Submitted for the December 2023 prompt: Treasures, Brightly Wrapped

"Picked a lousy time to give up smoking and drinking. Hope these butt-probing docs are happy!" Baabul, bare-assed and wearing a thin medical gown, felt even more exposed when the nurse replied to what he thought had been an internal rant.

"Just a colonoscopy, sir." He was asleep before she got to "sir."

A month earlier, during a routine physical, the doctor had felt a lump deep below his belly button. A CT scan had detected an egg-shaped mass lying alongside his aorta.

"Is it cancer?" Baabul's nicotine-stained fingers were shaking, not from fear as much as from the bender he had the night before.

"We cannot say for certain. It is certainly well-demarcated, which can be good. A biopsy would be the most definitive way of evaluating it. Treatment would be based on the findings," said the doctor.

Baabul looked the young doctor over. She reminded him of the type of women he favored: narrow-waisted brunettes with soul-piercing green eyes. Only a month prior, he'd bedded such beauty. Vestria! Despite his gaunt frame and unkempt appearance, she saw something in him. He remembered his sweaty arousal, their limbs entwining, and then blacking out in Vestria's arms.

Each attempt to biopsy the mass ended in failure. One needle broke completely off and had to be surgically retrieved.

"Just cut it out while you're in there," demanded Baabul. Since their last visit, he'd managed to gain some weight. He was sleeping better, and his old swagger returned.

"Actually, we can't. Since your first scan, the tumor has attached itself to your aorta. Removing it could prove to be… difficult."

"Fatal. You mean fatal. I'm damned if you do and damned if you don't." Baabul stood and paced around the small office. He didn't feel like he was dying, though. Indeed, he felt stronger. Quitting had been easier than expected, and he had already felt the benefit of his improved appetite. He'd started working out. At fifty, he felt better than he did twenty years earlier, and something told him it wasn't from lack of alcohol and nicotine.

The colonoscopy would help to identify potential sources of the tumor. As the anesthetic coursed through Baabul, he felt the presence of another entity within him. The sense of a heartbeat, or beats, seemed to follow the rhythm of his own heart. He felt deep flutters within and a sudden feeling of elation. New life sprung from some deep well of infinite beauty that he, and only he, could tap into. When he awoke in the recovery suite to the sweet smell of cinnamon raisin toast, he reached down to the now palpable mass under his belly button.

"You're safe. You're safe," Baabul whispered. He felt oh-so-ever-gentle pulsing from within.

In the months ahead, Baabul leapt into a frenzy of shopping and decorating. His slovenly ways were no longer satisfactory for the life he was nurturing. He stocked his fridge with organic foods and blocked all calls from his boozy bachelor friends. He had canceled his appointments after his doctor confirmed a clean colonoscopy. "I'm pregnant," he told her over the phone, caressing his growing belly.

This resulted in the doctor's explanation of tumor enlargement, distended bowels, ascitic fluid, and his own aortic beats.

With each passing day, Baabul knew this was false. His dark skin glistened with renewed health, his bowel movements regular, and he felt spectacular despite having to pee all the time.

Baabul had learned to cherish the life that grew within. He deciphered their inner rolling and thumping and determined that at least seven beings were awakening.

Baabul, the Brood Mama, is what he'd considered himself. He recalled his lonely childhood, his distant parents, his failed marriage, and, with it, the dashed dreams of fatherhood. This "invasive tumor" was his second chance. A gift! He was both mother and father; quite honestly, Baabul didn't know he had it in him.

As the weeks pressed on, he started to feel edgy. He searched the internet for male birth experiences. He realized he was on his own.

That night, he dreamt of Vestria. Her features morphed and shifted, sometimes human, then insectoid, and back. Suppressed memories bubbled to the surface with disgust mixed in equal parts with pleasure. His moans and her chitters reached a mutual crescendo. Baabul awoke drenched in sweat.

As he neared the nine-month mark, the growing broodlings pushed on his kidneys, bladder, and bowels. He suffocated while his skin stretched and his eyes yellowed. The ripening that had been so enjoyable was now disturbing.

Baabul was afraid. He could only stomach weak tea and toast. Every time he thought about going to the hospital, his brain flashed images of hazmat suits and governmental quarantines. Despite rising anxiety, he found himself protective of his growing brood. His love and tenderness for them surprised him. He’d found his purpose.

I may not make it, but they still have a chance.

"You are the fruit. We are the seed." They spoke to him telepathically now, and as Baabul grew weaker, he spent most of his days in conversation. Like a good parent, he taught them about the world they would soon inhabit.

He was bed-bound with a thready pulse when Vestria reappeared. "It's time," she said quietly. Baabul could sense her presence by his bedside.

"What are you?" Baabul called out. His withered limbs, like frail antennae, reached out to grab her. As she did the night of their union, Vestria injected a powerful anesthetic into him with her upper mandible.

He was still awake when his ravenous firstborn ate their way out through his belly button. The broodling's chitinous head had a seven-eyed cluster that met Baabul's rapt gaze.

My babies! He watched in silent awe as each broodling’s segmented body pushed out of him. They cried out to him, “Papa!” Their spined limbs tearing through flesh, their eyes glinting green. He passed out while they consumed him in front of their waiting mother. His body was his final gift.