Mission: Baby bump, hormones & tennis

[rc45]

Author: anheloz
Title: Baby bump, hormones & tennis
Rating: NC-17
Author's Notes: Je ne connais aucun de ces tennismen ni leur famille. Ceci est une mpreg (c'est à dire avec un homme enceint, dans ce cas c'est Roger!)
Obligatory linkage: http://community.livejournal.com/lesfrustratrice/24505.html
Sporked by: agenttrojie and tea_fiend, with a little help on the translation from smigs, flytrue, and tea_fiend's dad, who amazed us both by not even flinching at either the content or how his daughter chooses to spend her free time.
Sporking rated: R
Sporkers' notes: Federer. Nadal. Mpreg. For sheer WTFery, this takes the cake. Normally we'd not even think of a mission in a non-English-language fic, but that basic premise, we feel, is enough to sign the execution warrant for this thing. Hilarious mistranslations courtesy of Google are simply a bonus.





July 6th 2008 HST


'Is it done yet?' Trojie called across RC#45, not looking up from her bubbling experiments.

'Come on, Rafa! Break him! Break him!'

'That'd be a no, then,' Trojie muttered to herself, and returned her attention to her current attempt to find out exactly which amino acids Sues were made up of. Thanks to the sudden shrieks of triumph or disappointment that came frequently from Pads, this was not going too well.

Three hours later, after another crucible had exploded and taken the remains of Trojie's eyebrows off to the Great Big Forehead in the Sky, she decided to give up for the time being, and wandered over to the console. For once it wasn't beeping, except when one of the players thwacked the ball right into the net, because Pads, using the technical skills that were instinctive to her as a native of an internet-based sub-continuum, had somehow got it to pick up Wimbledon. She was sitting so close she was practically climbing into the screen, and a small trail of drool was wending its way, unnoticed, down her chin.

'Still appreciating his bum, I take it?' Trojie commented, eyeing the fluorescent ball with deep distrust.

'Oh, you pillock!' was the only response from Pads, as she rolled a cigarette without looking, and inhaled for dear life. Trojie gave up and wandered off.

Even later, Trojie was distracted from her dissection of Specimen #420, a quantum weather butterfly with a peculiar fungal condition characterised by pink glitter, by a howl of despair.

'What is it?'

'Rain break. Again.' Pads dived for the kettle, her hands shaking slightly. 'This is not doing my nerves any good.'

'Is he winning?'

'Nope. He was, two sets to love at the first rain break, but the silly pillock went and let him pull back, and now...' Pads sighed, and shrugged expansively. 'Two sets all, two games all, deuce. Aaaargh!' And she flopped to the floor.

[BEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!]

'You realise you've contracted the Pronoun Problem,' Trojie commented, wandering back over to the console (which switched back to its usual functions during breaks) to see what horrors the multiverse had in store for them today.

'I don't care, I don't, I don't. There is only one He in this room at the moment, and that is Nadal.'

'And his bum.'

'Yes, and his bum.'

Trojie broke into hysterical giggles at that point, hysterical enough to distract Pads from her gloom and her tea. 'What is it?' she asked.

Trojie appeared to be having trouble breathing. 'You...are not... going to ... believe... this,' she gasped out.

'What is it?' asked Pads, really concerned now. Bulletins were beginning to filter through from the shared brain, and she did not like the direction they were going in.

'It's Him,' Trojie explained, with some difficulty, as the laughing made it hard to breathe.

'Him? You mean... Rafa?'

'C'est à dire avec un homme enceint, dans ce cas c'est Roger!' Trojie crowed triumphantly. She must, she thought, really have done something to please the NLoC. Or else Pads had really pissed them off in some way.

'Hang on a minute.' Pads frowned suspiciously. 'Enceinte?' She glared at her tobacco, brows furrowed, as realisation dawned. Trojie's giggles were cut off when Pads landed actually on top of her in an effort to get to the console and hurt it in some way.

'Hang on,' she said, from her position atop Trojie's wheezing form. 'This is in French. Do you speak French?' Trojie's response was indecipherable, thanks to her having a face full of Pads's behind, a fact that the Animagus agent would have been far more likely to appreciate were it not for the horrible, horrible images of a pregnant Roger Federer spiralling uncontrollably through her mind. She started fiddling with the console, activating the translation program she'd nicked off Google some weeks previously.

'Not going to stand for this,' she muttered under her breath, scanning the translation. 'Not having my Rafa shagging Federer. And knocking him up! They're halfway through a bloody final! It's hardly a fair win if Federer's bloody knocked up...'

'I used to speak French,' said Trojie, in between giggles, 'in response to your query. Six years ago. In the Real World. But I haven't used it since then, and I'm rusty. I have enough to know this is dire, that's all. And since when was he your Rafa?'

'Well he's sure as hell not Federer's Rafa, that's for damned sure. Pretty sure he's got a girlfriend, in fact.'

'When you say pretty sure...'

'Yes?'

'You mean if I go in your cupboard I'll find a shrine to him and a voodoo doll of her, don't you?'

'...Possibly. This is not the point. The point is I am not standing for him knocking anyone up. Except women. Or possibly not even them, unless it's me.'

'Is there any explanation as to how a man in the Real World gets pregnant? Did Federer used to be a woman?'

'Not to my knowledge, and how should I know? Don't speak French, do I?'

'Then how exactly do you propose we collect the charges?'

'Ae,' Pads said, counting on her fingers, 'it's RPS featuring two known heterosexuals. Charge. Bee, it's MPREG. In the Real World. Charge. And anyway, I'm sure we've picked up enough knowledge of body language to have a go. Oh, and See, enceint.'

'What about it?'

'It's not a word. Trust me, I see it on fag packets often enough. She's trying to make the word 'pregnant' masculine. It doesn't work.'

'Knowledge of body language does not allow us to pick up linguistic charges. And, given that one of them is pregnant, there's probably not going to be a lot of smoking in this fic.'

'Hence my handy translation program. Printing English Words now,' Pads said, hitting the appropriate button and watching page after page of bizarrely mistranslated English spew forth. 'And would you mind moving? Your glasses are sticking somewhere I'd really rather they didn't.'

'Excuse me! You're the one who sat on me.'

'And now I'm getting off you. Come on, get us some disguises and let's go. I want this thing dead.' Pads removed herself from Trojie, and glared at the Words.

'On one condition.' Trojie rummaged under the console, and produced a leash.

'Anything.'

'Promise me you won't try to grope Nadal.'

***

'This is chafing,' said Pads grumpily, pulling at her collar and the leash attached to it, which Trojie was holding in a deathgrip. 'And black leather bondage gear really doesn't go with my crisp tennis whites.'

'No, nor with your cable-knit vest,' said Trojie affably, tugging the leash once more. 'But, I don't care.'

'You have never cared,' said Pads, affecting an injured pout. She was distracted immediately, however, by Roger Federer regarding his stomach.

'The translation's spacked,' Trojie commented, waving the printout. 'Look: While gently my stomach begins to s'arrondir.'

'Perfectly understandable. His stomach's rounding. Which you would expect, with some parasitic assbaby in there.'

