Chapter 3: First Kick
The waiting room was a study in muted anxiety. Beige walls, worn magazines, the soft, relentless hiss of a diffuser pumping out lavender scent that did nothing to mask the underlying odor of antiseptic. Goku fidgeted in a chair that was both too hard and too low, his knee bouncing a rapid, nervous rhythm against the laminate floor.
Sanzo sat rigid beside him, staring at a poster about breastfeeding benefits with a look of profound disinterest. His phone was in his hand, but he hadn’t scrolled in minutes. Hakkai’s contact had gotten them a name: Dr. Evans, a maternal-fetal medicine specialist with a reputation for discretion and handling “complex cases.” The phrase made Sanzo’s skin crawl.
“Does it feel different?” Sanzo asked suddenly, his voice low. He didn’t look away from the poster.
Goku’s knee stopped. He pressed a hand against his lower abdomen, still flat under his t-shirt. “Not really. Just… full, sometimes. Like I ate too much, but all the time.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Do you think they’ve ever seen someone like me before?”
“The receptionist didn’t blink when I gave your name and listed you as the patient,” Sanzo muttered. “So either Hakkai’s contact prepped them thoroughly, or they’re very good at pretending.” He finally glanced at Goku. “You ready for this?”
“No.” Goku’s answer was immediate, honest. “But I wanna hear the heartbeat again.”
A nurse in brightly patterned scrubs appeared at the interior door. “Goku?” She smiled, warm and professional. No double-take. No hesitation. “Right this way.”
The walk down the hall felt endless. The clinical brightness was aggressive, highlighting every speck on the floor. They were ushered into a small, cold room dominated by a large machine with a screen, a narrow bed, and a stool on wheels. The air smelled of cleanness, a sterile, impersonal kind.
“Dr. Evans will be in shortly. You can hop up here, just loosen your waistband,” the nurse said, indicating the exam table with its crinkling paper sheet. She left, pulling the door shut with a soft click.
The silence in the room was dense, filled with the hum of the ultrasound machine. Goku climbed onto the table, the paper rustling loudly. He pushed the waistband of his sweatpants down, exposing the pale skin of his lower belly. He looked vulnerable, young under the lights.
Sanzo remained standing, a sentinel by the wall. He felt out of place, a grim stain against the whiteness.
The door opened again, and a woman in a white coat entered, followed by a younger man carrying a tablet. Dr. Evans was in her fifties, with sharp eyes and a calm, assessing demeanor. She didn’t offer a handshake, just a nod.
“Goku, Sanzo,” she said, acknowledging them both. “I’ve reviewed the information from the clinic. Let’s take a look for ourselves, shall we? This is Ben, my sonographer.”
Ben offered a quick, nervous smile. He busied himself with the machine, powering it up. The screen flickered to life, a field of gray static.
“Cold gel,” Ben warned, squeezing a clear blob onto Goku’s stomach.
Goku jerked, a full-body shiver. “Jesus!”
“Sorry,” Ben murmured. He picked up the transducer—a smooth, plastic wand—and pressed it into the gel, beginning to slide it around in slow circles.
Everyone’s eyes locked on the screen. Gray shapes swirled and resolved into unrecognizable patterns: blobs, lines, shadows. The room was silent except for the soft gliding sound of the wand and the machine’s electronic hum.
Ben’s movements were practiced, but his eyebrows slowly drew together. He tilted his head, pressing a bit firmer. He moved the wand lower, then back up. He tapped a few keys, freezing an image, measuring something with a click of the mouse. The lines he drew looked like crosshairs.
He glanced at Dr. Evans, a silent question in his look.
She stepped closer, peering at the screen. “Show me the fundal measurement again.”
Ben complied. More clicking. More gray shapes.
Sanzo pushed off the wall. “What is it?” His voice cut through the clinical quiet.
“One moment,” Dr. Evans said, her tone focused but not alarmed. She pointed to the screen. “There. The gestational sac is intact, positioned correctly. But the dating is… notable.”
Goku’s hand had found Sanzo’s. He gripped it tightly, his palm slick. “Is it okay?”
