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(ficlet! little tuggershanks+bombastrap with some tuggerstrap drabble, plus angst of trans tugger escaping from his crime lord dad when pregnant.)

(@skimbly-shanks and i have a WHOLE AU...)

--

“Yours”, purred Munkustrap, the night breeze cold on the back of his neck and Bombalurina’s nape warm and willing under his lips. “Such as I am, yours. With all my faults, all my follies…”

He never would have thought he’d find a woman who could understand and reply to his John Donne quotes, but—

“... yours utterly and forever”, she finished for him, all amused heat as his mouth skated up the side of her throat. “While this poor passionate mountebank body has hands to hold you and lips to say ‘I love you’...”

They fell through their front door, his hands already sliding up to cradle familiar curves and tease at her buttons and ties. But even as the latch snicked, she tensed up in his arms.

He lifted his head, and saw what she saw.

There was a pot of water cooling on the stove, and the package of baby formula nearby.

Munkustrap let out a breath. His arms tightened around his wife. Then he dipped his head and nuzzled softly against her shoulder.

“I’ll…” he said, and gestured toward the bedrooms, and she nodded and said “You know he only crashes here when he’s desperate,” and headed for the pantry.

Turned out, he hadn’t got as far as the spare bedroom.

Munkustrap sank to his knees in front of the armchair and laid a soft hand on his arm.

“... Tugger?”

He was gaunter than ever. The hair that he’d used to toss around fell lank and lifeless over too-sharp collarbones. His face was stubbled—not in a sexy deliberate way, but in the way of a trans guy who was currently producing a lot of oestrogen and didn’t have time for a razor.

Patchy. Pimply. Starved.

Munkustrap reached out his hand, and laid it over the most tender part of him, which was the baby cradled against his ribs.

Carbuckety stirred, and yawned, and fisted his chubby oblivious hands in his papa’s shirt, and went straight back to sleep.

Tugger just kept on snoring.

“Tugger,” Munk insisted softly. Achingly.

One year ago, this man had been the swaggering audacious poster child of a crime syndicate’s new regime.

One year ago, he had been his father Macavity’s darling, and never had to pay for anything or clean a single dish.

One year ago, his shirt would have been designer and barely worn. Now, a fraying seam of cheap cotton sagged off one shoulder, where he tugged it down every time he had to feed the baby.

(Munkustrap had never prodded at the edges of Tugger’s gender dysphoria. But he strongly suspected that breast-feeding was a practical necessity born of poverty, not a… joy.)

(Which would be why he and Bombalurina kept formula and bottles in the kitchen all ready and waiting. Even though Jemima was almost entirely on solids now.)

“Tugger.”

Munkustrap gently tried to prise Carbuckety from the protective curl of his arms.

That got a reaction. The eyes flew wide (too wide) and Tugger’s other hand lifted in something like a swipe. But it fell away, and sagged into his lap, and Tugger grinned groggily at Munkustrap, and tipped his sleepy head back against the sofa.

Munkustrap sighed loudly at him, and carefully gathered the baby into his arms.

This time, there was no resistance.

Carbuckety made a happy soft noise, and punched Munkustrap in the face with vague baby fist-flails. Munkustrap sighed at him, and kissed the fists.

'Skimbleshanks'. That was the name of the man who had so carelessly begotten this... this entire human being on Munkustrap's friend. And then left.

Of course, Tugger swore that he'd been the one to leave, that he'd had higher standards. But he would say that, wouldn't he. And Munkustrap had seen the way Tugger's self-esteem had crashed after... well, was it really even a break-up if the other guy had never regarded him as more than a convenient lay?

“When did you last eat a full meal?” Munkustrap asked Carbuckety.

“Fuck off,” Tugger grumbled half-heartedly. And Munkustrap pointed out, “There is a bed eight metres away and you know you’re welcome to use it,” and Tugger growled and grabbed at his shirt front and dragged him (or his baby) in closer and turned his head helplessly in against them.

“The kid always eats,” Tugger found it necessary to point out, even though Munkustrap knew that, knew Tugger would sacrifice anything to make his baby happy for one more hour.

“Yes,” Munkustrap purred, against the side of his head, and didn’t add, but do you.

Carbuckety yawned, and squirmed, and blissfully added another burp stain to Tugger’s shirt.

“Shut up,” said Tugger anyway, and Munkustrap’s heart clenched, and he drew Tugger’s head in softly (unresisting), and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

Tugger’s breath hissed out in a rush. Just for a moment, he almost began to sag in against Munkustrap’s body—to rely on his strength.

Munkustrap leaned in against him, breathing in, one hand still cradling the child. Their fingers interlocked.

“Soup’s up,” said Bombalurina from the door, holding three steaming mugs—and both men pricked their ears, and turned to her with relief.

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