'I thought you didn't speak French.'

Pads shrugged. 'I don't. Hence we're stuck with phrases like the hollow of my stomach grows to be a small fruit of our love irrational and surprising. Can we charge for urple that might in fact be down to my programming skills?'

'Nope. However, if you've managed to create a program that translates perfectly ordinary text into hideously mind-scarring urple, I'll be very impressed.'

'He seems,' said Pads, keeping an eye on the printout as she observed Federer stroking his stomach, 'to already know that it's a boy. But he doesn't look pregnant enough to know the gender, does he? You're the biologist. Is there any legitimate reason why two male parents couldn't have a daughter?'

'Total lack of womb?'

'Chromosomally speaking, I mean.'

'Er...' There was a pause while Trojie did a quick Punnet square in her head. '...No. No, I don't think there is. They have a two in four chance of a boy, one in four of a girl and one in four of a spontaneous miscarriage because of lack of an X chromosome.'

'Excellent.'

'However, there is no way he could magically know the gender before having had an ultrasound.'

'Charge, then?'

'Most certainly.'

'And can we charge for paedophilia?'

'What? Where?'

'Federer's thinking about when he first met Rafa. I think. The translation's a little... spasticated. But he definitely described Rafa's body then as juvenile.'

Trojie pulled a face. 'How old was he when they first met then?'

Pads looked shifty. 'He was fifteen when he went pro, I think. Technically. Or thereabouts. But it's still icky. Federer was twenty then. First match was...' Pads's eyes glazed a moment as she tried to remember. '2004.'

'I don't know that it's a charge, per se.'

'An adult lusting after a child,' Pads pointed out. 'He was three months shy of his eighteenth.'

'Illegal, yes. Charge, no. Also, your encyclopaedic knowledge of the life of a man you've never met is disturbing.'

Pouting, Pads turned back to her printout. Trojie busied herself by glaring at Federer, who hadn't moved from his supine position at all save to stroke his stomach further.

'Hang on, how is Rafa suddenly Federer's dolphin?'

Trojie squinted at the Words. 'Prince, Pads. He means prince.'

'But it says dolphin!'

'For some reason wholly unknown to me, the French word for dolphin and prince is sort of the same word.'

'...The French are strange. Why is Rafa a dolphin?' Pads whined piteously in Canine for a few moments, looking at Nadal with undisguised longing.

'He's not a dolphin, I promise. No sea creatures are involved. And no, we cannot charge for spastic translations.'

'I'm having awful memories of those demented SGA crackfics. The ones where half the characters are randomly penguins.'

'...Excuse me?'

'I don't understand it either. Always put it down to some off the wall homage to Steve Bell.'

'...Who?'

'Never mind.'

They were silent a moment more, and then Trojie asked, 'Is it boring?'

'Hmm?'

'Federer's wondering if the final's boring. You know, the one you were drooling over just now.'

'He is? He's clearly deranged then. The fact that the pair of them are head and shoulders above the rest of the world of male tennis makes it more interesting, not less. It's a clash of champions. Which Rafa is going to win. It's his destiny. And also high time Federer was taken down a peg or two. And-'

'Pads. Calm down. Your match will still be there when we get back. Tell you what, we can even portal back to just before the rain break finishes.'

'We can portal forwards in time?'

'Um. No. But we can portal back out to the moment we left, so you can still watch the bum even if it takes us three days to work through this weirdly translated travesty.'

'Three days! That's as long as the longest match I ever watched!'

'...If that thing lasts three days I'm moving out.'

'Look! He says he's going to too!'

'Who's going to what?'

'Federer! He says he's going to retire to drop the sprog! And... and he says Rafa's 21. This must be last year. Is rewriting established Real World history a charge?'

'Yep,' Trojie said, noting it. 'I mean, I'm assuming here that he didn't have an inexplicable break from playing a few months ago.'

'You assume correctly. Also, he pulled his top up about an hour ago, and I didn't see any Caesarean scar, so unless he shat the assbaby out... Look, more urple. I'm afraid this costume is a little too heavy for you, in between the - what?'

'What?'

'The doping, apparently. I don't remember Rafa getting busted for drugs.'

Trojie peered over Pads's shoulder at the printout. 'Oh, look. He fears the Spanish don't accept the real nature of our relations.'

'It's not just the Spanish,' Pads grumbled. 'What the...? You shoot me for months now to our coming-out on the circuit?'

'That makes no sense. Must be the translator.'

'Unless they're actually out in this.'

'I'm not sure that's entirely the sort of coming out the author's referring to. And I'm not sure she's ever witnessed a pregnancy either.'

'Well, no. She thinks they happen to men, for a start.'

'Aside from that. Look here.' Trojie pointed to the translation. 'In a few days the assbaby will grow a little bit larger and so everyone will be able to see he's pregnant. It's a rather more gradual process than that. And I'm assuming, what with being number one in the world-'

'How do you know that? Ha! I knew you were secretly paying attention!'

Trojie gave the leash a sharp tug, and Pads gasped, rubbing her neck. 'I'm assuming he's on telly rather a lot. In fact I'm amazed he's been able to keep it a secret this long. Also sort of amazed he's stupid enough to play such a strenuous sport while up the duff. Or are assbabies magically protected from accidental miscarriage caused by jolting?'

'You're the biologist. You tell me.'

'Well, seeing as you need a uterine lining for a zygote to stick to... Actually wait, you need an ovary for sperm to fuse with to form a zygote in the first place... This fails. I refuse to even try and justify it. This author has obviously never heard of mitochondria.'

'What do mitochondria have to do with it?'

'You need them in order to live. You only get them from your mother, because the mitochondria in a sperm cell never make it through into the egg. Well, okay, there are infrequent exceptions, but basically, even if you could fuse two sperms to make a zygote, said zygote would not have mitochondria and thus would not make a viable baby.'

'I'm going to assume that you haven't completely lost it, and we'll move on, to 'how the hell has Federer known from his childhood that he can have babies?''

'Where's the foetus gonna gestate? You gonna keep it in a box?!'

'I'm sure I've talked to you before about your incessant Monty Python references.'

'Be fair; at least that one was appropriate. Ack, more urple.'

'Can we skip ahead to the bits with Rafa in?'

'He's here now. Don't think I can't see you ogling.'

'I know, but he's not doing anything!'

'Alright,' Trojie sighed. 'But it's your funeral.' She activated the Remote Activator.

-Roger arrête de te caresser le ventre, tu vas finir par ne plus avoir de peau !

'Told you,' Trojie said, shuddering, as Pads scrambled through the printout, trying to work out what the hell Nadal had just said. Finding it, she spluttered indignantly.

'It's not that bad,' Trojie said. 'He's just concerned.'

'It's not that. It's this,' Pads replied, thrusting the printout into her partner's face and stabbing a finger at the offending lines.

Power enceint fall is not a unique ability but it's pretty rare to scare property righteous.

'Power enceint? Male pregnancy power? Sounds pretty damned unique to me. And scary. What's the problem?'

'No, you muppet, after that!'

Your arms wrap themselves around my abdomen with sweetness.

'Ack! The urple, it hurts us, precious!'

