Complete Again (TomTord Mpreg)

Four

Weeks passed, and nothing was getting easier for Tord.

Everyday brought up new struggles, whether it be his pants refusing to button, or the frequent migraines that were starting to overtake him. He only ever got sick in the early hours of the day, but he felt on the verge of it more than he'd like to admit.

Luckily, nobody knew yet.

He turned to smoking a pack a week instead of his usual single cigarette on an off day. It took his mind off of his mysterious ailment, though only for a moment. He was switching the blame for it constantly - ranging from the robotic arm to karma coming back to get him.

He thought about Tom a lot, more than he'd like to admit. He thought about what he'd say if he got a chance to see that damned Brit again. He thought about Tom's smile and his damn sarcastic attitude that Tord still loved to no end.

He thought about their last night together, slower and more passionate than any of their past flings. Tord was on the bed that time, his legs tenderly wrapped around Tom's waist, the pair's lips rarely parting as they kissed.

Tord missed that feeling. He missed Tom.

He missed Tom, even as he was heaving in the bathroom of his private quarters. It hurt this time, likely because his stomach was already empty. This sickness felt like the steep slope of a rollercoaster, and at the rate he was going, he felt like this was the summit. Only down from here.

He hadn't eaten as much as usual, now opting for coffee spiked with a splash of Smirnoff and cereal bars over anything else. More often than not that was all he needed - he was rarely hungry anymore, and nothing seemed appetizing nowadays.

Just as Tord coughed up the last of the sour bile, there was a firm knock at the door.

"Fuck..." he panted, forcing himself to his feet and scrambling for his long coat. He pulled it on, padding to the door. He felt like he looked ridiculous, wearing his pajamas and his leader's jacket and no socks or shoes - but by the sound of the knocking, Tord knew it was urgent.

"Yes?" He breathed, pulling open the door.

"Good afternoon, Red Leader," Patryck smiled, folding his arms as he looked Tord over. "You look worse for wear."

Tord nodded, sighing softly and running a hand through his hair.

"Rough night? Hungover?"

Another nod. "Something like that..."

"Well, sir, I'm sorry I can't stop a headache, but I do need to talk to you. Not business, don't worry - just want to talk."

"Come on in, Pat. You don't have to explain yourself -- we're friends, remember?"

"Couldn't forget, even if I wanted to." Patryck grinned, strolling in to the room, arms falling to his sides as he walked.

"Make yourself at home, I need to make myself presentable. It's about time I start my day."

"Tord, it's two in the afternoon. Jan's been covering for you since four this morning." Pat sighed with a playful grin, sitting on the end of Tord's cot. "I can't believe he let you sleep in."

Tord didn't look back, his nose buried in his closet as he dug for a clean uniform. "Hey, Jan's done it before too!"

"Yeah, we all have. But not past noon. The latest I've gone is a half-hour over before Paul literally pounced on me to wake me up." Pat chuckled at the memory before his gaze faltered. "Speaking of Paul..."

"Is that why you're here?" Tord asked from the bathroom, his words muffled by the black door separating them.

"Yes, Red Leader." Pat mumbled, almost in a sweet tone.