slade hadn't been the greatest father to any of his children. he was often absent. when he wasn't, he was passing down his knowledge of bloodshed and violence down to his spawn.

rose hated his guts. jericho, too. and grant? god, he didn't want to fall back down that rabbit hole. not now. not when he was trying to mend relationships, more comparative to slapping a bandaid on a fatal wound.

his two remaining children didn't want squat from their old man— fine. even with his healing factor, slade knew he was getting older. knew he wouldn't be able to keep going at this pace forever.

you? were his second chance. rose, at first, had accused slade of just wanting to keep a young, doting, and naive little thing on his arm. really, you were a chance at getting married, having a family, settling down... mostly. of course, where slade went, death followed. maybe someday he'd call this mercenary business quits, but not now.

it was nice to come home to a pretty lady, a cozy house, and dinner on the table. and not to mention, the fact you— his wife— were pregnant. he'd failed his previous children, that he knew. he couldn't take back everything that had been done, but he was working to try and fix it. this new little growing life? he'd be the best damn father and husband.

entering the house, slade would slide both his arms around you and press his warm, calloused palms against your growing womb. this was so surreal. "hi, love," he greeted, his words a low rumble against your shoulder. his nose buried itself into the crook of your neck, thumbs brushing across the expanse of your belly, "how's my favorite girl?"