Scomiche One Shots

Strong

"Imagine your OTP's child is diagnosed with a disease that is always fatal.
Bonus: the disease is genetic."

i really tried to find a specific disease that would fit all the things I needed it to but there are not very many that apply, so I apologize that it is pretty vague.

casual warning because i think it's understood that this will be emotionally heavy and there will obviously be a minor character death. if it's not your cup of tea, don't drink it.

-

Scott had always wanted kids.

So after he and Mitch had gotten married it seemed only natural that they have a child together.

They loved the idea of adoption, truly. They had discussed it, knew it wouldn't have mattered to them if the child was biologically theirs or not. Mitch had insisted, though, that while he'd love an adopted child just as much as one that was their own blood, they should try surrogacy.

They already knew people who were willing to help - Kirstie had told them years ago that she would carry a baby for them.

So it had been decided that they would do this, they would have a baby of their own.

Kirstie was excited, having already had a child two years back. She was thankful that Scott and Mitch had chosen her, felt honored that she'd be able to help her two best friends - who she knew were meant for each other from the start - bring a child into the world.

She carried the baby to term, delivering a beautiful blonde boy after nine months. She had beamed as she handed the sleepy baby to her best friend. They had all welcomed little Wyatt Grassi-Hoying into their lives with arms wide open.

Scott and Mitch had been so happy, had planned to give their beautiful baby boy the world.

But Wyatt had been dying.

-

"Scott?" Mitch's head pops into their bedroom. It's dark, the curtains drawn closed and the lights off. The television isn't on and Scott is on the bed, his focus on the dark ceiling. Mitch knows his eyes are red, puffy, and there are dried tear trails on his cheeks. "Want to talk?" He asks, entering the room and moving to sit next to Scott on the bed.

"No," he mumbles, breath shaky.

"Baby-" he tenses, Scott's eyes shooting to him. They're scared, maybe even angry, and it chills Mitch to the core. "I'm sorry," he whispers. It was unintentional, the pet name simply instinct after being together for so many years, but the wound is fresh, and Mitch understands why it strikes deep for Scott.

"'S okay," he closes his eyes tightly, chest rising as he inhales unsteadily. "It's my fault, anyway."

"Scott-"

"Don't" his eyes glance toward Mitch again, lock on his face. They're puffy and desperate, begging even. Mitch can see the sadness in those light blue eyes despite the lack of light, and it shatters his heart. "Don't, please."

"It wasn't your fault."

"It was - it was genetic, Mitchy." He sighs shakily, "that means I gave it to him. I killed our baby."

Mitch reclines in their bed, moves so that his body is closer to Scott's side, snuggles into it and attempts to pull Scott toward him. He wants to hold him, isn't sure how else to communicate with him that he holds nothing against him.