waittt sista listen, the break in idea but wife is pregnant omg...🤷🏿♀️
On it 🫡
So I'll link the first two asks.
Part ONE, TWO
Okay, now lets do this. MDNI.
(After writing note: I have another ask that came through after this one, if you sent it, just know I saw it and will get to it tomorrow. I've got to get some sleep. And thank you to everyone sending asks, this has been fun for me.)
XOXO
Scarlett
John Price
-John is tired. He just got back to find you already asleep, dozing on the couch like a lazy cat. Belly all swollen and heavy.
-He knows you're tired, too. And even though he missed you something fierce, he doesn't wake you. He just brushes a kiss to your temple as you snooze.
-First, he goes to the kitchen, pours himself a few fingers of whiskey and drinks the first slow sip while staring at the newest ultrasound picture that's stuck to the fridge with a magnet that's shaped like a frog wearing a cowboy hat. He doesn't understand why you picked that magnet, but he doesn't ask questions either. His finger brushes the edge of the picture, but he doesn't disturb it otherwise, like it's as fragile as you are.
-Then, he heads out to the back porch to light up a cigar and contemplate every call he made on the mission and whether it was the right one. Sitting on a patio chair with his head hung, elbows on his knees, one hand holding onto the cigar limply, the other holding his whiskey glass by the rim with the pads of his fingers, dangling it between his spread knees.
-He's rubbing the back of his neck with the cigar hand when he hears the crash, a shattering of something that slaps him in the face harder than any bad call on target ever could.
-His own glass of whiskey shatters against the concrete of the patio before he can even remember it was in his hands.
-The cigar is long forgotten on the concrete patio by the time he gets inside, his soft blue eyes hardened as he scans. He's never felt fear like this. Like a bowling ball is lodged in his throat. And his heart hasn't raced quite as fast as it is now, not since his first mission when he was a green recruit.
-The first thing he sees is you, flailing, struggling to get yourself upright when your half asleep and about as pregnant as a woman can be. Screeching.
-But John doesn't go to you, he goes to toward his home office, where the sound of the crash came from. Stalking like death incarnate. Because whomever, whatever, thought they could disturb your peace will be ash under his palm in five seconds flat.
-...And he finds a cat. Not a stray cat, but a scrappy looking kitten that has long grey fur and bright blue eyes. A baby blue collar is wrapped around it's neck, a shining silver bell tinkling softly when it turns to look at the mountain of a man now in the doorway. His plant, the 'love fern' you'd gotten for him (as a joke, after forcing him to watch 'How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days) lays on the wooden floor, its ceramic pot shattered and pieces spanning the floor like constellations.
-His brows raise, just in time for you to come wobbling up behind him, bare feet padding on the warm wood floors, half asleep in his shirt and a tiny pair of shorts, one hand cradling your belly.
-"Th'fuck's that?" He asks, almost a growl. Then adds, rougher and not as an afterthought, "You shouldn't have followed. Could've been worse. Could've cut your feet."
-It's a scolding, but not quite as harsh as it could be.
-"That's Mr. Bubblesworth." You say, voice still laced with sleep, and not realizing you'd neglected to tell your husband that you gotten a kitten while he was deployed.
-John shoots you a look that could peel paint off the walls, and if you were more conscious you might grumble back for it.
-"Mr. Bubblesworth?" He sounds almost disgusted by the name.
-His meaty hand wraps around your wrist when you shrug and try to step forward to scoop up the cat, lifts you and puts you back in the hall with an admonishing furrow of his brows.
-"Could cut your feet." He repeats, then steps forward with a grimace to pluck the cat gently off his desk and place it in your arms, ceramic crunching into dust under his boots.
-"Next time, tell me when you lose your mind and decide this is an animal shelter. Preferably before you decide."
-Then he just starts his clean up. Shoos you off with the fluffball in your arms and a rumble in his chest. Relieved, but that vein in his neck is still popping with the strain of what he thought this was about to be.
