Oh please, please, please something short, funny with 141 where their wife calls them on their way home from work “yea, I think I’m having contractions!” And by the time they rush home, she’s sitting in the bath tub with their new baby. And she’s all casual like ‘Hey! Look at this cool thing I’ve got!’ And it’s their baby.
(My Grandmother had this happen! Each kid under an hour. My grandfather nearly had a heart attack! He’d always hesitate to leave her alone. Suspicious she was ‘purposefully’ going into labor when he wasn’t there to help her. Lol…)
Okay, that is so funny and adorable! Hehe, omg, I love this. Dad!141 is my favorite. I love writing them as fathers or as potential fathers. And this prompt is just an excuse to do that! Thank you so much for sending it in. Enjoy!!
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Task Force 141 x Female Reader
Content & Warnings (MDNI): married life, pregnancy, childbirth, domestic fluff, swearing, humor
Word Count: 2.1k
ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if series
John Price
Price rubs at his temple, releasing a deep sigh.
It’s late. The base is nearly empty. Another late night filled with paperwork.
His phone buzzes, the cellular device vibrating on the desk. Price reaches for it, checking the screen. It’s you calling him, and his stomach flips.
“Cabbage,” he greets with a smile, answering the phone.
You’re pregnant, due date just a week or two away. Price doesn’t like leaving you home alone, but this is the last push. After tonight, he can come home early.
“John?”
His name is a question. There’s a hint of worry—of nervousness—and Price immediately picks up on it.
“Everything okay, love?” he asks, slowly standing, paperwork suddenly forgotten.
“John. I—I think—”
“What’s wrong?”
“I think I’m having contractions.”
By the time the words leave your mouth, Price is already grabbing his coat. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.” He swallows, pushing down his own anxiety, smothering it so he can be strong for you. “Stay on the phone with me. I’m coming home.”
On the other end of the line, you breathe heavily. Each whimper worries him.
“John,” you gasp, voice strangled as he throws himself into his car and turns it on.
“I know. I know. I’m coming.”
Price is doing his best to stay calm, to stay alert as he drives off base and heads for home, but all he can focus is on you.
“Keep talking to me, love,” he says, attempting to sound encouraging.
“Okay,” you reply, but then go quiet.
“Cabbage?”
When you don’t answer him, Price uses your name. Nothing. No sound at all as if the line’s gone dead.
“Shit,” he mutters, holding the phone out to check.
Call Dropped.
“Fucking shit,” he says, louder.
Price continues to dial—continues to call. Every time, he expects you to pick up, but you never do. The worry grows, becoming deafening as the seconds tick by. Traffic laws are broken, but it gets him home faster.
He’s throwing himself out of the car, dashing to the house, not caring if he forgot to put the vehicle in park. In the front entryway, he calls out to you, using your name.
There is no response.
“Fuck,” he whispers as he dashes up the stairs, heading for the bedroom. He enters, and it’s—
Empty.
“Where are you?” he breathes, turning away to check the rest of the house.
But then Price hears your voice, soft and soothing. Frowning, he checks the bedroom again, only to head toward the bathroom.
You’re sitting on the floor, back pressed against the tub. There’s blood and a fluid Price doesn’t recognize smearing the floor between your legs.
You glance up. Smile. “Hi,” you laugh as Price drops to his knees beside you.
There’s a baby in your arms. Its hands are tight fists, face pinched like it’s annoyed to be here.
“No wonder you didn’t answer the phone,” sighs Price, placing his hand against yours that cradles the infant’s head.
“A bit busy,” you chuckle.
Price laughs with you, taking his phone out his jacket pocket to dial the hospital.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
“I’m not leaving.”
“It’s fine, Simon. Really.”
Simon crosses his arms over his chest. “The last time I left you this close to your due date, you gave birth while I wasn’t here.”
You dismiss him with a wave of your hand. “That’s not going to happen again.”
“It might,” he growls.