Pads whimpered.

'Well, what were you expecting, really?'

'Rafa to be in character? Or maybe to speak Spanish?'

'Would that work?'

'No, Federer doesn't speak it. But Rafa barely speaks English, if his post-match interviews are anything to go by.'

'Well, that's alright. It's not an English fic.'

'No! It's not alright! Federer doesn't speak Spanish! Rafa doesn't speak German, or French, or Swiss German, and his English is about as practiced and skilful as a thirteen year old's attempt at bondage fic! How are they supposed to be communicating effectively?! Aaaaaargh!'

'Alright, so English is the only language they've even vaguely got in common. Perhaps it's not so much urple as an attempt to demonstrate Nadal's trouble with English?'

Pads merely growled.

'I apologise heartily for appearing to defend a badfic, but honestly, calm down or I'll have to neuralyse you again.'

'You've neuralysed me before?'

Trojie cursed mentally. 'No, no, just, er, banter...'

'When?'

'Never!'

'Your strangled squeak is not convincing me. When?'

Trojie gave in. 'Er, Paedo!Harry. You attacked Harry.'

Pads thought about this briefly. 'Fair enough. Ack!'

'What now?' Trojie was finding it hard to keep up with Pads on this. 'What's wrong?'

'Apparently, Federer is quitting tennis to raise the sprog. I call Improbability!'

'We had that one already. And listen to Federer.'

Tu as du mal à retenir une petite grimace, si ça ne tenait qu’à toi, j’aurai abandonné les courts dès que mon test de grossesse est revenu positif, mais c’est dur d’arrêter du jour au lendemain ce qui définissait ma vie jusqu’à maintenant.

'That means nothing to me, as well you know.'

'Nadal wanted him to quit playing as soon as the test came back positive. Although what the hell hormones in his urine it picked up, I don't know.'

'Alright,' Pads said grudgingly. 'He's got a very small amount of sense at least.'

'More than the author, although that's not too difficult, really.'

-Tu as choisi la date de la conférence de presse ?

'Why do they need a press conference?'

'To announce their assbaby to the world, I suppose.'

'And they think the world will want to know about this?'

'Medical science certainly will.'

The agents were silent for a while, listening in almost total incomprehension, although they were able at least to work out that the players were discussing Wimbledon. Another charge rapidly presented itself.

'Who's talking here? There are absolutely no speech tags.'

'Perhaps that's the way the French do things, same as those peculiar dangling hyphens instead of speech marks.'

'Bloody weird they may be, but even the French need to know who's talking. Even if it's a dolphin.'

Pads shuddered. 'Don't remind me. I'll be having nightmares about that one. And about this too,' she added, pointing at Nadal, whose lips, according to the translation, arise with light behind one of Federer's ears.

'I really hope that's mistranslation,' Trojie commented. 'Because I'm struggling to see how any respectable author could come up with such a line.' She eyed the translation. 'Blah blah, soppy declarations of love, I know I love you too, but I feel a but coming... charge for really boring writing?'

'Can I feel a butt too?' Pads asked plaintively. Trojie gave the leash another yank.

'No. And no punning, thank you.'

'You're no fun sometimes.'

'Actually,' Trojie said, ignoring her partner, 'it might not be a boring writing charge after all.'

'Oh?'

'If you'll cast your roving eyes ahead through the soppiness and tedium to the final line before the scene break?'

-La forêt amazonienne, si ça te dérange pas, je déteste le froid !

''I hate the cold'? That's got to be Rafa.'

'Work your way back up, line by line. Given the language barrier, if he's speaking any language Federer understands, he won't be speaking it well, his vocabulary will be limited and, dammit, we lose a charge. Bugger.'

'But we gain another,' Pads pointed out. 'Listen.'

-J’ai peur.

'That's Federer, that is. Number one in the world, admitting fear to his greatest rival. Not bloody likely. Charge.'

'Done. Can we portal to the next scene?'

'Alright,' Pads said, casting one last lustful look at Nadal.

***

They reappeared in the same nondescript hotel room, and Pads immediately began to complain.

'They don't stay in hotels. They rent houses in Wimbledon for extortionate amounts of money. Has this author never heard of research?'

'Presumably not. Also,' Trojie said, glaring at the translation, 'I don't have a clue what's going on here. Who are those people?' She pointed, to where Nadal stood with an older couple. Pads grabbed the printout as the door opened and Federer came in.

'Right, well... They're Federer's parents, and... someone's got an erection, I think. Not entirely sure who.' Accordingly, the trousers of every man present began to waver in the general crotch region as the Word World tried to work out whom to assign said erection to.

Trojie stared in vain at the scene before her and the Words that made up the World before giving up and turning to her partner. 'What in Glod's name is going on? I am so very lost.'

'Well, Federer's parents have appeared, because Rafa's uncle Toni told them that there was some news to be told. They realise Federer isn't happy to see them, only he is, but he's not ready to tell them they're going to be grandparents to an assbaby-'

'Naturally!' said Trojie with some asperity. Pads forged on.

'Then Rafa takes Federer's parents off to find a room in the hotel they shouldn't even be in, and Federer goes for a shower. He slips in the bathroom, apparently, which could be bad news in his condition though it doesn't seem to bother him.'

'If he's early enough in the pregnancy that it doesn't yet show, falling ought to mean game over, red rover. Miscarriage and all that,' said Trojie, gnawing on her lower lip and looking concerned. 'But other than that, this looks rather boring. Portal?'

'No, there are some charges I want to grab here. Also, y'know, Federer's horny, and when Rafa gets back I think they shag.'

'I'm confused about that, too, 'cause the author is basically saying that now he's pregnant he's constantly desperate for it-'

'-her word is 'in heat'-'

'-yes, quite, and that he wants to be naked all the time.'

'I hear pregnancy does strange things to you.'

'Not like that. Well, maybe the horny bit, 'cause being pregnant puts extra blood through your lady-bits so you're extra sensitive in that particular region, but ... he's not got lady-bits! And as for wanting to be naked all the time, even when there's a damn good reason to be clothed, that's just disturbed.' Trojie looked pensive for another few moments, and then added, 'And you only get extra horny in your second trimester, anyway, and he'd be showing if it was his second trimester, and ... oh, forget it.'

'What?'

'I'm trying to rationalise blatant porn. I give up.'

'Excellent. Shall we check the porn for technical errors and biological impossibilities then?'

'Exceedingly against my better judgement, I suppose we'd better. It's what we're here for, after all.'

'Watching Rafa Nadal have sex is my job,' Pads said, beaming so widely the top of her head was in danger of falling off. Trojie rolled her eyes, and portalled them ahead a little way.

Unfortunately for Pads, either the Author had been typing one handed, or the translator had given up in the face of such blatantly OOC urple porn, and the agents struggled to work out exactly what was going on. Federer left the shower, and Nadal was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, but after that the action got a little hazy.

'Lips lingering on skin,' Pads pointed out.

'Not a charge,' Trojie said, looking askance at her partner.

'I know, I was just being dead jealous. D'you reckon if we knock them both out and take Federer away and I, y'know, dye my hair black and cut it short, d'you think-'

'There is no way in hell that you could pass for the world's greatest male tennis player. So don't even try it.'