Ben suddenly moved the wand to a new spot, angled differently. He adjusted a dial, and a new, faster sound layered over the machine’s hum—a rhythmic, whooshing flutter.
Whump-whump-whump-whump.
A heartbeat. Strong, fast, unmistakably alive.
The sound sucked the air from the room. Goku’s breath hitched. Sanzo’s fingers tightened around his. It was one thing to see a silent, grainy photo. It was another to hear that urgent, cellular drumming, proof of a separate life echoing in the sterile box of a room.
Then Ben froze the image again. He used a cursor, circling an area. “See that?” he said, almost to himself. He shifted the wand minutely, and the image on the screen shifted.
And there it was.
Not just a blob. A shape. A curved spine, a rounded head, nubs for arms. And as they watched, a tiny, perfect leg—with a faint suggestion of toes—jerked out in a swift, fluid motion. It pressed against the wall of the sac, a clear, undeniable kick.
Sanzo’s cigarette, which he hadn’t even been aware of holding between his lips, dropped. It bounced once on the linoleum with a quiet tap. He didn’t move to pick it up. He just stared.
The abstraction was gone. The “problem,” the “situation,” the “fluke”—it vaporized. Replaced by a foot. A foot that kicked.
Goku made a small, punched-out sound. “Was that…?”
“Fetal movement,” Dr. Evans said, a note of professional fascination in her voice. “Quite clear for ten weeks.”
“Ten weeks?” Sanzo’s head snapped toward her. “The clinic said six.”
“The clinic estimated based on standard markers. The measurements I’m seeing—the crown-rump length, the development of those limbs—indicate further along. Closer to ten weeks gestation.” She looked at Goku with renewed intensity. “Your symptoms started later than typical. That, combined with the… unique physiology, likely led to the initial miscalculation.”
The timeline recalibrated in Sanzo’s mind with dizzying speed. Two months. Not one. The kid had been there longer, growing in secret while they were oblivious. The margin for error, for choice, shrank violently.
“Is that… normal?” Goku asked, his voice thin.
“For your case, I’m not sure what ‘normal’ is,” Dr. Evans said, blunt but not unkind. “But the development appears textbook for ten weeks. The anatomy looks good. Heartbeat is strong at 165 beats per minute.” She finally turned fully to them, crossing her arms. “This changes the schedule. First trimester screening window is closing. We need to discuss your options for genetic testing, and quickly.”
The word “options” hung there, heavy and ambiguous.
“What are the tests for?” Goku asked.
“To screen for potential chromosomal conditions. Given the circumstances, a full anatomical survey will be crucial, but that’s at around twenty weeks.” She paused, her gaze shifting between them. “There is another factor. The rate of growth. This is advancing quickly. We’ll need to monitor you very closely, Goku. Your body isn’t designed for this. We don’t have a roadmap for the kind of physical stress this will impose as it progresses.”
The clinical wording—“physical stress,” “not designed”—was a cold splash of water. They’d been captivated by a foot. Now they were being shown the cliff it was kicking over.
“What kind of stress?” Sanzo’s voice was flat.
“Musculoskeletal, primarily. Ligament and organ displacement. Metabolic demand. We’ll need a nutrition plan, likely physiotherapy. The goal will be to carry as close to term as possible, but we must be prepared for early delivery if your body shows signs of distress.” She said it all like she was discussing a complex engineering project. “I’d like to see you every two weeks from now on.”
Goku’s face had gone as white as the paper under him. The wonder was gone, replaced by a dawning, visceral fear. He looked down at his stomach, where the gel was starting to dry cold and sticky. A foot had kicked in there. A ten-week-old foot. His body was already playing catch-up to a timeline they hadn’t even known about.
Ben handed him a wad of rough paper towels. Goku wiped the gel off in silence, his movements slow.
“Think about the testing,” Dr. Evans said, gathering her notes. “We can do a blood draw today if you wish. The results take time.” She gave them another nod. “The nurse will schedule your next appointment. Congratulations, by the way. It’s… quite remarkable.”
She left, Ben trailing behind with the tablet.
