Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Being a teen parent was hard. 

Being a teen parent in Kentucky was even harder. 

Being a trans teen parent in Kentucky was probably the worst possible outcome. 

Enter Chuck Taylor; a skinny, big-mouthed nineteen year old that drives a battered truck to wrestle in mid-south high school gyms on the weekends. Now, he’s in the passenger seat while his mother chauffeurs him to the closest clinic in town. Her free hand is resting on his bouncing knee, a constant, a comfort. “It’s gonna be okay, Chuckie,” she says, and Chuck just turns to look out the window. 

The clinic is cold and impersonal, the receptionist is curt and not at all friendly, and it makes Chuck want to cry a little. He doesn’t. All he manages to do is silently slip his hand into his mother’s, who immediately holds it back, thumb tracing his knuckles. 

It doesn’t help.

Waiting is the worst part; Chuck reflects on the fact, being pregnant, thinks about the two weeks of his missed period. Thinks about the guy himself— gorgeous, charming, with tight curls and deep skin and a big, wide smile that made Chuck’s breath hitch— who said he was a college sophomore, just visiting, and left right after he finished. Left Chuck filled with cum, panting and still on the verge of orgasm. Fucking around with a dumb teen, a stupid Kentucky boy, and now he was paying the price for his idiocy. Nineteen and pregnant.

A nurse pokes her head out and calls his name. She says it gently, but it still shatters the absolute silence in the waiting room. Chuck’s mom gives him a weak little smile, squeezes his hand, murmurs “it’s time,” and it sends him panicking. 

“Wait, I don’t— I didn’t— I changed my mind,” he blurts out, and his mom’s eyes widen just slightly. “Are you sure, sweetheart?” she whispers, and suddenly Chuck is in tears, little sniveling sobs that his mother rushes to soothe. “Oh, baby,” she coos, like he’s a little boy again running to her with a scraped knee, and he cries even harder. “I wanna keep it, I do,” he weeps, leaning forward, burying his face in his mom’s shoulder, and her arms wrap around him, warm and familiar in a cold, unfeeling environment.

Back in the car, Chuck puts a hand on his stomach, still relatively flat, and imagines it in a few months— swollen to make room for his baby, maybe even feeling a kick or two— and breathes out slowly. 

Scared, but excited.

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“I can’t believe I almost aborted you,” is what Chuck says right after finally delivering Ricochet; after carrying his son for nine months, after a grueling 24 hour long labor, he says it and the nurse to his right, holding his hand, starts cracking up, and the doctor holding his newborn smiles behind his mask. “Yeah, well, you didn’t,” he replies, and walks over to the head of Chuck’s bed to deposit the squalling infant into his trembling arms.

That’s not what actually happened, though.

Chuck was panting, screaming between clenched teeth while the nurse— a hardass, middle-aged woman named Agnes— was instructing him to push, push, don’t give up on me now, and at nineteen, this really wasn’t what Chuck had envisioned himself doing. He was missing his graduation for this, missing out on the once-in-a-lifetime event of walking the stage, and he kind of regretted not just aborting it at two weeks like he had planned to. 

Him, not it, he reminded himself. A boy.

When he finally crowned, the doctor assured Chuck that once the shoulders popped out, it would be easy sailing; the widest part passed, his baby would slide out. Chuck didn’t know if that was horrifying or comforting. Agnes kept talking at him, voice level even as his rose, cracked— come on, Taylor, you can do it, you’re gonna meet your son in just a second, and with one, earth-shatteringly painful push, the doctor caught the baby boy as he, for lack of a better word, shot out. Chuck slumped back, released Agnes’ hand, and he watched the doctor walk up to him, to the head of his bed, carrying this shrieking mass that caused a strange rush of hormones to flood his heart.

“Oh my god, he’s beautiful,” Chuck breathed, and reached out with shaking arms to take his son, and the doctor smiled behind his mask, and Agnes arranged his arms so it formed the perfect cradle for his newborn. Chuck stared down at him; so little it was crazy, skin lightened from the birth, eyes that were squeezed shut, and a wide-open mouth that kept screaming, screaming, but it was the most wonderful sound Chuck had ever heard. Nothing compared to this; not the first match he won, not all his birthdays rolled into one, not even receiving his diploma in the mail could hold a candle to the tiny baby shoving his face against the skin of Chuck’s bare chest.

