Cut Ties (Paultryck Mpreg)

Part 4

"Yeah...No, yes, of course I can."

Paul woke up to the sweetness of his boyfriend's voice, and he could feel the weight of him sitting on the cot beside him. Two weeks passed since Tord's return, and neither soldier had caught wind of their boss in that time. The only real significant change in their lives was Pat officially hitting the five month mark in the pregnancy, now a week over that.

"Wait...how many hours?" Patryck's voice tensed, and he repeated the number under his breath with a swear. Nineteen. "Yeah...yeah, I can do that, sir. See you in a few." He hung up with a short huff.

"What was that?" Paul asked, stretching. Patryck realized his boyfriend had heard the conversation and hummed softly, reaching over to pet through Paul's hair and down onto his cheek. Paul leaned into his boyfriend's touch, finally opening his eyes.

Even in the low, crappy light of the base, Patryck was glowing. This pregnancy was far more kind to him - his cheeks were rosy and his hair was growing almost impossibly fast, to the point where he constantly had it in a ponytail. Paul wanted to give him a haircut, but his boyfriend simply refused.

Patryck pushed his hair out of his face with his free hand, still carefully touching Paul's cheek. "Work order. Tord hasn't called my personal comm for work in forever."

"Work order?" Paul echoed, "He wants you working for nineteen hours?"

"Yes, but-"

"Pat, you're pregnant, he can't do that to you!"

"I'm pregnant...not injured, hun." Patryck sighed. "Besides, it's all sitting work, and I get breaks. And if my shift starts at 5, I'll be done around...midnight-ish. That's not too terrible, he's not trying to kill me."

"I just-..." Paul shut himself up, sighing. "Please be careful."

"Careful is my middle name." Patryck smiled, finally taking his communicator from the bed and putting it back in his pocket.

"Hm...I thought it was Ivanovich."

"But Careful is easier to say," Patryck let a laugh escape. "Besides...Ivanovich literally means 'son of Ivan', so my name is literally 'Patryck, son of Ivan Duncalfe'. Talk about my father being creative."

"If I name our kid like that, you're allowed to shoot me."

"Please, I don't think I'd hesitate," Patryck rolled his eyes before pausing and thinking. "...God, it would literally be Pavlovich. There's no slavic version of Paul."

Paul let a weak chuckle escape before he stretched again. He knew he couldn't bring the subject back to work now, it would only upset Patryck. Paul hated knowing he couldn't win a work-related argument with his boyfriend. He was determined to work until he couldn't anymore, and it showed. He had honors to uphold, and carrying a fragile being on his person at all times was doing nothing to stop that.

"Clara went with Lars last night," Patryck started. "She wanted to sleep over in his barracks."

"And you let her?"

"Of course I did," Pat smiled. "Lars is amazing with her. Best babysitter I've had the pleasure of not paying." He stood up with a weak huff, stretching his back. The arch of it only highlighted his tiny bump under his night shirt. It was small enough that it looked as if Pat was pushing out his gut and nothing more, and Paul couldn't wait to see how it grew. "Besides, he's really good at-" Pat cut himself short, glancing back at Paul.

"What's he good at?"

"God, I'm going straight to hell for saying it, but..." Patryck sighed, picking at his cuticles. "He keeps her away from Tord. He's still healing, and I'm scared shitless at how she'll react to seeing him."