A/N: I'm gonna have this up in a timely fashion. I'm gonna have this up in a timely fashion. I'm gonna have this up in a timely fashion. I'm gonna have this up in a timely fashion. I'm gonna have this up in a timely fashion. I'm gonna have this up in a ti—

Holy shit it's fuckin' May. All because I didn't know how I wanted to write an argument.

…

Marcurio wakes when he rolls over onto bare, chilled sheets. He opens his eyes and there's no white hair in his vision… he lays still for a moment, listening hard for the sound of the Dunmer retching up his dinner, but his suspicions are confirmed when he finds that he's alone in the house.

"Dal," he groans, voice low and rough with sleep, and runs a hand down over his face. They'd talked about this! He can't go sneaking out in the middle of the night like some kind of wayward child; he's pregnant, for gods' sakes! With a huff he gets up out of bed, yanking on a shirt and a pair of breeches.

"I'm going to murder him," the mage growls as he leaves the house, casting Clairvoyance, and slams the door shut behind him.

…

Dalamus grins as another of his arrows buries itself to the fletchings in a Falmer's face. This place is amazing, and so close to home! He hadn't even brought the horse with him; Shimmermist Cave is only a bit of a walk away, and it's full of Falmer, their things, charuses, and spiders, basically excellent target practice. So far he hasn't seen any machines, which just makes it better. Why hasn't he ever come through here before?

It probably takes a few hours to make his way through completely—he isn't particularly great at estimating how fast the time passes—but eventually he finds himself crouching in the corner of a large room, his arrow nocked and aimed at the crowned head of the Falmer den mother/queen/whatever the fuck it's called. He holds his breath, stilling his bow to immaculate aim, and only releases the air when he releases the arrow. It flies straight and true, whistling as it climbs, then drops, landing with a squelch deep inside the cave elf's skull. She lets out a croak and falls forward with the momentum of the arrow, cracking her head loudly on the stone floor. Dal moves over to the body, looking through her pockets and pouches, and is busy mentally calculating the amount of gold it'll all sell for when the sound of a deep, mechanical groan slams into him from the side.

Oh, Gods, no.

In the far corner of the chamber a Dwarven centurion is peeling itself out of its dock beside the crumbling wall. His stomach tries to fall straight down out of his body; the last and only time he'd fought one was in Alftand, and that hadn't quite turned out fantastically. The only reason he isn't dead now is because of the gate he'd managed to throw up a few seconds too late. He didn't come here to die. So he stands up slowly, carefully, turns toward the exit….

And runs like the whole of Oblivion is behind him.

The centurion roars, so loudly that Dalamus thinks his ears might be bleeding, and large steps follow him down the incline back into the bowels of the cave. A loud hiss fills the air and warm liquid sprays across the back of his neck, far cooler than it should have been. The machine is close, but not close enough to kill him. Yet.

His heart is pounding in his chest and in his ears and the pappappap of his booted feet hitting the stony floor echoes through the cave that feels like it will never fucking end, but it can't even hope to compete with the THUD. THUD. THUD. that is the centurion chasing after him. Close. Quickly. If he can get back far enough he can hide—it'll go right past him, maybe. Hopefully. His lungs are on fire, legs pumping relentlessly as he continues through the passageway, and when he turns the corner he wants to weep with relief.

The room is perfect, rife with thick, heavy shadows that he can hide in. If it doesn't catch him first the centurion will eventually give up the search here to look elsewhere, and it's too big to get all the way to the entrance. Dal curls up in a corner, shrouded in darkness, and uses the heat in his chest to hiss a low, "Laas, yah."

Has his heart always been this loud?

