Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Options
Late January, 2029
Simon sat in the waiting area of a fertility clinic. He couldn’t say he knew which one, or that he would remember the name if he did. He’d found it on his phone and after a couple of weeks of debating it, made the call. They wanted another child, or two at least. At least, he knew he did. Johnny had come from a large family, and told him many, many times, adding to their family was up to him. It was Simon’s choice, whenever he was ready. It wasn’t that Johnny didn’t want more children, now that this had settled into the direction their lives were taking. It was that Simon would be the one with the majority of the burden.
Not burden, responsibility. Johnny was still active duty. Captain of the 141st Task force. He could be called away from home, literally sent to god knows where, at any time. He was expected to be able to respond and be on base wheels up within twenty minutes of a call. So, yea, if they had more children, then it very easily could all fall on Simon. To be fair, it had on several occasions since Johnny returned to duty in June last year.
The plan was for his husband to finish out this year, John MacTavish’s sixteenth in the service. It would push him over the required time to be able to collect his full retirement when he was of age. When they’d inherited the twins in March last year, things had been pretty harried. Johnny didn’t know if he’d go back at all. He didn’t know how Simon would take them now having children. He wasn’t taking the news well himself.
Simon had to admit, he hadn’t expected to enjoy the experience as much as he had. Yea, there were a lot of rough times. Charlie had been in the hospital after the same car accident that had claimed their mother’s life. He had been partially paralyzed, which brought its own set of challenges. His son was beginning to get feeling in places in his leg. It was good, and it was bad. He’d wake up with horrible pain some nights, and there wasn’t much to do for it except stretching and working through it. He could tell that to a soldier, but to a fucking nine-year-old? That killed him.
Couldn’t be helped though. They’d been religious in his exercises and therapy sessions since Charlie got out of the accident. It required a lot of time and patience. But as much as he hated his son in pain, he knew from personal experience, it was good. They needed to push through. He may very well be able to walk again, once they got though this. It was the hardest part, in his opinion. He remembered months of pain in his shoulder and elbow as he worked through his own injury from a couple, hell, five years ago now. Fuck did time fly.
The twins had been what pushed him to retire. He loved Izzy and she needed something stable after her mum died. And Charlie. Obviously, he needed someone who could devote all of their time to him and his recovery. He still needed the attention, the additional care, but Simon was confident if they started now, by the time the did have a baby, he could work it into their routine.
Regardless of whether Johnny retired this year or not, it would still end up being Simon taking care of the children. His husband may take some time off, but he wouldn’t have an income. They’d get by, Simon had no doubts. They could move back to Inverness and live off of his retirement and disability. The house was paid for. Johnny probably wouldn’t be good with that, not for long. It did something to his pride, having Simon contribute more to the household than he did. He’d be looking for something in the civilian world.
Sitting in the lobby, his shoulders hunched slightly forward, elbows resting on his knees. The surgical mask covered the lower half of his face, black fabric stark against his pale skin. Around him, couples sat in various states of nervous anticipation. A woman across from him kept smoothing her skirt with trembling hands. Her partner held her other hand.
The chairs were uncomfortable. Padded, but too soft, the kind that made his back ache if he sat too long. Simon shifted his weight, the denim of his jeans rough against his palms where his hands rested on his thighs. His boots were scuffed, practical, out of place among the polished shoes and heels scattered throughout the room.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
Simon pulled it out, glancing at the screen. Rebecca Ramsey. Their sometimes babysitter. He answered quickly, keeping his voice low.
“Rebecca.”
“Simon, hi! Sorry to bother you.” Her voice was warm, apologetic. “I just realized I've got a medical appointment next Thursday that I can't reschedule. Some testing my doctor's been after me to do for months.”
Thursday. Charlie's therapy day. Simon ran through the schedule automatically. He picked Charlie up early from school, drove to London for the specialized therapy appointment. Izzy stayed the full day and Rebecca collected her after.
“That's fine,” Simon said. “Ah'll either pull Izzy out to come with us, or Johnny can see if he can leave work early. No problem.”
“Actually, Elena offered to walk Izzy home.” Rebecca's tone was careful, not pushing. “She's fourteen now, and they both know the way. It's only ten minutes.”
Simon's grip tightened on the phone. Ten minutes. A lot could happen in ten minutes. Too many variables. Traffic. Strangers. The route cut through two neighborhoods, across one main road with a crossing guard, but still.
“Simon?” Rebecca's voice pulled him back. “It's just an option. If you're not comfortable, that's absolutely fine.”