The door clicked shut again. The whooshing heartbeat was gone, replaced by the dull hum. The image of that tiny, kicking foot was burned onto their retinas.
Sanzo bent down, slowly, and picked up the crushed cigarette from the floor. He tossed it into the small biohazard bin. He walked to the table where Goku still sat, legs dangling.
“Ten weeks,” Sanzo said.
“I felt it,” Goku whispered. He pressed his hand flat over his abdomen. “I didn’t know that’s what it was. Just little… flutters. Like gas. But it was the foot.”
Sanzo placed his hand over Goku’s. He could feel the slight tremor in Goku’s fingers. The reality was a physical weight between them now, no longer a secret to keep, but a countdown to manage. A body to protect against its own biology.
“We need to go shopping,” Sanzo said, the pragmatism a lifeline he grabbed for both of them.
Goku looked up, confused. “For what?”
“A folder. For the new pictures.” Sanzo’s jaw was tight. “And then we’re buying the most ridiculously expensive prenatal vitamins they have. And figuring out what the hell you can actually eat.”
A weak smile touched Goku’s lips. It was a plan. A concrete, stupid, necessary plan. One thing at a time.
But as they walked back out into the lavender-scented waiting room, the sound of that heartbeat seemed to follow them, a ghostly echo marking a faster, more urgent rhythm than they’d bargained for. The room felt colder. The road ahead steeper. That tiny, perfect foot had just kicked their world into a higher, harder gear.
The clinic's automatic doors hissed shut behind them, sealing away the sterile chill and the echo of the heartbeat. The outside air was a slap of humid indifference, thick with city smells of exhaust and wet pavement. Sanzo lit a new cigarette, the first drag scraping his lungs like gravel.
Goku stood on the sidewalk, blinking in the dull afternoon light. He stared at the grainy printout clutched in his hand, the ghost of that foot floating in a sea of gray static. "Ten weeks," he said again, as if testing the weight of it on his tongue.
"It doesn't change the main problem," Sanzo said, smoke curling from his lips. "Just condenses the schedule." His mind was already racing, recalculating logistics, finances, the looming specter of "physical stress." The foot was a fact. The fact was a problem requiring solutions.
"My back already hurts," Goku murmured, almost apologetically. "Just a little. Like I pulled something."
Sanzo’s gaze sharpened on him. That was new. "Where?"
"Low. Here." Goku pressed a hand just above his tailbone. "It's just a twinge. Probably from lying on that table."
"Probably," Sanzo echoed, not believing it. The "complex case" was developing symptoms ahead of their already-accelerated timeline. He flicked ash onto the pavement. "We're going to the pharmacy. Now."
The drugstore was a garish cathedral of fluorescents and overcrowded aisles. They stood, adrift, in front of a wall of prenatal vitamins. Bottles with bright labels promised optimal nutrition, DHA, gentle iron. Goku picked up one featuring a serene, smiling woman cradling her bump.
"This one says it's lemon-flavored," he said, turning the bottle. "Do they think we eat them like candy?"
"Get the one that doesn't make you gag." Sanzo was scrutinizing the price tags, a slow fury building in his chest. The cost was astronomical. "We'll need to get bloodwork for deficiencies. Evans will want specific numbers. This is just... baseline artillery."
He grabbed the most expensive bottle, the one with the most comprehensive list of minerals. His knuckles were white around the plastic. The gesture felt absurd, a tiny wooden bucket against a coming flood.
Goku wandered into the next aisle, his hand drifting back to his lower back. He stopped before a display of body pillows, huge C-shaped and U-shaped monstrosities in neutral colors. A diagram showed one curled around a very pregnant body.
"I think I need one of these," he said, his voice small.
Sanzo looked from the pillow to the tense line of Goku's shoulders. He saw the calculation in Goku's eyes—the recognition that this was going to hurt, that his indestructible physique was already betraying him. The kick wasn't cute anymore; it was a harbinger of structural failure.
"Which one?" Sanzo asked, his voice gruff.
"I dunno. The big one looks like it could fight back."
