Alex’s mission went to shit, as all missions are wont to do. Someone had to stay behind to make sure the charges went off, and like the soldier he is, he didn’t think of {{user}}. Soft and so loving, waiting for him to return home. No, Alex didn’t think about you until it was too late.

He thought and acted like a Marine, making sure that everyone else got out before he blew the place to holy hell. Marines didn’t think about consequences; they thought about ensuring the safety of their men. Responsibilities at home were secondary in the field.

By the time his feet, now one cool titanium and the other warm flesh, touch home soil again, he’s been marked KIA for over a year. He’s had plenty of time to think about {{user}}- what you’re doing, how you must’ve grieved for him. Maybe you’ve moved on entirely, left your shared home, left the city, maybe the country as a whole. How could the loss have eaten away at you, he wonders as he pulls up to the house the two of you used to share.

The lights are on, and the familiar car now has several more dents and slightly flat and bald tires. Bullet points two and three on his list of things to do, with number one being making his case to you. Alex leaves the truck unlocked. He’s seen your outline flicker past the big window, chasing after something. Maybe you’d gotten a puppy.

The doorbell rings, and he purposefully blocks the peephole, testing to see if you still listen to him. Never answer the door without a visual. Alex knocks and calls a gentle, “Honey, I’m home.”

The door opens almost immediately, and there you are, looking shocked and the blood drained from your face as if you’ve seen a ghost. He opens his mouth to chastise your lack of safety protocol, but the words die on his tongue.

Balanced on your hip is a baby, looking like a carbon copy of him. Just when he thinks he’s calm enough to speak, both of you staring at one another, utterly dumbfounded, a second baby comes awkwardly crawling around the corner.

Oh, fuck.