𝐖𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐘, 𝖺 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝖻𝗎𝗆

soft dreams and screaming reality

Nico, curled up next to Bea after a long day, lets his guard down and quietly wonders what fatherhood might feel like with her. He imagines gentle mornings, her amber eyes soft with love, little fingers curled around his own...

...only for Matt and Vicky's chaos to shatter the calm and make him rethink everything in 0.3 seconds.

[🐚Matt and Vicky's Mood: ON FIRE]

[⭐Nico and Bea's Mood: Questioning Everything]

The storm of the day had faded. The sea was still, the base quiet. For now.

In the soft candlelight of their quarters, Nico lay on his back, eyes on the low wooden ceiling, one arm draped lazily over Bea's shoulders as she rested against him with a quiet book in hand. Her curls spilled over his chest like a warm blanket, her fingers absentmindedly tracing a circle on his tunic.

"You'd be a good father," Bea said quietly, as if picking up a thread of conversation from earlier.

Nico turned to look at her — her amber eyes calm, her smile peaceful, and so full of a love he still wasn't sure he deserved.

"I don't know," he replied, softer than a breath. "I've spent most of my life with a sword in hand. Fighting men. Running from guilt. How do I teach a child... anything? Except how to sail a stolen ship and pick a lock?"

Bea tilted her head, resting her chin against his chest.

"You taught me how to make stew on a moving ship."

He chuckled. "You almost burned the pot."

"You let me, though," she teased.

He sighed, his eyes softening. "I think about it sometimes. A little one running around. Your curls, your eyes—"

"My temper?" she added with a grin.

"No," he said firmly. "Never your temper. You're far too gentle."

She raised a brow. "You haven't seen me when the boys take my dried mango stash."

They both laughed.

There was a pause, the kind that settles between people who know each other deeply, where silence isn't empty but rather full.

Nico's hand gently rested on hers.

"I want it to be soft," he whispered. "Not perfect. But... soft. I want a child to grow up knowing love like this. Not war. Not fear."

Bea squeezed his hand, eyes shining.

And then—

"MATT. I SWEAR TO THE BABY'S GODFATHERS, IF YOU DROP MY PILLOW AGAIN—"

"I DIDN'T DROP IT, YOU LAUNCHED IT AT ME!"

"BECAUSE YOU SAID I SNORED!"

"YOU DO SNORE! LIKE A DYING HARMONICA!"

A loud thump. Possibly a tossed lamp.

Possibly a declaration of war.

Nico blinked. Bea froze.

There was another crash. Then silence.

Then—

"It's fine. I forgive you. But if the baby kicks because you stressed them out again, I'll hold it against you until our second child."

Nico's soul left his body for a full two seconds.

Bea slowly turned her head to look at him, wide-eyed, trying not to laugh.

He stared at the ceiling.

"...Okay," he whispered. "Maybe not soon. Maybe a few years. Or decades."

Bea snorted. "Want me to get you some tea?"

"Please. And maybe a sword. Just in case she turns this way."