-He doesn't leave our side until well after the baby is born.
-The cat grows on him.
Simon 'Ghost' Riley
-Simon snaps awake from a dead sleep when the crash sounds from somewhere downstairs. It's the witching hour, eerily quiet otherwise.
-You, not heavily pregnant but roughly halfway through, wake with a startle at his side. "Si-"
-You don't even get his whole name out before he's scooping you up and moving. You've never felt his heart race quite as fast, not ever. Not like this. His bare feet eat up the distance as he carries you to the bathroom, sets you down only lingering to be sure you're steady, and shoves his phone and a pistol gently into your hands.
-"Lock the door. Someone comes in, you point and shoot. Not at me. Phone the rozzers."
-He shuts the door before you can argue. Moving down the hall, taking stairs two at a time and somehow managing to do so silently. He knows where all the creeks are. Knows which ones will make a sound. Which ones will give him away.
-The guy, stupid wanker obviously, is rummaging in your purse on the kitchen counter. Maybe thinking no one is home, maybe assuming he can get away since you live so far out of town.
-It'd be too easy even if Simon weren't honed into the weapon that he is. The intruder's back is to him, and Simon gets a breath away before he speaks, low, almost as much threat in his voice as is laced in his ligaments, "Wrong fookin' house, mate."
-The guy doesn't have a chance, he's in a chokehold before the words even register, and Simon isn't taking any chances. He pushes the man's head forward, cutting off the blood supply at the same time he blocks his airway.
-Simon can feel every one of his heartbeats, like this is taking hours longer than it usually does, and every cell in his body is screaming at him to get back to you. Now.
-Then the guy slumps, Simon hooks his hands under the dude's arms, drags him out the front door and leaves him on the welcome mat just as he hears sirens coming from down the lane. He can't see the lights through the trees, but he knows they won't be long.
-He shuts the door for good measure.
-Then he's rushing back up the stairs and when he turns the knob on the door you're hiding behind, you blow a hole through the bathroom wall, startled and not realizing it's him.
-"For Christ's sake, you barmy woman. It's me. Unlock the door and put the gun down. Bloody hell."
-He doesn't feel like he's breathing, and his hands are shaking like it's the first time he's ever hurt a man. Not from that near miss; but because he can't physically see that you're alright.
-When he hears the click of the lock, he shoves through the door, shoulders taking up every inch of space. He snatches the pistol before you can hurt yourself, or him, with it, and his eyes scan every inch of your body. Once. Twice. Thrice.
-And then he finally lets himself exhale.
-The cops take statements and Simon stands there, big arms crossed over his bare chest, standing like a brick wall between you and the world.
-He doesn't even realize he'd been in nothing but his boxers the whole time until you point it out when you both crawl back in bed.
-But he doesn't have it in him to feel embarrassed when he's got you tucked in tight to his chest.
Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick
-The afternoon is quiet, and you're in the earliest stages of pregnancy. The days that are all sickness and nausea and food aversions.
-So, when you finally get a craving for nachos and chocolate covered strawberries you don't question it.
-Kyle's on his way home, you know he is because you sent him a grocery list and he was so relieved that you were willing to eat something voluntarily that he video called you just to be sure he got exactly what you'd want.
-Can't go bugger it up now.
-When the front door opens, you call out from your perch in the kitchen, like you've been waiting. Counting the very seconds until he got home so you could finally feast.
-He doesn't answer which is odd, so you walk just enough to peek around the corner and are met with some guy in black. Big shoulders. Ski mask. The whole kit and kaboodle.
-You're scream pierces the air, like lightning striking suddenly without the storm, and then the guy just...falls.
-For the briefest of moments, you think you scared him into a heart attack. Only then you see Kyle wrangling the dude to the ground, cursing more than you think you've ever heard coming out of his mouth when he has clothes on.
-You watch, utterly frozen and dumbstruck, as you husband pummels the guy into your floorboards, not even really breathing that hard.