"Get it." Sanzo yanked the U-shaped pillow from the shelf, a bulky, absurd trophy. He carried it under one arm, the vitamins in his other hand. They looked like refugees from a bizarre, domestic war.
The cashier, a tired-looking teenager, scanned the pillow with a practiced blankness. She looked at the vitamins, then at Goku’s flat stomach, then at Sanzo’s forbidding expression. Her gaze lingered on Goku’s face, on the youthful anxiety there.
"Early stages?" she asked, her voice polite.
Goku froze. Panic flickered across his features. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Sanzo leaned forward, placing his hands on the counter. His voice dropped, low and clear and dangerously calm. "The receipt. Please."
The girl flinched, her professionalism snapping back into place. She finished the transaction in silence, bagging the items with swift efficiency. Sanzo paid in cash, took the bags, and steered Goku toward the exit with a hand on his elbow.
Outside, Goku sucked in a ragged breath. "She was just being nice."
"It's none of her business." Sanzo’s anger was a live wire. It wasn’t directed at the cashier, not really. It was at the world suddenly full of prying eyes, hidden judgments, and invisible countdowns. "That's the last time you answer that question. You say 'I appreciate your concern' and you walk away. Understood?"
"Yeah. Understood." Goku rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. He was quiet all the way to the car, the giant pillow taking up the entire backseat.
As Sanzo pulled into traffic, Goku finally spoke, staring out the passenger window. "What if my body breaks?"
The question hung in the confined space, stark and unadorned. It was the core fear, spoken aloud.
Sanzo’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. He didn't have a platitude. He couldn't offer a guarantee. "Then we deal with it. Evans will monitor it. We’ll get the physio. You’re not made of glass."
"But I'm not made for this, either." Goku turned to look at him, his eyes wide and frighteningly lucid. "I can feel things… shifting. It’s not just my back. It’s deeper. Like stuff is moving around to make room."
The visceral description settled in Sanzo’s gut like a stone. He pictured anatomy diagrams, organs compressed, a skeleton stressed. He forced his voice to remain steady. "Then we'll learn what 'normal' is for you. We'll track it. You tell me every single twinge, every weird pressure. No hiding it because you think it's stupid."
The apartment felt different when they returned. It wasn't just a messy place they lived anymore. It was an environment they had to retrofit for a biological crisis. Goku sank onto the couch with a groan, immediately shoving a cushion behind his lumbar curve.
Sanzo dumped the pharmacy bag on the cluttered kitchen table, next to the abandoned bowl from yesterday that still smelled of kimchi and peanut butter. He pulled out his phone and called Hakkai.
It picked up on the second ring. "Well?" Hakkai’s voice was calm, but the single word was tightly wound.
"Ten weeks," Sanzo said. "Development is advanced. They're calling it 'remarkable.' They're also calling it a high-risk marathon. We need a nutritionist. A physiotherapist. Someone discreet."
A beat of silence on the line. "I'll make calls. How is he?"
Sanzo looked into the living room. Goku had managed to wedge the enormous U-shaped pillow around himself, half-buried in it. He already looked more comfortable, but also younger, swallowed by the protective casing. "He's scared. His back hurts. He can feel internal things… rearranging."
"Bring him by tomorrow," Hakkai said, his tone shifting into practical, nurturing mode. "I'll cook. We'll look at the pictures. We'll make a list."
Sanzo grunted an agreement and ended the call. He filled a glass with water, shook two of the expensive vitamins into his palm, and walked over to the couch. He held them out.
Goku took them, dry-swallowing with a grimace. "They taste like chalk and regret."
"Next time, we get the lemon candy kind." Sanzo sat on the edge of the coffee table, facing him. "Show me where it hurts."
Goku guided Sanzo’s hand to the spot on his lower back. Sanzo pressed gently, feeling the warm skin through the thin cotton of Goku’s shirt. He felt the tension in the muscles, a hard knot of strain.
"It’s just muscles, right?" Goku asked, seeking reassurance.
"Probably." Sanzo began to knead the spot with careful, firm pressure. He had no idea what he was doing, but the action was something. A tangible response. Goku melted forward with a shuddering sigh, his forehead coming to rest against Sanzo’s shoulder.