'No fun at all,' Pads grumbled. 'His skin's getting reddened by so much attention. Is that a normal response to lips?'

'On random patches of skin, no. Of course, if there's teeth involved, it's another story entirely.'

'And not one I want to be in. Ack!'

'What now?'

'Between your arms I feel like a fragile little thing.'

'What, Federer does?'

'Apparently. The author seems to have completely missed the fact that Roger Federer is not some simpering snivelling little woobie. Also that Rafa is really not likely to be shagging his rival in a hotel bathroom.'

'Well, yes, but that goes without saying.'

-Roger, s’il te plait mets au moins un caleçon ! Sinon ça va être dur de te résister !

Pads burst out laughing, and was forced to shove her fist in her mouth so as not to be overheard.

'What now?' Trojie asked, grabbing for the printout. Pads translated.

'Roger, if you please put on at least one underpants! Otherwise it will be hard to resist you!'

'Yes, because a pair of underpants will completely disguise his nakedness and state of arousal. Of course.'

'Deadpanning this does not make it any less funny,' said Pads, mid-hysterics.

'Um, I think Federer has just succeeded in making Nadal horny,' said Trojie, pointing to another line of dialogue.

A slight movement of hip, a lascivious smile and this is enough to wake up your instincts predator!

'His 'instincts predator!'?'

'I think your translator is having trouble with the different sentence structures in English and French,' said Trojie.

'Even so, 'predatory instincts'...'

Trojie started to smirk.

'What?' asked Pads, looking at her partner's face.'Whaaat? Trojie, tell me now.'

'Predatory instincts... Tell me, do tennis players eat their mates post-coitus?'

'If they did, Federer wouldn't be here, so clearly no.'

'You're really not seeing the funny side of this, are you?'

'There's a funny side to Rafa shagging someone that's not me? Oh, bugger!' Pads cried, as they were pulled through a scene break. 'We missed the porn.'

'What a terrible shame,' Trojie said. 'What's happening now?'

'Um. Rafa is entitled to the grunts on my stomach, apparently. And, um, they're talking about going for a meal with someone's parents, possibly Rafa's, possibly both. I think the
translator's caught Pronoun Problem too.'

'Does anything actually happen?'

'J'enfouis my head under the pillow, a hand indecent travel along my back, down ever lower. We may be in for more porn.'

'Doubt it. Heaven forbid anything so exciting should actually happen in this fic.'

They watched silently, as the players argued, failed to have entertaining sex, or indeed any sort of sex, and bickered over the order in which people should be told of the impending assbaby. Trojie yawned.

'Alright, alright. We can portal. I don't think he's going to get naked anyway.'

***

'Random restaurant,' Trojie observed upon their arrival. 'Is this even a real place?'

'Haven't the foggiest.'

'Apparently two people called Sebastian and Ana Maria are fateful. And they've arrived. And someone's announcing a new importance ... you know, the complete lack of speech tags in this is making it terribly hard going.'

'Stop bitching and keep working,' said Pads unsympathetically.

'You're heartless.'

'Federer is shagging my Rafa!' Pads's voice actually cracked. 'I want it dead.'

'This is really getting to you, isn't it?'

'No. D'you really think?' asked Pads venomously.

Trojie decided to change the subject. 'Apparently 'Lynette', and whose mother is she, exactly? Anyway, she wants Federer to marry ... er, himself, actually.'

'Probably mistranslated pronouns again. Although that'd free Rafa up for me...'

'I'm still really confused about what's happening. Can we have another of your oh-so-succinct translations, please?'

'Alright.' Pads flourished the printout. 'Let's see. Federer wants to, er, planquer himself under the table. Dunno what planquer means, although in context I'm guessing either top himself or touch himself. Could be either, really.'

'He wants to touch himself because his mum wants him to marry himself? Please, Glod, let this stupidity be the translator.'

'Maybe he wants to hide. Check the dictionary.'

'We brought a dictionary?'

'Er. An English one. Alright, scratch that. Hmmm. Rafa starts channelling a car advert, I think.'

'You what?'

Pads pointed to the relevant exchange.

-Papa !

-Sebastian !

'I don't get it. What's this got to do with cars?'

'Well, nothing, since neither of them is called Nicole... Forget it.'

'Gladly.'

An argument of sorts broke out at the table. Careful analysis of the translation suggested that Nadal's father was wholly aware and utterly disapproving of his son's sexual proclivities. Given that said proclivities were the complete fabrication of an author who clearly couldn't see past the whole 'two sweaty men' angle, this came as no great surprise to the agents.

'Pointless angst,' Trojie noted. 'Charge.'

'Designating a homophobic bastard, charge.'

'Calling Nadal a charming little boy, charge.'

Pads suddenly doubled over, laughing. Trojie elbowed her in an attempt to remind her of the seriousness of the situation.

'I'm sorry, it's just... look at the translation.'

Trojie did so.

You make me feel big eyes.

'Charge for urple?'

'That or charge for choosing phrases that electronic translators cannot handle, thus causing hysterics in Agents.'

'Apparently this awful phrase is due to hormones.'

'Also apparently, this is because he's having a baby.'

'Ack, now Federer is being accused of being on performance-enhancing drugs.'

'...You know, for such a serious accusation, the corresponding argument is over quite fast,' mused Trojie. 'And now they're sending Federer out to play with his hormones while the grownups have a talk, or at least, that's what it sounds like.'

'It sounds boring,' Pads corrected. 'Given the premise I was expecting something a little more risqué.'

'We could always portal again.'

Pads eyed Nadal as Federer took his hormones off for a walk. As the author's attention was on the latter, the former and his dining companions settled into a perfectly quiet and amicable dinner. 'Or we could join them.'

'Absolutely not.'

'Go on. We could reset the disguises to paparazzi.'

'No! You just want the excuse to grope.'

'Can you blame me? Even fully clothed and not glistening with sweat, he's still irresistible.'

'To you, maybe. I seem to manage it fine. Come on.' Trojie tugged on the leash again. 'Down girl. Are there any more charges to collect in this scene?'

'Aside from urple and tedium? Federer's going to have a heart to heart with his mum. Why don't you follow him while I keep an eye on things here?'

'Not a chance.'

'Meanie,' Pads declared, and, without warning, she went dog, and used the extra physical strength and Trojie's brief moment of horror - witnessing one form morphing into another tended to be unpleasantly organic, and she hadn't yet fully got used to it - to escape from Trojie's grip. She immediately headed over towards Nadal, and thrust her nose into his crotch.

***

'I have never been so embarrassed in all my life!'

'You didn't have to kick me,' Pads whined.

'Trust me, I did. I don't know what you thought you were doing!'

'Nor do I, thanks to that.' Pads glared at the neuralyser. 'One of the happiest moments of my life here to date, and you won't even let me remember it!'

'If I let you remember it you'd never shut up about it. There are rules about this sort of thing. If Upstairs find out, it'll be No Drool videos for you.'

'At least I wasn't human at the time!'

'And a bloody good thing too. Glod alone knows how I would have explained that.'