The glowing, red form of the centurion comes charging into the corridor and pauses, searching for its quarry. Dalamus doesn't know how its senses work, but its sight isn't anything spectacular because it walks right past him, experimentally blowing a spray of steam down the hall leading toward the exit. When nothing comes from looking in that direction it swings the top half of its body around, moving back the way it had come, as if it knows that it's missed him somewhere and is going to retrace its steps. It's exactly the opening he's looking for; he inches out from the cover of the shadow, his steps landing at the same time as the centurion's to make sure he isn't heard. But he's more worried about matching the machine step-for-step than watching where he's going and he trips over a rock barely a foot into the hall, falling back on his ass. And he would have sat there in silence, hoping it had gone unnoticed, but the centurion's huge golden form turns toward him.

It had not gone unnoticed.

He scrambles to his feet, fully aware of the fact that he has to do something or he'll be literally dead in seconds, but the life-detecting shout he'd whispered earlier is still holding his lungs hostage and his mind is a blank of panic, besides. He just stares as the machine approaches, like a cornered rabbit, and doesn't even have the presence of mind to meditate on what looking death right in the face is like.

"Move!"

Marcurio?

And suddenly Dal is yanked back to the floor by the collar of his armor. He barely manages a glance up at the form of his husband, arms wreathed in shimmering blue magicka all the way up to the elbows, before his vision fills with bluish-white.

By the time he thinks it might not hurt that much to open his eyes, the idea that he might be in trouble crosses his mind, but it flits away just as quickly as it had come, chased by the realization that… he isn't breathing right.

He pulls his legs up to his chest, trying to get his lungs to behave, and his hands raise to his ears, fists pressing in tight as the ringing left over from Marc's spell shears into his brain. Try as he might the image of Lydia, speared through and bleeding out and gasping thin, wet breaths refuses to yield mental real estate to other things, like addressing his rapidly darkening vision. The hissing sound of the machine settling into its death makes Dalamus think he feels steam melting his skin and his limbs begin to tremble.

It's gradual but somehow it also feels like it happens all at once—his brain is shutting down, like the final, cooling coals of a fire turning from glowing orange to ashen gray. It feels like his chest is too small for his lungs and it's keeping him from getting any air in, in a completely different way from that night at the Vilemyr Inn. This is a new level of not being able to breathe.

He's so busy retreating into himself in panic, wrapped up in it as he is, that he barely recognizes the sensation of Marcurio kneeling in front of him, and hands grasping at his arms.

"Dal?!"

His eyes open and his vision is gray around the edges, small and far away and blurry with tears, but the fact that the Imperial's face is filling the parts he can see gives him an unreasonable amount of relief. The hands he reaches back with are still shaking as they grasp at the other's sleeves, looking for something to ground himself with.

"Breathe with me, Dal, everything's fine," Marc tells him, taking deep breaths and trying to get him to follow along. Those hands lift to Dal's face and the white-green calm spell coats the Dunmer's skin like armor; it calms his frenetic heartbeat, and opens his chest up so he can breathe. Suddenly he's seeing the glow of the spell in his peripheral vision instead of that fuzzy darkness.

"Are you alright? Did it hurt you?"

"No, no," he pushes those searching hands back a bit, then swipes both palms down his face. "I don't know what happened to me. I just fell apart. I'm totally fine."

"Oh, you're fine." Marcurio settles back on his heels with a sigh, brushing his hair back out of his face, and moves to get up. "You're totally fine, that's great. That's perfect. I'm glad you're fine. It's good that you're fine."

"Wh…" the tone of the Marc's voice hits him right in the chest, as does the image of the mage walking away swiftly, cracking his knuckles. Dalamus has to lengthen his stride to keep up—his legs are shorter than the taller man's—but he stays well ahead, and even after he runs out of knuckles to crack he continues to rub his palms together like he's trying to keep them warm.

When they finally break into the weak dawn sunlight the Dunmer decides he's had enough, and jogs to catch up to Marc, grasping for his linen shirt, "Marcurio—"

"Have you lost your fucking mind?" the mage whirls on him, leaning down to get in his face.

The sudden action reignites the heat in Dal's throat but he shrinks back at the other's ferocity, his voice coming out small. "Excuse me?"

Marcurio seems to reel it in a little but his eyes are no less hard. "Dalamus. I thought we talked about this."

