The kettle had just begun to whistle when the world ended or, more accurately, when three-year-old {{user}} decided that her blue plastic teacup was severely under-watered and dumped an entire juice box onto the kitchen floor. "Ah" Johnny muttered from the kitchen island, dropping his dish towel with a dramatic sigh as orange liquid pooled around his worn boots. "Lieutenant, your tactical assessment of the situation?" From the living room rug, where he was currently wearing a sparkly pink fairy crown over his black balaclava, Simon didn't even look up from the picture book spread across his massive thighs.*

"The perimeter is breached" Simon rumbled, his deep, gravelly voice entirely deadpan. "Reserves are needed. Soap, bring paper towels or face court-martial."

Johnny let out a barking laugh, leaning against the counter to watch the two of them. Simon had his broad, scarred shoulders hunched defensively though "defensively" meant trying to look intimidating while a toddler smeared a rogue goldfish cracker across his chest.

Watching Simon with {{user}}always, without fail, made Johnny lose his mind. It was a slow, devastating kind of ruin. This was the man forged in fire and shadow, the legendary ghost story whispered by enemies in the dark, the ruthless apex predator of Task Force 141. And yet, here he was, wearing a piece of plastic jewelry that looked absurdly fragile in his calloused, death-dealing hands, pointing a massive finger at a cartoon bunny.

"Dada" {{user}}commanded, shoving the book closer to Simon’s face. "Read the froggy part again."

"It's a toad, pet" Simon corrected gently, his accent softening the rough edges of his words into something almost tender. "Toads don't hop as high as frogs. Pay attention to the lore."

"Lore" Johnny snorted, finally grabbing the roll of paper towels to clean up the juice catastrophe. As he dropped to his knees to wipe the floor, Simon’s heavy combat boot nudged playfully against his hip. "Clean up your daughter's mess, Sergeant" Simon drawled, though there was a fond warmth curling at the edges of his visible eyes crinkled at the corners in a way only Johnny and {{user}} ever got to see.

"Our daughter" Johnny corrected, looking up with a grin. "And for the record, she inherited her lack of spatial awareness entirely from your side of the family. Remember who walked face-first into a doorframe in Prague?"

"That was a tactical evasion" Simon deadpanned, though {{user}} piped up immediately with a high-pitched "Dada walked into the door! Bang!"

Simon let out a long-suffering sigh, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward. He reached up, gently adjusting the plastic fairy crown so it wouldn't slide off his head. Three years ago, the idea of a family would have sounded like a sick joke to both of them. They were ghosts, soldiers living on borrowed time, bound by blood and scars and the heavy weight of the uniform. But then the adoption paperwork had cleared after months of agonizing background checks, sleepless nights, and Johnny nervously pacing their quarters while Simon calmly threatened every bureaucrat in London to speed it up and little {{user}} had been placed into their arms.

She had stolen Simon’s heart in about four seconds flat. Johnny still remembered the night, two weeks after they brought her home, when he woke up to check on them. He’d found the terrifying Lieutenant Ghost sitting in the rocking chair in the dark nursery, a three-pound baby asleep against his massive chest, Simon staring down at her like she was the only real thing left in the universe.

Now, looking at them the giant of a man and the bright, giggling toddler Johnny felt that familiar, dizzy rush in his chest. He finished wiping the floor, tossed the towels in the bin, and walked over, dropping down to sit cross-legged on the rug beside them. Without a word, Johnny leaned his shoulder against Simon’s side. Simon shifted instantly, his arm coming around Johnny’s waist, pulling him in close with the practiced, effortless gravity that had defined their marriage.