'So, aside from a glorious shining moment I would have treasured forever, what did I miss?'

'Panoramic terraces, demented gerunds, urple, urple, a naked torso of an apollon-'

'Naked? What? Who?'

'It was Federer's imagination. No one was actually naked.'

'Bugger.'

'Then Federer's mum got a bit tearful. No idea if that's a charge since I've no idea how she behaves when not under the influence of an evil author-wraith. But she was talking to him in the same language as has been used throughout, which is a little peculiar, isn't it?'

'Yeah. They'd be talking in Swiss German, not Generic Reader-Friendly Language.'

'Thought so, so I charged for that. Oh, and there was this little gem of a translation: You'll have to rest and eat more fruits and vegetables, should I call your aunt Laura to tell him and your sister and the neighbor and sister-in-law of my merchant newspapers….'

Pads blinked. 'What?'

'I think she was being overexcitable and wanting to ring around everyone she's ever met and tell them the happy news, because I've been trying my best while you were napping-'

'-I was not napping!'

'-And I can't work out how a newspaper could have a sister-in-law.'

'Could be a newspaper merchant.'

Trojie eyed the translation suspiciously. 'Good point. Has Federer got a transsexual uncle?'

'I... don't know. Probably Pronoun Problem again.'

'Fair enough. Anyway, then there was a confused bit about whether they were going to get hitched before the sprog was dropped. Then they returned to the living room.'

'What living room? Weren't they in a restaurant?'

'Yep. So I charged for geographical aberration.'

'Oh, good. It's nice to have some charges that don't relate to translation errors.'

'You're telling me. All I can say is it's a damned good thing this is RPS MPREG, otherwise we might not have grounds for killing it.'

'...You almost sound like you want to be here.'

'I do, sort of. The faces you pull when faced with your Lust Objects being horribly mischaracterised is a source of eternal amusement to me.'

'You are cruel to me.'

'I know.' Trojie grinned happily. 'It's about to get even weirder. Shall we go take a look?' She conjured a portal, and gestured for her partner to lead the way.

They were met on the other side of the portal by a ruckus in full swing. Or at least, what counted as a ruckus in this fic. By any normal standards it was a mild disagreement between civilised people.

-Ana !

-Il a le droit de savoir !

-De savoir quoi ?

-Tu peux toi aussi tomber enceint !

Pads scratched her head. 'Did whoever the hell's speaking just say what I think they said?'

'I don't know. What do you think they said?'

'That Rafa can get knocked up too.'

'Oh. Yep.' Trojie was still grinning. Pads glared at her, and noticed her partner's eyes were a little glazed. Nadal, meanwhile, looked utterly gobsmacked, unsurprisingly. The translation forgotten for the moment, Pads watched the play of emotions on his face. Trojie was surprisingly unperturbed by the entire exchange, and didn't even react to Pads's muttered and inadequate translations.

-Pourquoi ? Pourquoi vous ne me l’avez pas dit ?

'Why... negative... say... Why didn't you say? Possibly because it would have been a little distracting? The bloke's got to be focused, he doesn't want to worry about getting knocked up...'

-Parce qu’on a pensé que ce serait plus facile pour toi de ne pas savoir.

'Thinking easy negative knowledge...? It was easier if he didn't know? How the hell is it easier not to know you can get knocked up? Doesn't exactly work too well for idiot kids on council estates. Not exactly responsible parenting either. He's twenty-one, shouldn't they have told him the facts of life by now?'

-Mais j’aurai pu tomber enceint, sans le savoir !

'But I pregnant without knowing? Glod, he better not be. Could be pregnant, maybe? Well, if Federer here's anything to go by, he'd know pretty much instantly... Is this some special quality of male tennis stars? That they can all get knocked up? Is there perhaps some biological basis for it? Some aspect of their physiology that boosts strength, speed and hand-eye co-ordination with an ass-womb as a side effect? Trojie?'

The only response from Trojie was the sound of fingers under the influence struggling with the childproof cap of a medicine bottle.

'Trojie? Oh, for heaven's sake.' Pads reached over and took the Bleeprin from her partner.
Necking a couple, she shoved the bottle in the depths of her pocket, and looked up, to see that the scene had changed with no warning. Trojie flailed ineffectually. Pads took the opportunity to slyly remove the leash from her partner's hand.

'Hey, that's - give that back,' said Trojie a few moments later.

'Nope,' said Pads, skipping merrily out of the way. Trojie's brow furrowed.

'You're skipping. Did you find that Cannabis plant?'

'Just naturally high on life, sweetie darling. Oh look, it's a hotel room with Rafa and Federer in it!'

'I would be suspicious of you were I not so heavily sedated. Who's this Sebastian character they talk about? Is it Federer's name for the sprog? Why has he named it? What if he miscarries?'

'It's actually Rafa's father...'

'This fic...' said Trojie, slurring. 'This fic, this fic is as clear as mud.'

'You like mud,' pointed out Pads reasonably. She watched Trojie's face as the woman tried to reply to this. Noting the way her partner's eyes rolled up into her skull, Pads positioned herself in just such a way that she could catch Trojie as she passed out, and deposited her thoughtfully behind a curtain.

***

With a lengthy groan, Trojie slowly came back to consciousness, gut churning. Of her partner, there was no sign. Not that she could see anything much; her vision was obscured by a large piece of flowery fabric. Blearily, she shoved the curtain aside, to see an empty hotel room.

'Pads?' she called. 'Where the hell are you?' There was no reply. 'Oh, I'm so getting her spayed...'

Forgetting, for a moment, where exactly she was, she allowed her eyes to drift out of focus while staring at the ceiling, attempting to ascertain what was going on. The Words scrolled slowly past.

Exceptionnellement il a fait beau aujourd’hui sur Wimbledon, plus de 40 degrés à l’ombre pas un brin de vent et un match de plus de trois heures contre un Lleyton au mieux de sa forme.

'Oh, bugger. Bloody French.' Trojie rubbed her head, and groaned again. 'Let's see...' After much squinting and furrowing of brows, she decided that the Words were trying to tell her someone was playing a match against Lleyton, whoever that was. There was no sign of Pads's handy translation. Finding her might be a little difficult. Trojie settled back to watch the Words, waiting for something vaguely comprehensible to happen.

Le médecin arrive peu de temps après, je suis toujours allongé sur l’herbe, je n’ai jamais été aussi fatigué de toute ma vie, mes paupières sont tellement lourdes que je lutte pour garder mes yeux ouverts

'That doesn't sound good,' Trojie muttered to herself. 'Notebook, notebook...' And she patted her pockets, looking for the chargelist so she could note down 'abuse of commas where a semicolon would suffice perfectly well'. That done, she located the Remote Activator, and portalled to Federer's side.

He was in a hospital bed, for some reason. Trojie wasn't sure why; being in the early stages of pregnancy didn't normally cause one to collapse, although of course there could conceivably be assbaby complications. Or maybe it was something to do with that whole forty degrees business. Although forty degrees seemed a little high for London, even in early July.

A whine from the corner caught her attention. Trojie turned, to see Pads reverting to human form, and gazing at Federer with undisguised disgust.