-Kyle's got the guy's arms behind his back, zip tying cuffs while the intruder thrashes like a wild thing, then he's calling the coppers, eyes on you, locked like a homing missile. Checking. Calculating.
-Only then do you look beyond him, see the grocery bags toppled. Your perfect strawberries scattered on the pavement, some of them smashed from his boots surging forward. It almost looks like a bloodbath on your front walkway. The bag of tortilla chips seemingly exploded, maybe under the force of a jar. You can't be sure.
-And despite yourself, despite your relief, that he was here, you start to cry. It's not soft, it's big, heaving lung fulls and a croaking sob.
-Kyle's there in a moment, phone forgotten on the ground and police line operator squawking through it, but he's thinking you're hurt or something's wrong with the baby. And that's Kyle's focus now.
-"Breathe. Right now. Breathe and talk to me."
-You can't even remember the last time you heard him sound so desperate.
-Every lineament on his face is drawn in concern, the pinch of his brow, the way his eyes search your face, even the tension in his shoulders.
-The intruder is still struggling, face down and writhing and growling like a pissed off cat, but his hands are, quite literally, tied.
-"My strawberries." You wail, tears streaming down your reddened cheeks.
-Kyle, the poor man, looks like he's been slapped. And even through the thick tension, he laughs. Not at you, but with sheer relief.
-"I'll get you more." He murmurs, wraps you up in his arms and tries, god does he try, to soothe you and not laugh.
-But you, hormonal and barely pregnant you, just keeps crying. "But I wanted those ones."
-He chuckles, just pulls you in closer, presses a soft kiss to your hairline, and when the intruder is hauled away and police statements given, then he trudges off with you in tow to get fresh strawberries and chips because he's too on edge to leave you alone.
Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish
-Johnny has been on paternity leave for three days. You're ready to give birth any day now, and not to say you're driving him mad, but you're driving him mad. He's not angry, no, but pregnancy hormones have made you bloody barmy.
-He's repacking the hospital bag for the third time because you didn't like the way he'd folded the onesies.
-Like that's the most important thing in the world and not getting the wee bairn here safely.
-Johnny's crouched down, grumbling as he folds little clothes so tiny it almost seems impossible that a person could be that size.
-He's got the last one folded, bag packed properly this time, he hopes, when there's a bang from the front of the house, like the door was thrown open with a battering ram.
-Then, he hears the worst sound he thinks he's ever heard in his life. You're scream, pitched high with fear.
-Your name rips from his lips, low and urgent. He's rushing for you before he even registers your feet pattering quickly across the floor back toward where he was crouched in your shared bedroom. When you nearly collide in the doorway, he grabs you, shoves you back into your bedroom, careful even now in his haste, then charges forward to deal with the group of intruders.
-There's three of them, all woefully unprepared for the shit storm they just stepped into, because Johnny can be forgiving, but only so much.
-And certainly not when it comes to you.
-Johnny barrels in, chest first like he always does, relieves the first of their knife and the rest is quick work.
-He doesn't kill them, but it's a close thing.
-When the sounds of the scuffle finally fade into silence, he doesn't rush for you. He knows stress is bad right now, bad for you, bad for the bairn, and he grinds his teeth down as he forces himself to wash the blood from his hands before he comes to scoop you up. Because the last thing you need right now is to see him in such a state.
-When the door to your room pushes open after what feels like decades, you squeal, sharp but not pained, more surprised than anything else. He shoulders through the doorway, those blue eyes scanning you, checking, assessing. Finding you shivering and your pants wet.
-Johnny makes himself calm. Rolls his shoulders until they calm and steps carefully until he can pull you close.
-"Bobbies are on the way." He starts, then adds, notably softer, "Dinnae fash yerself, hen. It's nothin tae be embarrassed aboot."
-To which you snark back, "I didn't piss myself, Johnny. My water fucking broke."
-And that has him snapping back into action faster than anything ever could.
-But, in spite of the dramatics, your little girl arrives. Perfect and safe.