He made a mental note to thank God and the college sophomore that got him knocked up in the first place.

“Hey, little guy,” Chuck whispered, tears welling in his eyes and spilling over, dotting his baby’s wrinkly face, and he leaned down to press a kiss to his son’s forehead. “I’m your daddy,” he murmured, and his baby squirmed again, the screaming quieting to a soft, continuous coo that broke Chuck’s emotions open. “I’m your daddy and I love you more than anything in this world,” Chuck sobbed, and he felt Agnes rubbing his back, saying something like I know, that’s your baby, he’s here, he’s here, and he wished he could’ve pulled himself together for a moment to properly speak— to say thank you, to announce to the whole delivery room that he had a son, that he made the right choice— but instead, Chuck just pressed his lips into the soft, wet curls of his baby’s hair and let himself feel.

When Agnes gently took the infant from Chuck, he was almost half-asleep, only roused by her gentle voice saying let me go wash him off, Taylor, and he saw the nurse walking away with the little bundle in her arms, towards the sink in the corner of the room. “Hey, hey, bring me— give me my baby,” he called, hoarse from screaming and crying for nearly 5 hours straight, and the doctor appeared by his side, materializing out of thin air. “It’s alright, Chuck, she’s just bathing him, she’ll give him back,” and that calmed him down somewhat, though he still watched Agnes closely.

His little boy’s skin was darker after all the mucus membrane was washed off, and it made Chuck smile. Wrinkly and a warm, honey-brown, his son balled his little hands into fists and waved them lazily in the air, eyes still closed tightly, unwilling to accept the world outside his father’s womb. “You look exactly like the guy I fucked that helped make you,” Chuck grinned, and he heard Agnes stifle a laugh. “Well, you got my big mouth,” he added, and that cued a massive yawn, then his baby’s eyes opening for the first time.

“Oh, hello! Welcome to the world, little man,” Chuck greeted as light eyes flicked around the room, forehead crinkled like his boy didn’t know what to make of it. “Yeah, it’s weird— don’t wrinkle your forehead like that, you’re only a couple hours old,” and smoothed his thumb across his son’s soft, warm skin, trying to wipe the wrinkles clean off. “You’re mine— fuck, that’s insane,” Chuck breathed, kept rubbing his thumb over his baby’s cheek, “you came outta me, and I’m a fuckin’— I’m a dad now.” He glanced up at the nurse, still smiling at them both. 

“Can you show me how to feed him right?”

Chapter Text

It’s the first match back after Chuck gives birth to Ricochet, and even though he still feels kind of shitty, he pushes it away while he locks up with his opponent. Even wrestling, he steals glances to where he knows his mom is standing, holding his little boy, only a few weeks old and sleeping soundly, and it makes Chuck relax more into the match. He doesn’t win, but he put it all out there, and he’s happy about it. When he slides out of the ring, he makes a beeline for his mom, taking the little bundle from her arms with a little smile. “Hey, sweet boy,” he coos, and the audience awww’s appropriately. 

Back in the locker room, Chuck sits on the bench and cradles Ricochet in one arm as he wipes the sweat from his face. “You slept through my whole match, baby,” he says, and his son only gurgles, hands curling into fists before slowly releasing, eyes still shut. And then he starts fussing.

“Okay, okay, I know, give daddy a second,” Chuck murmurs, managing to pull his compression tank up so he can breastfeed. Ricochet takes a few minutes to root around, all sleepy, until he finally latches. Chuck shifts to hold his boy more firmly, but he flinches when he looks up from Ricochet’s calm little face and sees a group of men staring at him. It brings back a rush of feelings; getting walked in on by his classmates while changing and having the living hell beaten out of him, walking home with a black eye and bruises on his ribs and tits. 