'Where in Glod's name have you been?' Trojie hissed.

'Making friends with Rafa,' Pads answered. 'But only as a dog, so don't think you have to go neuralysing me again. He thinks I'm a loveable stray.'

'And where is he now? Shouldn't he be here?'

'He's playing Lleyton Hewitt. In Wimbledon 2007. Pah!'

'Why, should he not be?'

'No! Honestly, how much basic research has this author completely forgone? Two minutes on Wikipedia would have told her Rafa didn't play Lleyton Hewitt that year.'

'So you've memorised the entire Wimbledon schedule of play now?'

'No, but Djokovic knocked him out in the fourth round, so if he'd played Rafa it'd've been before that and he'd have to have won, which he didn't, because Rafa played Federer in the final. As usual. Hewitt lost to him at Roland Garros though.'

'Sounds like memorising it to me. You sad bugger.'

'Mock all you like, at least it's a charge. So's this, by the way,' Pads sniffed, pointing at the bed.

'And why's that?'

'Collapsing in forty degree heat? In London? I don't think so. Also, last year? It was pissing down at the end of June. The English weather might be a bit spacked but it's not tropical.'

'Oh, look, a doctor,' Trojie interrupted, and indeed there was. He wandered over to Federer's bedside, and began asking questions. 'Where's the translation?' Trojie listened to the doctor and Federer, with one eye on the Words, as Pads began digging deep in her voluminous pockets.

Je suis sûr qu’il veut savoir si j’ai pris des substances pas très licites, je l’oblige à se pencher vers moi et je lui murmure:

-Je suis enceint

'We'd noticed,' Trojie spat.

Un ange passe, un deuxième, puis toute une nuée.

Trojie frowned in incomprehension, but Pads came to the rescue, uncrumpling the printout from her pocket and scanning for the appropriate moment.

'Ah, here we are... Oh, the doctor thinks he might be on drugs. Charming. What is with this author and the constant insinuations that everyone's on performance-enhancing drugs?'

'Never mind that. What do the Words say?'

'Ahem. An angel passes, a second and then a cloud.'

'I'm getting a little tired of charging for urple.'

'Me too, but what can we do, when we're practically drowning in the stuff?'

'We can get a life preserver!' Trojie rootled in her Bag and produced a copy of The Fifth Elephant. Pads frowned. 'When it all gets too much, we can read some of this!'

'That's not allowed. Constant vigilance at all times, woman!'

'Damn.' Trojie slowly put the book away. 'What are these angels supposed to represent anyway?'

'Damned if I know.'

'So what do we do now? Just watch Federer and wait for the assbaby to erupt from his stomach, alien-style?'

'No, we wait patiently a minute.'

'What for?'

'Wait for it!' Pads cupped a finger behind her ear, and listened intently, then her face broke into a grin. 'He's coming!'

And indeed He was, for a moment later, Nadal burst into the room and ran to Federer's side. Pads was too busy trying not to drool to pay any attention to the translation, so Trojie had a quick glance at it.

'This is still boring,' she announced a moment later. 'They're just being dead soppy. Look, can we portal? It's the same charges over and over.'

'But I want to ogle.'

'The sooner we get this done, the sooner you can get back to your match...' Trojie said in a wheedling voice.

'But the longer this takes, the more time I get to see him in the flesh. And smell him.' Pads inhaled deeply. Trojie decided not to ask, and tried another tactic.

'It's not really him, you know. Well, it is, but not as he's supposed to be. He's a twisted wraith-driven fake. Surely you'd rather be watching the real Nadal?'

'You make a good point,' Pads conceded, not taking her eyes off her Lust Object.

'Then can we please portal to some action?'

'Tell you what, why don't you check the entire thing and see if there actually is any action?'

'You're evil,' said Trojie, but unfocused her eyes anyway and started scanning the Words. With a disgusted noise she grabbed the printout from Pads. 'I know I can technically speak French, but this hurts. It makes no sense.' She glared ferociously at the paper as though she could stare it into better grammar.

'Does that glare come with laser beams?' Pads asked, grinning.

'Shut up.'

'Anything yet?'

'Shut. Up.'

Pads stuck out her ample tongue at Trojie and continued to ogle Nadal.

Trojie snickered. 'They set themselves up for lots of action that never happens,' she said. 'There's a bath-'

'Let's go there!'

'-but they fail in any way to do teh gaysex in it.'

'Damn.'

'And then there's... belly ogling, still no gaysex, lullabies, still no gaysex... no, nothing at all happens in this scene. Portal please?'

'Fine. Since you insist. Where to?'

'Um, there's a press conference towards the end of the chapter. Presumably when the world's two greatest male tennis players announce to the world that one of them's knocked up the other, there'll be a bit of a hullaballoo. Could be worth seeing.'

'Go on then,' Pads sighed. 'But I want it known that I protest most vehemently at being denied belly ogling.'

'It's Federer's belly.'

'Oh. Well, why didn't you say so? Tally-ho!'

***

The press conference wasn't quite what the agents had been expecting. There were certainly plenty of people, many of them holding expensive-looking electronic equipment. And it was certainly noisy enough. Every journalist there, however, appeared to be in a good mood.

'This is a bit odd,' Trojie said. 'It's a miracle of modern medicine, this male pregnancy thing. Shouldn't there be a bit more shouting about it?'

'Well, Nike certainly seem to be shouting,' Pads said, examining her trusty translation. 'Apparently they've offered to sponsor the assbaby's birth.'

'What, you mean like... five quid for every minute he's in labour? Ten euros per agonised scream, that sort of thing?'

'Entertaining as the idea is, no. I think the author's possibly trying to prove that she's such a devoted fan that she even knows Nike sponsor them both. To wear Nike clothes. Is the baby likely to be wearing miniature Nike sweatbands when it comes out, d'you think?'

'Probably. It would make as much sense as anything else in this fic.'

'Certainly more sense than him being pregnant in the first place.'

'Maybe Nike are thinking of diversifying and making clothes for newborns. Perhaps a new Olympic event is forthcoming, Projectile Vomiting, for instance.'

'Ick.'

There were a few moments' silence while the Agents took in the scene, and then:

'Apparently Wilson are making a child's tennis racket? For one year old babies?'

'I'm very confused,' Trojie said, again.

'Is that your mantra for this mission or something?'

'Until you get the kinks worked out of your translator, yes. Does this author seriously think a child that young could play tennis? Half of them can't even walk!'

'Shush, Federer's about to make the big announcement.'

-Je compte me retirer des circuits pour quelques mois et ce pour la meilleure des raisons, mon compagnon, Rafael Nadal et moi, allons devenir parents, je vous demande de respecter notre vie privée et notre droit à la tranquillité, pendant le temps de ma grossesse et même après.

'Translation please?'

'Er. They're quitting tennis. Both of them. This is... supremely unlikely.'

'But a baby needs a mother and a father...?'

'Well, this one's going to be buggered then. Oh, look, he's legging it.'

Federer was, as Pads had said, making his way rapidly towards the exit. The agents followed, but as Federer immediately jumped into a car, they were left standing on a pavement in the sunshine, surrounded by hordes of baying paparazzi.