“It won’t,” you insist.
As you start to walk away, Simon blocks your path. “You’ve been complaining about your lower back all morning.”
You sigh, rolling your eyes. “I always complain about my lower back.” Simon begins to object but you continue on. “And we need milk. And eggs. And bread.”
“Fine,” mutters Simon. “Fine. I’ll go. But you call me immediately if anything happens.”
“Okay, dad,” you reply, mocking him.
Simon drapes his arm over your shoulders, pulling you in to kiss the top of your head. “Pumpkin,” he replies, and you hear the smile in it.
“The sooner you go the sooner you’ll be back. You can worry and fuss over me all you want then.”
Simon pulls you in for another kiss before heading out the door. The trip to the store isn’t peaceful. In the back of his mind, Simon stews, a little voice telling him that you’re going to call him any second and tell him you’re in labor. That’s what happened with your first, and Simon came home after you’d given birth.
He was devasted. Upset. Not with you—never with you. He was upset with himself for not being there to support you through it. To hold your hand. To encourage and shower you with love.
Simon is standing in line at the meat counter when you call him.
“Don’t be angry,” you say when he answers the phone.
“Are you having contractions?”
“…Yes.”
“Goddamn it.”
Simon abandons the shopping trolley, apologizing to the workers as he rushes out the door and to the car. When he enters the house, he hears your labored cry. Dashing up the stairs, Simon enters the bathroom at the same moment you cry out, clearly pushing. You’re on your hands and knees, sweat beads your brow, hair sticking to your face.
He dives to his knees, arms outstretched and reaching beneath you as the baby’s head emerges.
“I’m here,” Simon says, keeping his voice calm and soothing.
You start crying, head tilting to lean against his shoulder.
Another push, and then the rest of the baby is out and in Simon’s hands. The infant is silent at first, then releases a cry of displeasure.
“Bloody hell,” exhales Simon, “I’m never leaving you alone again.”
John "Soap" MacTavish
I’m having contractions, reads the text.
Johnny’s mouth drops open, gaze growing distant.
You’re having contractions. You’re having contractions, and he is on the other side of the city. With traffic, he’s likely an entire hour away from you.
“Soap?” asks Gaz, waving his hand in front of Johnny’s face.
“I have to go,” says Johnny quickly, shooting up from his chair, almost knocking it over.
Gaz and Ghost both stand abruptly, clearly startled by Johnny’s sudden panic.
“Everything good?” asks Ghost.
Johnny shakes his head. “The missus is having contractions.”
“Oh,” replies Gaz, eyes growing a bit wide. “Damn. Go. You should go.”
“We’ll cover your tab,” adds Ghost.
Johnny groans. “Her due date isn’t for another bloody week.” He grabs his jacket.
“You’re going to be a father, Soap,” chuckles Ghost, punching him in the shoulder.
“Fuck. What if she has it while I’m not there?”
“Don’t these things take forever anyway?” muses Ghost. “Contractions don’t mean anything. Right?” He glances at Gaz.
Gaz shrugs. “I think you should worry if it’s close together.” Gaz holds his hands close to indicate the lack of time.
“Shit,” mutters Johnny, tapping away at his phone.
Are they close together?
It’s a few seconds and then the three little circles pop up, indicating that you’re typing back.
They’re close. A few minutes apart. I’m on the phone with the midwife.
“Oh fuck,” mutters Johnny, elongating the vowel as he tugs on his jacket.
Gaz grimaces. “It’ll be fine,” he tries to reassure as Johnny rushes past him. “Congrats!”
Johnny hardly hears him, he’s too focused on getting to the car. Every second is agony—not knowing what’s happening while he’s driving. When he pulls up to the house almost an hour later, there’s a car Johnny doesn’t recognize in the drive.
As bursts through the door, he hears calming music. Rushing forward into the living room, he finds you on the floor, wrapped up in a blanket, propped up by a nest of pillows. The midwife putters about as you gently rock back and forth, cradling an infant in your arms.