He forced himself to think rationally. Elena was responsible, mature for her age. Izzy adored her. The walk was short, mostly residential streets. The main reason they didn't walk was Charlie's wheelchair, not because the route was dangerous. Hell, when he took Ruby out for her run, they made it in five.
Izzy needed this. Needed to do something independent, something that made her feel capable and trusted.
“Yes.” Simon said finally. “That would be good for Izzy. Thank you.”
“Are you sure? I don't want to.”
“Ah'm sure. You're right. It would be good for her, and Elena’s great with her. They can handle it.”
“Thank you. Elena's excited about it. Makes her feel grown up, you know?” Rebecca's relief was audible.
“Yes, Ah…”
“Simon Riley?” A voice called from the doorway.
Simon looked up. A young woman stood there, clipboard in hand, wearing scrubs patterned with tiny storks. She couldn't be older than twenty-five. Young enough to be his daughter, if he'd started early.
“Ah have to go,” Simon said into the phone. “Sorry.”
“No problem! Good luck with whatever you're up to.”
He ended the call, pocketing his phone as he stood. The woman with the clipboard smiled at him, bright and professional.
“Right this way, Mr. Riley.”
Simon followed her through the door, down a corridor lined with posters. Anatomical diagrams of reproductive systems, both male and female, labeled with clinical precision. A chart showing embryonic development week by week. Another explaining IVF procedures in cheerful pastel colors.
Then warmer images. A family of four at a beach, parents laughing while children built sandcastles. Two men holding a newborn, their faces soft with wonder. A woman cradling twins, exhausted but beaming.
The assistant was talking. Simon caught fragments. “…first time here.” “…just need some basic information.” “…doctor will explain everything.”
He wasn't listening. His attention kept snagging on the posters, the clinical mixing with the aspirational. This was what people came here for. Hope. The chance at something they couldn't achieve on their own.
“Mr. Riley?”
Simon's focus snapped back. The assistant had stopped walking, was watching him with patient concern.
“Sorry,” he said. “What did you say?”
“I was just asking what brings you in today.” Her smile didn't waver despite the mask, despite the fact that he was built like a fucking tank and probably looked intimidating as hell. “Is this a consultation visit?”
“Yes. Ah just want to find out what options are there. For myself and my husband.”
Something in her expression softened further. Encouragement, maybe. Or just recognition that he was nervous despite the size and the scars and the way he carried himself like he expected threats around every corner.
“That's wonderful,” she said, and sounded like she meant it. “Let me get you set up in a conference room. More comfortable than an exam room for a consultation.”
She led him to a door near the end of the hall, opening it to reveal a small but warmly lit space. A round table sat in the center with three chairs arranged around it. Two on one side, one on the other. Pamphlets were spread across the table surface. Glossy brochures about surrogacy, adoption, IVF for same-sex couples.
“The doctor will be in shortly,” the assistant said. “Help yourself to water or tea if you'd like.” She gestured to a small station in the corner with an electric kettle and supplies. “Just a few minutes.”
She left, closing the door with a soft click.
Simon stood for a moment, then moved to the table. He didn't sit. Instead he picked up one of the pamphlets, flipping through pages of smiling families and statistics about success rates. His hands felt too large, too rough for the glossy paper.
The chair on the opposite side of the table was clearly meant for the doctor. The two on his side for couples. Partners. He pulled out one of the chairs and sat, the pamphlet still in his hand though he wasn't reading it anymore.
Minutes crawled past. The clock on the wall ticked with aggressive precision. Simon set down the pamphlet, picked up another. This one focused on surrogacy arrangements, the legal complexities, the emotional considerations. Words blurred together.
He wanted this. Had wanted it since that moment in Gran's living room, holding Reece, feeling the weight of a baby against his chest and thinking mine. Ours. He adored the twins, but he wanted their next child to be one they got to raise from the beginning. To hold, and teach and comfort and…
But wanting and having were different things. Complicated things, especially for two men who'd already adopted twins and were navigating the aftermath of trauma and loss.
The door opened.
A woman entered, late forties maybe, with dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail and glasses perched on her nose. She wore a white coat over professional attire.
“Mr. Riley?” She extended her hand, her grip firm when Simon stood to shake it. “I'm Dr. Barrett. It's lovely to meet you.”
“Simon,” he said, his voice muffled by the mask.
“Simon, then.” She settled into the chair across from him, pulling a tablet from her coat pocket. “I understand you're here to discuss family planning options for yourself and your husband?”
“Yes.”