'What a blow,' Trojie remarked. 'Are we missing anything interesting?'

'Nah. Just a soppy phone conversation with Rafa about how they're going to Switzerland to be smushy.'

'Marvellous. Portal?'

'Sure thing. Hey, there's only one chapter of this thing left!'

'Does the assbaby get born, or are we going to need the debugger?'

'Debugger. How do you suppose the baby would get born, hmmm?'

'You have a point.'

'Who's going to get it?'

'You are. I'm not leaving you here to molest tennis players in dog form.' Trojie opened a portal, not giving Pads time to argue. 'Get going.'

'But-'

'No buts. Go.'

***

Pads landed in RC#45 with a face full of fur. Underneath her, Absinthe whined, and wagged her tail. The agent struggled upright, cursing under her breath, and made a beeline for the console.

'Dammit, still rain break. Evil woman, portalling me back to the start of the break.' She frowned, and, in the absence of anything better to do, went dog and headed off to get the debugger.

As she ran through the grey corridors, her thoughts were focused on one thing only - Rafa Nadal. She was so distracted, in fact, by thoughts of the sight, smell and taste of him, that she ended up in Medical a good bit faster than she'd anticipated.

As she entered, Doc Fitz looked up from a book. 'Ah, Agent Paddlebrains,' he said. 'I see you are not accompanied by a limping canon character this time. To what do I owe this pleasure?'

'I need an embryo extraction kit,' she said. 'Roger Federer is carrying Rafael Nadal's child.'

'Really. In the Real World? I'm sure his doctor is, er, puzzled.' The Doc got up and grabbed a complicated-looking piece of equipment. 'I'm sure your partner knows how to operate this,' he said. 'She's used it before, many moons ago. Of course, we've had a few developments since then, but the basic principles remain the same.'

'Right. I'll take your word for it. See you next time we have a case of dubious lube then?'

'Undoubtedly,' said the Doc, returning to his reading. Pads scuttled out of Medical and headed back to the RC.

Upon her return to the mission, she discovered Trojie with a most smug look on her face.

'What? I don't trust you when you look like that.'

'Oh, nothing, nothing. Did you get the debugger?'

'Yep.' Pads handed it over. 'And even better, I found us some new charges. I ran into Agent Lucien, and he speaks French. He had a few things to say about this fic, let me tell you.'

'Excellent. Do tell.'

'Well, the urple's not just the translator. And you know that whole dolphin thing? The one you said wasn't a charge?'

'It's not. We can't charge for the French having a demented language.'

'Yes, but it apparently means something more like 'heir apparent'.'

Trojie wrinkled her nose. 'So Nadal is Federer's heir, and yet also the father of his child? That's a bit creepily incestuous.'

'Yep. And creepily incestuous equals...?'

'Charge!'

'Yep.' Pads grinned. 'But we can't charge for Federer magically knowing the baby's sex. Apparently there's some sort of weird French convention that means all unborn babies are masculine.'

'...'

'I know, it's weird.'

'Does France have a higher than usual rate of miscarriages?'

'No idea. Why?'

'Male embryos are more likely to be miscarried, thanks to, well, their masculinity. Fingers crossed that happens in this case.'

Pads blinked. 'You want the assbaby to die?'

'You mean you don't?'

'...I was sort of considering adopting it, actually. Don't look at me like that! You adopted a nymphomaniac Triceratops!'

'...'

'Hah!'

'We are going to have the strangest family photos in the history of history,' said Trojie after a while.

'Getting everyone into frame will be a trial,' admitted Pads. 'What with your daughter weighing twelve tons and all.'

Trojie rolled her eyes. 'And I demand to be present when you explain to the sprog - what are you planning on calling it, anyway? - about how it has two fathers and neither of them are you, because you're a woman, despite the fact that when I point a CAD at you it says you're male.'

'It does?'

'Yep. Well, it says a lot of things, actually. Most of them conflicting.' Trojie rootled their seldom-used CAD out of the Bag, and aimed it at her partner. 'See? Says 'Sirius Black/Agent Paddlebrains, male/female, human/dog/human/Animagus/dog/human...?????, canon/AU/canon/AU/canon/AU IVEGOTALOVELYBUNCHOFCOCONUTSTIDDELYPOMTIDDLEYPOM-' She put it away before it could explode. 'I think you confuse it.'

'I confuse myself.'

'Well, you certainly confuse me.'

'Anyway, I was thinking Spencer.'

'Any particular reason why?'

'First bloke to win Wimbledon. Spencer Gore, 1877.'

'And last name?'

'Black,' said Pads, as if that should have been obvious.

'Why not Gore?' asked Trojie. 'Wait - your surname actually is Black, then, is it?'

'Because I don't want him to grow up with a complex about icecaps and carbon dioxide? And, well, yes. I am Sirius Black. You know this. The CAD just proved it, anyway.'

'Personnel have you on the books as Sirius Black? Why haven't we been inundated with Not-Fangirls-Honestly-We're-Just-Looking Agents?'

'I have no idea. But I can see you already know why I haven't been advertising it.'

'Hmmm. More discussion of this later. So, any more charges before we exorcise?'

'Not really. Well, the suggestion that all the male tennis players are best buddies and are always dropping by each other's houses for a friendly match. Oh, and Rafa's described as the crown jewels of Spanish tennis.'

Trojie snickered. 'Is that, technically speaking, a charge?'

'Certainly sounds stupid enough to be. And the mental image is frankly disturbing.'

'I thought you liked the chap.'

'I do, which is why I don't want to see a giant penis wrapped in the Spanish flag every time I look at him.'

'Point. Anything else?'

'Bit more pointless angst. Rafa seems to spend all his spare time on his computer rather than training. Pointless bickering. Federer accuses Rafa of cheating on him with Feliciano Lopez. There's an author's note slap bang in the middle of a sentence. Oh, and Federer's hormones play me strange towers, which might be a translation error but I'm charging for it anyway because it's too damned stupid.'

'Excellent. Exorcise?'

'Roger that, boss.'

***

'Now, you remember the plan?'

'In through the window and get Rafa first, because he's way too strong and he could tie both our hands behind our backs without even trying.'

'And then?'

Trojie held up the duct tape. Pads grinned.

'I'm going to enjoy that part.'

'Bloody pervert. Have you figured out what we're doing for the book?'

'Couldn't find a copy of either of their biographies,' Pads said gloomily. Then she brightened a bit. 'So I thought we'd use these!' From behind her back, she produced two tennis racquets.

'Much though I'd like to beat the pair of them over the head, don't you think these are a bit generic?'

'Not at all. Look, you have this one. It's a Babolat AeroPro Drive Cortex.'

Trojie raised an eyebrow.

'And I've got the Wilson K Factor KSix-One Tour 90,' Pads finished, waving the racquet in question happily. 'Federer's favourite, apparently. Ought to be sufficient to beat the wraith out of him.'

'So this one's Nadal's then?' Trojie said, eyeing the racquet that had been thrust into her hands.

'Yep. I figure you'll be able to hit him a lot harder than I ever could.'

'Is that necessarily a good thing?'