"Talked about what? You said 'I don't want you fighting anymore' and that was it. This wasn't a discussion," it's a point that still makes him upset, and the anger gives him confidence. He keeps going, eyes following the way the Imperial lets out an exasperated breath and walks in a wide circle. "It's been weeks. You've had me holed up in that damn city for weeks. Forgive me if I wanted something to do."

"Oh, you were bored," that comes out as a laugh, though there's no humor in it. "You're right, dying does seem like a fun way to shake up your life."

"I wasn't going to die! It was just Falmer and spiders; I didn't have a single problem until—"

"Until you were about to die!" Marcurio roars it, and it's like those words suck the energy out of him because he slowly sits on the ground, working his fingers like he's cracking them even though there's no crack left in them. 'Die' is still echoing through the hills when he continues. "If I hadn't been there… fuck, if I'd noticed you were gone just a moment later, you might have died, Dalamus."

Dalamus can't really do anything but listen as the mage goes on, and his heart aches.

"Or if I hadn't noticed at all, and you did manage to do something about the centurion, you still might have had that… breakdown, whatever it was. Who knows how long you would have been down there, by yourself, hyperventilating in the dark?"

"I'm sorry," he croaks out, throat dry with shame. "I was being reckless, and selfish, and putting myself in harm's way for no reason."

"It's not just you, Dal." Marc's eyes lift to his and they're dark, and sobering. "You are carrying our child. There's another life that you have to look out for, or at the very least, stay alive for. I want to take care of you, both of you, as best I can, but I can't do that if you're running around almost getting yourself killed."

"I can take care of myself," Dal tries to say, but it comes out weak and unconvincing after the ordeal they'd just gone through.

"Can you?" the mage snaps it, but is quick to reign himself in with a deep breath. The calm that settles on his shoulders seems to take a lot of effort, and Dalamus decides to stop arguing from this point on. He doesn't get another chance to, though, because Marcurio leans forward to grab his hand. "Come here, sit in front of me."

The grass is brittle where the elf sits, but there's a lot of it, so it cushions well enough. "You didn't get to see this before," the Imperial says, scooting forward a little so Dal ends up in between his legs, "So repeat what I say very carefully."

"You're teaching me a spell?"

The response he gets is an affirmative hum, and Marcurio's chin rests on his shoulder. "The Detect Life spell Nura shared when we were in the temple. You left before you got a chance to try it for yourself."

"I was mad at you, I wouldn't have tried it anyway."

"Well now I'm mad at you, so that's exactly what you're gonna do." The mage's hands dwarf his own, fingers linking and giving the smaller blue pair a squeeze. "You don't have much magicka, so let's do this. Repeat after me."

It takes a bit of time and a wrinkle of concentration in the Dunmer's brow, but eventually he learns the spell. The words fit strangely in his mouth and he isn't sure he's doing it right until the red glow at the corners of his vision tells him he's succeeded. It's weird though, he isn't sure what it was that made Marc's face light up like it did in the temple. What could have assured him so certainly that he was going to be a fath–

Oh.

He sucks in a slow breath, unable to pull his eyes away from the glowing red dot floating in the center of his belly, "Is that…?"

"Yes." Dalamus hears more than feels his husband smile despite their faces being pressed together, and it warms his heart to know how excited the Imperial already is. The brown hands wrapped around his navy ones squeeze gently. "That's our baby."

The Dunmer finds himself smiling, too, nuzzling his cheek against that stubbly face. "I can't believe it, it's so… tiny."

"Do you understand why I need you to calm down?" Marc nuzzles him back, but his voice is quiet and serious. His left hand releases Dal's and presses flush against his stomach. "You have to be careful with this, Dalamus, please."

"I will, I promise."

"That's what you said last time."

"In my defense, all I said was 'I'll do my best,' but..." Dalamus lifts the hand he's still holding to his lips, giving it a kiss. "I mean it. I'll be good."

