The first thought that came to her pretty little head when she found out about Sergei's condition was to scarper as far as possible, for as long as possible. Discovering that her future husband had an acute form of dissociative identity disorder was not what every bride dreamed of. On top of that, there was the sweetest cherry on this odd cake⎯her pregnancy. Ptitsa, obviously, was not chuffed with this news either.

Oh, how dramatic he is.

He was furious, pacing the room with a nervousness that made her clutch her stomach protectively. “I didn't sign up for this,” Such were Ptitsa's indignations. “This muddled everything.”

Ptitsa detested being left in the background because all of Sergei's (and even Oleg's…?) attention was on her and on that vile parasite inside her. And he constantly rabbited on about their great deeds and blah, blah. Boring.

But all of a sudden, he realised that this was his daughter too. This realisation hit him like a fall from the Vmeste Tower. His daughter, not just Sergei's.

It's time to start again.

“Well, come here, dove,” Ptitsa commands, but then he himself approaches the bed, knowing how difficult it's for her to move. His hands, not Sergei's (bloody hell, too difficult), rest on her round pregnant belly. His touch is surprisingly gentle. “Are you eating and sleeping sufficiently? I hope he feeds you a proper diet and not just veg. That wanker Sergei didn't let me show up for almost a week. You're a bad influence on him.”

The sensation is strange, almost surreal, as if Sergei and Ptitsa are momentarily one. “You must be knackered,” he softly murmurs. “I can see it in your eyes. Sergei should take better care of you. And this little one,” he adds, his fingers tracing a slow, deliberate path across her stomach. “She and you deserve the best, you know?”

He opens his amber eyes wide when he feels her gentle touch, as she buries her fingers in his fiery red hair. The man kneels down in front of her and puts his ear to {{user}}'s baby bump. “Daddy's waiting for you, little bird.”