'Probably better for the purposes of the exorcism.'

'Now, don't hit Federer too hard, he's pregnant.'

'Yes, I know. I got the debugger.'

'Excellent,' Trojie started to say, and then stopped. 'We have a problem,' she said suddenly.

'What? What's the problem?'

'We need a woman, with a uterus, to put the baby in to carry to term.'

'Yes, I did wonder why they didn't supply some kind of artificial womb with this thing, but... Hang on, there aren't any uterus-y women in this fic, really, except for Federer's mother. And we can't go impregnating the mothers of famous tennis players.'

'Precisely.'

'That means that ... oh no.'

Trojie raised her eyebrows. 'Well, you did say you wanted to adopt him.'

'Why don't you do it?'

'My maternal instinct does not run that far. He's your baby.'

'I'll have to give up smoking for six months!'

'Yep,' said Trojie happily.

'...And what about the Animagus thing?'

'I'm sure Medical will have a useful way of getting around that.'

'...' Pads hung her head. 'I'm actually going to do this, aren't I?' she said quietly. 'I can feel myself giving in.'

'Excellent. Exorcism time?'

'Let me have my last few moments with an empty uterus, please?'

'Thirty seconds then.'

Trojie watched Pads pace around clutching her belly for a while.

'Okay, time's up. Let's get you impregnated.'

'You are taking altogether far too much delight in this.'

'Of course,' Trojie beamed.

'Can I smoke through the exorcism?'

'If you must. Now, action stations!'

The agents took up position, one either side of the window to Federer and Nadal's suite, the existence of which was a little confusing to everyone involved. Trojie began counting down on her fingers. Pads began smoking furiously.

'Three, two, one, now!' Trojie cried, and, with a last lengthy drag for luck and a blood-curdling shriek, Pads hurled herself through the window, trailing smoke.

Nadal came into the room first, completely unprepared for two women in black, one of whom appeared to be on fire, bursting through the plate glass window and hurling him to the floor.

'Gaffer tape, gaffer tape now!' one of them was shouting, while the other one, taller, redheaded, and grinning like someone mad, rustled in a bag and produced a roll of silver-backed tape. Of course, Nadal only really spoke Spanish fluently (and French now, for some reason he really couldn't remember, but that had something to do with Roger, his beloved, his snookums, the mo- fa- bearer of his child), but he had enough of a smattering of English to follow the dialogue around him. Suddenly he remembered that Roger was following him into the room! He must defend Roger from these mad Wimbledon fans!

Sadly, he was taped to the floor and unable to move. As he began to struggle in earnest, the shorter of the two women smacked him in the head with a tennis racquet, and produced a bell from somewhere about her person. One more racquet to the head, and Nadal was very dazed. The woman began to shout and ring the bell.

'Avaunt, ye spirit of male pregnancy slash! Avaunt, tedious dialogue! Avaunt, urple! I banish thee from the Real World, demons of Lack of Research, Lack of Caring, Improbable Biology and Smut! Avaunt, woobification! The power of WIMBLEDON compels you! The power of TENNIS compels you! AVAUNT!'

Federer, by this point, had also been tied down. Pads was standing guard over him with her tennis racquet, but the Author-wraith appeared to be leaving without too much struggle. Seeing that Trojie had the Wraith under control, Pads wheeled over the debugger.

'A little help here, when you're done?' she called. 'I don't know how to hook this thing up.'

'Just a sec,' said Trojie, waving her bell at the Wraith.

'Mais Rafa et Roger sont trop cannons!' the Wraith whined. 'Le monde serait amoureux avec leur bébé!'

'The world disagrees,' said Trojie coldly. 'Get out.'

The Wraith melted away through the broken window, and Trojie turned her attention to Pads.

'Look, it's quite simple. You attach it here and here, and then we just-' She pushed a blue button. There was a whirring noise, and both Pads and Federer looked quite apprehensive. After a brief moment of sparkliness as glitter transferred through the pipes, Federer looked a good bit less constipated than he had throughout the entire fic.

'Is that it? Am I pregnant now?'

'Yep,' said Trojie, deactivating the debugger. 'Now go and neuralyse, and we'll take you home to get looked over by the Doc.'

'Rightio,' Pads said, digging out the neuralyser and a cigarette. She looked sadly at the latter for a moment, then threw it aside and turned to do her Duty.

'Mr Federer? Mr Nadal? If you'd care to look this way for a moment?'

There was no response from either player, as Trojie had taken the liberty of taping their mouths shut. Pads held up the neuralyser and shoved her sunglasses on.

FLASH

'Roger Federer,' Pads said, advancing on him, 'you are not now and have never been in a relationship with Rafael Nadal. You are in fact a heterosexual male. You have no intention of quitting tennis, and you do not have a womb.'

From what little Trojie could tell, Federer's grunts and struggles appeared to indicate total agreement.

'Rafael Nadal,' Pads continued, turning to him, and then stopped abruptly. He flailed, inasmuch as his bonds would allow him.

After a few moments, Trojie elbowed her partner in the ribs. 'Get on with it!' she hissed.

'Sorry, sorry. It's just... he's all tied up and helpless and... apparently I have a bondage kink. Who knew?'

'I suspected,' Trojie admitted. 'Now come on, take the tape off the poor man. You're booked in for an ultrasound!'

'Not bloody likely,' Pads said, gently peeling the tape from Nadal's mouth and allowing her fingers to linger longer than was strictly necessary. 'I've still got a match to - hey! He bit me!'

'Well, what do you expect? He's just woken up in a Swiss hotel with a madwoman groping his face. What would you do?'

'I'd ... probably bite.'

'Precisely.'

'Rafael Nadal,' Pads continued, mumbling around the finger in her mouth. 'You are not madly in love with Roger Federer. You don't speak French. And you are not quitting tennis, do you hear me?'

'Yes, that ought to just about do it,' said Trojie, gathering up the last of the gaffer tape and opening a portal. She shooed her partner through it.

'They're still on the rain break!' Pads protested. Just then, though, the console flickered into life; the break was over. Pads ran for her seat.

Trojie settled back at her desk, and picked up the jar containing Specimen #546, an Author-wraith taken from an HP fic. Absinthe came over and rested her head on her mistress's lap. Apple the mini curled up at her feet. Peace and contentment descended on the RC, only broken by cries of:

'Break him, Rafa! You can take him down easily! Breaaaaaak hiiiiiiiim! It's your destiny!'

Comments

[tea-fiend.livejournal.com]

You mean our next mission chronologically? Could be a while then, if we're going to be good and get Pathways, Pain and Manhood first. Although, argh, can we leave Pain for a while? I need a break from mpreg.

[agenttrojie.livejournal.com]

We can do whatever mission you like. And yes, Pain is at the back of my mental queue as well; I do not need to see Elrond up the duff. We should do Pathways.

[tea-fiend.livejournal.com]

Eh? Are you online? Come here!

And yes. I need to start Pathways sometime soon. Spent today hungover though, after a most entertaining evening with a pipe-smoking bloke with a waxed moustache who wants to be a Catholic priest (age 21) and a bloke who thinks he's going to be the next Tory prime minister (age 21).