You find him exactly where you knew he’d be—late evening, alone, sitting on an ammo crate in the far corner of the hangar. Mask on, head down, elbows on his knees. The kind of posture that meant he was stuck in his own head again.
He hears you coming. He always does.
“…You’re back early,” he says, voice flat, quiet.
“I needed to see you.”
He doesn’t look up. He never does when he’s tense.
You step in front of him, hands shaking slightly as you offer him the small wrapped box.
“I… I got you something.”
That makes him still. Simon does not do gifts. Does not receive anything without suspicion.
“…For what reason?” he mutters, guarded.
“Just—open it.”
He hesitates, then slowly—so slowly—takes the box from your hands. His gloves brush your fingers. He flinches at the contact, then steadies himself, shoulders tight.
He unwraps it with stiff, careful movements.
The first thing he pulls out is the sonogram.
His breath catches—barely a sound, just a break in rhythm.
You see it. The moment the world beneath him cracks open.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.
The second item slides into his lap: a tiny white onesie with simple, soft lettering—
“I love my dad.”
He clenches the fabric between his fingers, staring at it like it’s something dangerous.
Then his voice—low, rough, breaking—comes out:
“…What is this supposed to mean?”
“I had a doctor’s appointment today,” you say softly. “They ran a test to be safe, and… it came back positive.”
The sonogram trembles slightly in his hand.
“Simon… I’m pregnant.”
The silence that follows is crushing.
He drops his gaze. His breathing grows uneven. Not loud—just fractured.
“Christ…” he whispers. “No. No, no…”
You kneel in front of him, but he jerks back a little—like he’s afraid to hurt you just by being close.
“Simon—”
He shakes his head violently.
“I can’t—” His voice cracks. “I can’t be a father.”
Your heart sinks. “Why?”
His chest rises and falls in a sharp, panicked rhythm.
“You know why.” A harsh whisper. “My dad—what he did—what I saw—what I became—” He stops, choking off the rest. “I don’t want to be him.”
You reach for his hand, gently. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. Just shakes.
“You’re nothing like him,” you say.
He finally looks at you. Eyes red. Eyes terrified.
“…How do you know that?” Broken. Raw. A child asking a question he’s been afraid of his entire life.