“Wonderful. Let's start with the basics, and then we can explore what might work best for your family.” Her smile was warm, professional, and Simon found himself relaxing slightly despite the anxiety coiling in his gut. “Tell me a bit about your current situation. Do you have children already?”
“Two. Twins. We adopted them last March. They're nine.”
Dr. Barrett made a note on her tablet. “And you're interested in expanding your family further?”
“We're considering it.” Simon's hands flexed on his thighs. “Want to know what the options are. What's realistic.”
“That's a very sensible approach.” She set the tablet down, giving him her full attention. “For same-sex male couples, there are primarily three routes: surrogacy, adoption, or fostering with the potential to adopt. Each has its own advantages, challenges, and timelines. Would you like me to walk through each one?”
Simon nodded, his throat too tight for words.
Dr. Barrett launched into an explanation, her tone measured and clear. Surrogacy involved finding a surrogate mother, either traditional or gestational. Traditional meant the surrogate's own egg, making her genetically related to the child. Gestational used a donor egg and IVF, meaning the surrogate carried a baby with no genetic connection to her.
“For gestational surrogacy, one or both of you could provide sperm,” Dr. Barrett continued. “The donor egg would be fertilized in our lab, and the resulting embryo implanted in the surrogate. Success rates vary, but with a healthy surrogate and good quality embryos, we see conception rates around sixty to seventy percent per transfer.”
Numbers. Statistics. Simon tried to focus on them, to make them mean something concrete rather than abstract hope.
“The process typically takes twelve to eighteen months from start to finish,” Dr. Barrett said. “That includes finding and vetting a surrogate, legal arrangements, the actual IVF cycle, and pregnancy. Costs run between eighty and one hundred fifty thousand pounds, depending on various factors.”
Simon's chest tightened. Not insurmountable, but significant. They had savings, the house in the Highlands was paid off, but still.
“Adoption is another option,” Dr. Barrett continued, apparently reading his reaction. “You've already been through that process once, so you're familiar with the timeline and requirements. The advantage is lower cost and the knowledge that you're providing a home for a child who needs one. The disadvantage is less control over timing and the potential for older children with more complex needs.”
“We want a baby,” Simon said, the words coming out rougher than intended. “An infant. Not to replace the twins, they’re amazing, but... we want to raise one from the beginning.”
Dr. Barrett nodded, no judgment in her expression. “That's very common, and completely understandable. Infant adoption is possible but competitive. Wait times can be several years, and there's always the possibility of the birth mother changing her mind before finalization.”
Simon's jaw clenched. Too many variables. Too much outside his control.
“Surrogacy gives you more certainty,” Dr. Barrett said gently. “More control over the timeline and process. It's more expensive, but for many couples, that certainty is worth the cost.”
“What's the first step?” Simon asked. “If we decided to go that route?”
“First would be a full medical workup for both you and your husband. We'd test sperm quality, check for any genetic conditions that might affect the process. Then we'd help you find a surrogate, either through an agency or independently. Once you've matched with someone, there are legal contracts to establish parental rights, medical screening for the surrogate, and then the IVF process itself.”
Dr. Barrett pulled out a folder, sliding it across the table. “This has detailed information about each step, costs, timelines, and some agencies we work with regularly. I'd recommend taking it home, discussing it with your husband, and then we can schedule a follow-up if you decide to move forward.”
Simon took the folder, the weight of it solid in his hands. Information. Options. A path forward, if they chose to take it.
“One more thing,” Dr. Barrett said, her voice softening. “This is a big decision, and it's okay. There's no rush. Take your time, talk it through, and make sure you're both ready. This isn't something to jump into lightly.”
“Thank you. For all of this.” Simon met her eyes, grateful for the understanding there.
“Of course.” Dr. Barrett stood, extending her hand again. “Feel free to call if you have any questions. My direct line is in the folder.”
Simon shook her hand, then left, the folder tucked under his arm like classified intel. The weight of it felt significant, concrete in a way the conversation hadn't quite managed.
The clinic's lobby was still full of couples when he passed through. The same nervous energy, the same hope radiating from every corner. Simon kept his head down, pushed through the door into cold January air that bit at the exposed skin around his eyes.
His truck sat in the far corner of the car park, exactly where he'd left it. Simon climbed in, started the engine, let it warm while he sat staring at the folder on the passenger seat.
Eighty to one hundred fifty thousand pounds.