"The heartbeat was so loud," Goku mumbled into Sanzo’s jacket.
"I know."
"They gave us a due date. It's not that far away."
"I know that too."
Goku’s breathing evened out, the pain momentarily loosening under Sanzo’s hands. The fear didn't leave the room, but it settled beside them, a third presence they were learning to accommodate. Sanzo kept up the slow, rhythmic pressure, mapping this new geography of ache, his own heartbeat a silent, anxious echo of the one they’d heard that morning, pushing them all relentlessly forward.
Sanzo’s hands worked the knot until Goku’s breathing evened out, until the tension bled away into weary stillness. The apartment was quiet except for the distant traffic murmur and the occasional creak of the building settling around them. This peace felt borrowed, fragile.
A key turned in the front door lock.
Neither of them moved. Hakkai let himself in, his footsteps a soft shuffling in the genkan. He entered the living room carrying two heavy grocery bags, his smile gentle but his eyes immediately scanning, assessing. He took in the scene: Goku half-wrapped in the absurd pillow, Sanzo’s hands resting possessively on his back, the pharmacy bag spilling its contents on the table like evidence.
“I brought broth,” Hakkai said, lifting a bag. “And the kind of rice cakes you like, Goku. The soft ones.”
Goku shifted, wincing at a fresh twinge. “Thanks, Hakkai.”
Hakkai didn’t ask about the appointment. He walked to the kitchen and began unloading, the clink of jars and rustle of produce a domestic counterpoint to the afternoon’s clinical dread. The ordinary sounds were a relief. “The nutritionist I mentioned is available for a video call Thursday. She’s worked with… unique constitutional needs before. High-performance athletes, mostly.”
Sanzo stood, his knees cracking. “He’s not an athlete. He’s a demolition project waiting for the right permit.”
“Hey,” Goku muttered, but there was no force in it.
“I’m stating facts.” Sanzo lit a cigarette, ignoring Hakkai’s slight frown. He leaned against the kitchen doorway, watching Hakkai chop scallions with methodical precision. “Ten weeks. Not six. Everything’s ahead of schedule, including the potential for things to go wrong.”
The knife stilled for a second. Then resumed. “I see.”
“They gave us pictures.” Goku carefully extricated himself from the pillow and walked to the table, retrieving the grainy printout. He held it out to Hakkai.
Hakkai wiped his hands on a towel. He took the image, holding it up to the late afternoon light filtering through the dirty window. He studied it for a long time, his expression unreadable. Then his thumb traced the ghostly curve on the paper. “A foot,” he said softly. It wasn’t a question.
“It kicked,” Goku said, a flicker of that first awe returning. “I felt it later. Like… bubbles popping, but lower down.”
Hakkai nodded, returning the picture. “That will become more distinct. A fish turning over, then an elbow. Then a heel dragging under your ribs.” He said it with a quiet certainty that made both younger men stare. Hakkai rarely spoke of his past, but sometimes knowledge leaked out around the edges, unexplained.
“How do you know that?” Sanzo asked, his voice edged.
Hakkai just turned back to the broth, pouring it into a pot. “Some things are universal.” He changed the subject. “We need a system. A binder for appointment notes, test results. A log for symptoms, food, pain. You can’t rely on memory. Not for this.”
The pragmatism was a lifeline. For the next hour, they sat around the cluttered table as Hakkai organized chaos into columns on a legal pad. Goku’s cravings (pickles, peanut butter, instant ramen—the saltier the better). His pains (lower back, twinges side, a new persistent pressure deep in his pelvis). His fears (“breaking,” written in Goku’s clumsy script).
Sanzo’s list was shorter, tighter. Discreet physio. Budget for medical. Rearrange bedroom? He stared at the last item, then crossed it out.
“Why did you cross that out?” Hakkai asked, not looking up from his own notes.
“It’s not relevant.”
“It is. You’ll need space for that pillow, at minimum. Easier access to the bathroom. These are logistical realities.” Hakkai’s tone was kind but firm. “Ignoring the physical space this will occupy is as foolish as ignoring the blood test results.”
