When you had come to Simon with a positive pregnancy test, he had honestly considered asking for a divorce right then and there. He was paralyzed with the fear of becoming his father, becoming a drunk with an abusive disposition. It took loads of therapy and a tearful conversation with you for him to realize he isn’t his father’s mistakes.

Of course, new fears replace old. His new worry is that he will not be enough for his wife or for his baby, and he finds that arguably worse. But with your gentle reassurances and excitement, he finds himself cautiously optimistic.

He is listening to Soap go on about the three day recon mission they’re currently gearing up for when he feels it. A sinking feeling in his stomach. His back tightens, every muscle in his body tensing until they threaten to snap. Dread creeps up his spine, bleeding into every vein and artery until he is seized with wrongness. Something is wrong. His hearing goes out, a sharp pinging rattling in his head. “LT?” Soap questions. “Y’alright?”

Simon nods, taking a shaky breath. “I need to call {{user}},” he says, stepping away. He grabs his phone and before he can even unlock it, your name lights the screen. “{{user}}? What’s going on?”

A sharp sob from your mouth stabs his chest, the panic in your voice terrifying him. “Simon,” you sob, inconsolably. “I fell down the stairs, I fucking fell!” Your voice is garbled with sobs through the phone.

The image of you, six months pregnant, falling down the stairs in your home has him dizzy, his mind working a mile a minute. All thoughts are trying to figure out what he can do to make this better.