The silence seems to stretch on forever, just Chuck looking back at these guys who are easily twice his weight and height. He’s about to open his mouth when someone pushes through the fray, rough voice asking, “the fuck you all standin’ around in front of the door for?” Chuck knows who the man is when he finally sees his face; Eddie Kingston, the typical New York hardass, someone everyone is too afraid to fuck with. Every other man parts for Eddie as he strides inside the locker room. Chuck looks back down at Ricochet when he babbles, obviously full, and switches to position his son on his shoulder. 

When Chuck looks back, Eddie is looking back, and their eyes meet. Eddie must see something in Chuck’s face— he’s so young and nervous— because he spins around and shouts, “all a’ you, get the fuck out! Learn some basic respect!” and the crowd trips over themselves to exit. It’s only him and Eddie when he walks closer and holds out his arms. “Here, you just had a helluva match, I’ll burp him,” he says, voice a lot quieter, gentle, and Chuck hesitates for a second before handing Ricochet to Eddie.

Ricochet looks ever tinier in Eddie’s big hands, but he stays relaxed while Eddie positions the baby over his shoulder, patting his back firmly. “C’mon, brother, let it out, I know you got some gas in there,” he says, and Chuck smiles, watching this huge guy holding his son, treating Chuck like an actual person. There’s a burp, and Chuck sees white flow from Ricochet’s mouth down Eddie’s back, and he jumps up. “Fuck, I’m so sorry!” he gasps, immediately taking his boy back, a little scared of Eddie’s reaction. He hates getting thrown up on, and Ricochet is his kid, so he can only imagine Eddie hates it even more.

Eddie laughs. Full, head thrown back, deep in his belly laughs. Baby vomit down the back of his shirt, and he’s laughing like it’s the funniest thing in the world. When Eddie manages to stop, he claps Chuck on the shoulder. “You’re all good, brother! Jesus, that’s fuckin’ funny,” he chuckles, lifts a hand to wipe a tear from his eye, “babies are funny, man. Shit.” Chuck relaxes again, takes a shirt from his bag to wipe Ricochet’s mouth, then turns back to Eddie. “I’ll get that shirt cleaned for you, I promise,” he says, and Eddie waves him off. “Forget about it, kid, you got a baby to care for. Don’t worry about it, nothin’ that hasn’t happened before. What’s this guy’s name?” he asks, and Chuck feels heat rise to his face for some reason.

“It’s, uh— it’s Ricochet. But I call him Rico for short,” Chuck says, feeling dumb and too young to have a baby, to be responsible for something this precious. But Eddie just nods. “That’s a cool name, brother. He’s real cute, too— some babies ain’t that cute, and ya gotta lie to make the parents feel better, but Rico’s actually cute,” and that makes Chuck perk up a little. Still, he’s self-deprecating through and through. “He looks like his dad,” which isn’t a lie— Ricochet is a lot darker than Chuck, it’s obvious that his son is mixed, and Rico doesn’t share any features with Chuck. Eddie tilts his head, leans closer to Ricochet, then says, “I ‘unno, he’s got your nose,” and shrugs, looks back at Chuck, a soft smirk on his lips. A little teasing, but there’s a ring of truth underneath it. 

Chuck’s phone takes that exact moment to buzz, and he scrambles to grab it before it tumbles off the bench. “Hello?” he answers, and his mom says, “waitin’ out in the car, ready whenever you are,” and Chuck manages to say he’s coming out soon, then hangs up. “Sorry, my mama’s waitin’ out front for me, she drove me here,” like he hasn’t embarrassed himself enough today, especially in front of Eddie Kingston. Eddie doesn’t look like he finds Chuck’s mom driving him here amusing, just nods and pats him on the shoulder with a slight smile. “Alright, brother, you take care now. And you,” he directs at Ricochet’s scrunched face, “you be good for your daddy, he’s doin’ good work out there.” A quick glance up at Chuck and a wink is all that’s left before Eddie walks out of the locker room, leaving Chuck a little breathless, absentmindedly bouncing his son. “Holy shit,” he whispers, and he knows he’s definitely blushing.