“The bedroom is fine,” Sanzo snapped.
Goku was staring at his own hands, spread on the table. He spoke to them, not to Sanzo. “I get dizzy if I get up too fast. Almost fell this morning, grabbing my pants off the floor. Didn’t tell you.”
Silence clamped down. Sanzo’s cigarette burned forgotten in the ashtray.
“Where are your pants now?” Hakkai asked, his pen poised.
“On the floor. Where they were.”
Hakkai made a note. Relocate clothing, lower shelves. He looked at Sanzo. “See?”
Sanzo saw. He saw the trap of his own reluctance, how it could become a danger. His jaw ached from clenching. “Fine. We’ll rearrange the damn room.”
Goku’s shoulders slumped in relief. It was a small surrender, but it mattered.
They ate the broth and rice cakes at the table, the earlier lists pushed aside. The savory steam soothed something raw in Goku’s throat. For a few minutes, it was almost normal. Then Goku put his spoon down, his face going pale and waxy.
“The pressure,” he gasped, his hands fluttering to his lower abdomen. “It’s… it’s different. Not a twinge. It’s a squeeze.”
Hakkai was up instantly, clearing the bowl from in front of Goku. “Breathe through it. Describe it. Dull or sharp?”
“Dull. Really… really full.” Goku’s breaths came short. He leaned back in the chair, his eyes wide with a new kind of alarm. This wasn’t back pain. This was internal, deep, a grappling from within.
Sanzo was on his feet, phone in hand. “I’m calling Evans.”
“Wait,” Hakkai commanded, his voice cool water. He knelt beside Goku’s chair. “How long?”
“A minute? It’s… fading a little.” Goku swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Is that… a contraction?”
The word hung in the air, terrible and premature. Ten weeks along. It was impossible. It was all impossible.
“It could be a Braxton Hicks. They can start early, especially with unusual… circumstances.” Hakkai’s fingers pressed gently against Goku’s wrist, taking his pulse. “But we call. Now.”
Sanzo was already on the line with the after-hours service, his voice clipped and lethally calm as he relayed the information. He used the words “ten weeks gestation” and “acute compressive pain,” his eyes locked on Goku’s paling face.
They were given instructions: drink water, lie on the left side, monitor for bleeding, come in if it happens again within the hour. Simple, reasonable steps that felt utterly insufficient against the primal fear in the room.
Sanzo helped Goku to the bedroom. They moved the discarded clothes from the floor to a chair. Goku lay down on his left side, the U-shaped pillow a fortress around him. Sanzo brought water. Hakkai brought a cold cloth for his forehead.
The wait was excruciating. Minutes ticked by on the alarm clock. No new squeeze came. The tension in Goku’s body slowly uncoiled, leaving behind a hollowed-out exhaustion.
“It’s stopped,” he whispered.
“Good,” Sanzo said. He sat on the edge of the bed, his own body a rigid monument to withheld panic. The lists, the vitamins, the pillow—they were charming constructs. This was the reality: a random, blunt pressure that could mean anything or nothing. A body negotiating with an unimaginable tenant.
Hakkai stood in the doorway. “I’ll stay on the couch tonight.”
Sanzo didn’t argue. He just gave a curt nod.
Goku’s eyes were closing, fatigue pulling him under. His hand groped until it found Sanzo’s wrist, fingers circling it. “Don’t go.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Outside the bedroom door, Hakkai began quietly straightening the kitchen, washing the broth bowls, filing the new lists into a fresh folder he’d brought. He moved through the familiar clutter, creating small islands of order.
Sanzo listened to the domestic sounds and to Goku’s breathing slowing into sleep. He looked at the hand on his wrist, the grip slowly going slack. The echo of the heartbeat was gone, replaced by this new, more sinister echo—a phantom squeeze, a warning from the dark, fluid interior. They had a system now. They had lists. And they had just learned, violently, that none of it was a guarantee of anything at all. The forward momentum was now a precarious blind navigation, feeling for the next unseen drop in the dark.