.
Mutters, “I’m gonna protect you,” half to you, half to the baby. Says it again when he thinks you’re asleep.
Gappy is still a bit fuzzy about who he used to be.
But he knows who he wants to be now.
He wants to be steady. Safe. Someone who shows up. Someone who figures it out, even if he stumbles.
And when he looks at you now - your fingers linked, your breath slow, the weight of a new life between you - he says softly:
“Then I’m not going anywhere.”