More than one and two years of his salary, which was still significantly higher than Johnny’s even after his promotion to captain. Not to mention that was dropping significantly in May when his leave ran out and he was officially retired. He ran the numbers automatically, his mind cataloguing assets like he was planning an op. His retirement fund. The disability payments. The savings account he'd been building since before the twins came into their lives. Johnny's income as a captain, though that would disappear if he retired this year.
They could do it. If he dipped into reserves he'd sworn to keep untouched. His safety nets, the cushion he'd built in case everything went to shit again. Because it always did, didn't it? Things fell apart. People died. You needed backup plans.
But this wasn't disaster planning. This was family planning.
Simon pulled out his phone, opened the banking app, and stared at the numbers. Enough. Just barely, if he didn't tell Johnny about pulling from the emergency fund. His husband would hate that, would insist on contributing equally even though they both knew Simon had more tucked away. Johnny's pride couldn't handle being the one who contributed less, even when the math made it obvious.
Fuck.
And this was for one child. One. What if they wanted more after? What if Charlie's medical needs escalated? What if Johnny couldn't find civilian work that paid enough?
Simon closed the app, gripped the steering wheel hard enough that his knuckles went white beneath his gloves.
Twelve to eighteen months, Dr. Barrett had said. If they started now, that put them at... summer 2030 at the latest. Charlie would be almost eleven. Old enough that his therapy routine was established, that he could maybe help with a baby in small ways. Izzy would be nearly eleven too, probably excited about being a big sister to an infant rather than just an older twin.
Plenty of time to get Charlie into a good space. To make sure the twins were solid, secure, ready for another sibling.
And after? If they wanted more?
Adoption was still an option. The twins had been Johnny's biologically, though he hadn't known they existed until social services showed up at the base and drove him to Glasgow to take custody of Izzy. Simon remembered that day with crystalline clarity.
Simon had driven to Glasgow. Hadn't even thought about it, just got in the truck and drove. After sitting in front of the social services building for a couple of hours, his husband had emerged with a terrified eight-year-old Isabel MacTavish. Shell-shocked didn't begin to cover his husband's expression. Lost. Completely lost.
But Izzy had looked at Simon when they walked up, and something in her face had shifted. Recognition, maybe. Or just the certainty that this massive, scarred man would keep her safe. She'd reached for him with her free hand, and Simon had taken it without hesitation.
They'd been a unit from that moment. The four of them, once Charlie came home from hospital.
Simon wanted one of his own, though. A baby he and Johnny created together, intentionally. One they'd plan for, prepare for, raise from day one. Johnny was fine with that. More than fine. Had been asking about it since Christmas, that look in his eyes when Simon held Reece.
The folder sat on the passenger seat like a promise. Or a threat. Simon wasn't sure which.
He put the truck in gear, pulled out of the car park. But instead of heading straight back toward the base and Credenhill, he took the long way. The scenic route through the countryside, roads that wound through fields and past stone walls that had stood for centuries.
Time to think. That's what he needed.
They could afford one child this way. Maybe two, if they were very careful. If he cut corners elsewhere, if they saved aggressively. But that would be it. The well would be dry.
Unless they went the adoption route after. Fostering to adopt, maybe. Kids who needed homes, who wouldn't care that Simon was scarred and broken and wore a mask half the time. Kids like the twins, who just needed someone to keep them safe and fed and loved.
Options. He'd gone to hear his options, and now he had them.
The road curved through a village, past a pub with smoke curling from its chimney, a church with a cemetery full of weathered stones. Life and death, all mixed together like they always were.
Simon's phone buzzed. He ignored it. Whoever it was could wait.
The countryside opened up again, fields stretching toward distant hills. The sky was grey, heavy with the promise of snow. Winter holding on despite January bleeding into February.
By the time Simon pulled into their neighborhood in Credenhill, it was almost time to pick up the twins. School would be out in a few minutes. He'd been driving for nearly two hours, just circling, thinking. The folder sat untouched, but the numbers ran through his head on repeat.
Eighty to one hundred fifty thousand. Twelve to eighteen months. Success rates of sixty to seventy percent.
He'd talk to Johnny tonight. Lay it all out, the costs and timelines and possibilities. His husband deserved to know, deserved to be part of the decision even if Simon would shoulder most of the practical burden. This was their life. Their family.
Simon parked, grabbed the folder, and sat for a moment staring at his home. Their home. The place they'd built for the twins, where Charlie did his therapy and Izzy did her homework and Ruby stood watched over them.
Room for one more. Maybe two, if they were creative with space.
He climbed out of the truck, tucked the folder under his arm, and headed inside. Tonight, he would tell his husband they might be having a baby.