"Thank you," it comes out in a sigh, and the guilt settles on his shoulders anew. "Let's go home. I'm tired."

…

Dal keeps his word, with a few concessions. He's allowed a contract every three weeks, so long as Marcurio goes with him on all of them and takes point. It's hard to give up the lead but he's happy to be able to use his shooting muscles again.

The second he starts showing Marc shoves him into the temple. Danica listens to their situation very thoughtfully, and agrees to help them see the pregnancy through.

As the time wears on the pregnancy begins to hurt. Dalamus tries to keep his more minor aches quiet but the mage can read him like a book. Any slight change in the way he moves, any little wince or pause to press a fist into his back and he's immediately sent into the bedroom for a foot- or back- or neck rub. It had quickly become a priority to said mage to keep his husband as comfortable as possible, considering the fact that the male body isn't exactly suited for pregnancy.

Some time about seven months in, this is where the Dunmer finds himself, sitting near the edge of the bed with Marcurio behind him, gently working his knuckles and fingertips into Dal's lower back.

"You were always so excited about this…"

The mage looks up, pulled out of his focus by the words. "Hm?"

"When we found out I was pregnant," Dalamus reiterates, glancing over his shoulder. "You were instantly excited; you should've seen the grin on your face when you cast that spell for the first time."

"Weren't you?"

"I was mad about it, and then I didn't know what to think. All I knew was that there wasn't anything I could do about it one way or another."

Admittedly that admission gives Marc no small amount of concern, but he decides to keep kneading the sore spots at his husband's back. "And?"

"And, well, I..." he grows quiet, considering his words carefully. But the mage doesn't know that, and his hands stop moving. He just stares at the back of Dal's head, holding back the urge to speak until the Dragonborn quietly continues, "I was scared. I am scared."

Marcurio's brows draw together, and when his hands move again it's to pull the other man closer. "Why?"

"... What if I'm not a good father?"

"Wh– of course you will be," the mage murmurs, holding the silverhead to his chest. "You can do anything. You've literally saved the world, Dal."

"Yeah, by killing. All I do is kill things. I don't know how to nurture, to build. It's not like I had the best role model to teach me how."

"I specialize in destruction magic, but I learn the new things when I need to." He carefully avoids bringing his own father up for comparison. "As long as the intent is there you'll do just fine."

But that doesn't seem to quell his worries any, so the Imperial continues,"If it helps, I read once that dragons are even more protective of their young than bears. They'll burn down whole towns, kill hundreds of people and creatures and raze acres upon acres of land just to make sure their hatchlings aren't harmed. If anything, you'd hurt everyone else."

"That doesn't count, Marcurio, I'm serious. Don't give me lore." He sits up, turning to look the other man in the face. "You're telling me you aren't worried about any of it?"

Marc levels a look at him, and rests a hand on his rounded stomach. "Dal. You're a pregnant man; of course I'm worried. And I'm sure every parent has concerns at this stage. Parents have concerns at every stage. But I've always wanted children, so I'm more excited than daunted."

"Oh."

"You didn't?"

"Honestly, I never thought about it," Dalamus settles back into his place below the mage's chin with a sigh. "I guess I would have wanted one or two eventually, especially if I was keeping the farm. But that was before Skyrim, before all of this. So much has changed. I don't know if I'm ready."

"It isn't about being ready, especially because we don't really have a choice in whether or not this baby's coming in a few weeks. It's about taking it one day at a time, and doing our best."

"Careful, you don't want to overcomplicate things." it's murmured, but Marcurio catches it.

"Well, that's what it boils down to," he kisses the head of white hair below his chin. "We don't have time to get ready. This baby is coming, and from the moment they're born until they're grown, our top priority is making sure they grow up with everything they need. You're already doing that."

"Am I?"

"You stopped running around trying to get yourself killed." he wraps his arms around Dal's middle, cradling that rounded belly. "You realized that putting our child first was the most important thing. You don't have to be worried at all, Dal; you're gonna be a great father."