You glance up. “Look,” you laugh, lifting the infant that you’ve just birthed, presenting it like you’ve completed a fun DIY craft project.
Johnny almost faints.
“Oh, babe,” he exhales. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
The midwife makes a sound of annoyed agreement and Johnny winces.
“It’s okay,” you murmur. “She came quickly.”
“I should have been here,” he groans, sliding to the floor next to you, draping an arm over your shoulders.
You lean into him. “You’re here now,” you sigh, eyes closing as you snuggle against him.
Johnny looks to the midwife, and she smiles at him—a reassurance. You’re fine, and so is his daughter.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Kyle’s phone vibrates in his pocket. Ignoring it, Kyle keeps his attention on Captain Price, focusing on the briefing for the upcoming mission. The phone goes silent. Seconds later, it starts up again. Frowning, Kyle reaches into his pocket, sliding out the phone just enough to see the screen. Your name and picture appear on the screen, your smile bright and lovely.
“Need to answer that?”
Kyle’s head snaps up at the sound of Captain Price’s voice.
“Sorry, Captain. It’s the missus.”
Price inclines his head, the middle of his brow creasing slightly. “It’s she pregnant?”
“She is,” affirms Kyle.
“Then you should answer it.”
Kyle gives him, Ghost, and Soap a brief nod. “Excuse me,” he mutters, standing and heading for the door.
When the meeting room door slams shut, the phone starts up again.
Kyle answers, his words falling from his mouth quickly, sounding like one solid word instead of several. “What’s going on, love?”
“I’m having contractions.”
You sound panicked.
“You’re—are you sure?”
“Pretty sure,” you gasp. “Water broke earlier—"
Kyle’s voice rises slightly. “Your water broke and you didn’t call me?”
“I wasn’t feeling anything,” you reply, as if that makes it okay. “But now, it’s constant.” Your sigh is labored. Tired. “They’ve come on so suddenly, Kyle. I’m sorry.”
“No. No, love. Don’t apologize.” You have nothing to be sorry for. He’s just happy you called. “I’m coming home. Right now.”
“But you have that meeting. You can’t—”
“I’m coming home,” he reiterates. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Hang in there, dove. I’ll be there soon.” Kyle disconnects the call and bursts through the meeting room doors. “It’s happening,” he announces.
Soap blinks, confused. “What’s happening?”
Ghost side-eyes him. “He’s about to become a dad.”
“Fucking shit. Really?” Soap turns to Kyle, beaming. “Congrats.”
Price crosses his arms over his chest, a look of pride on his face. “Go, Sergeant.”
Kyle nods, giving a half-wave as he backs out through the toward, heading toward the parking lot. He’s practically running—rushing to turn the car on. Taking off, Kyle hardly cares if he hits anything, and he doesn’t blink when breaking nearly a dozen traffic laws.
He makes it home in half the time he usually does. Every second counts. Every moment important. If the contractions are coming quickly and close together, it means the baby is ready, and he needs to get you to the hospital.
As he enters the front door, he calls out to you. Your answer comes, but it’s distant. Upstairs. Kyle takes the stairs two at a time, walking into the bedroom to find it empty. But the bathroom light is on.
A few steps, and he pushes open the door.
You’re not standing at the sink putting on your makeup or getting ready to leave. You sit inside the shower on the tile floor, the glass door wide open, pantless, and cradling an infant in your arms.
“Shit,” he breathes, moving forward. “Shit.” Kyle crouches just outside the shower door.
You grin sheepishly, lifting the baby like it’s an accident. “She came minutes after I got off the phone with you.”
“Oh, bloody hell, love,” laughs Kyle.
There are tears in your eyes, but you’re smiling. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Don’t be, my love.” Reaching out, he grasps the back of your neck. Leaning in, he presses his lips to your forehead. “She’s beautiful.”
