In a moment of weakness, and these days every moment spent fucking Lynch were his weakest, Kavinsky couldn't stop himself from letting slip how he enjoyed having sex with Lynch, how relaxing it was, how he'd never have to worry about spawning any critters.
Fuck, was he getting maudlin. And they say drugs are bad for you. (Lynch is so much worse.)
Fast forward several months, he's being jostled awake by something nuzzling his hand. It's too small, with too much hair, to be Lynch, but it's too large and not hairy enough to be a guinea pig or whatever.
It's a girl, with huge, liquid eyes, who's pressing his knuckles against her cheek, sniffling like a rabbit, expression both shy and stubborn, daring him to move.
"Lynch? What the fuck is that?"
"That's Orphan Girl," Lynch says from his perch beneath the window, unscrewing some broken apparatus to see what's inside. "I rescued her from my dream."
"Are you fucking kidding me? I never wanted kids with you."
Lynch scoffs, face a mosaic of light. "Gansey said the same thing about Chainsaw, but you should see him now. You'll come around, too."
Kavinsky groans. "I'm not paying any alimony."