Dominic | Pregnancy

The morning sun hung low and pale over the empty streets, casting long shadows that stretched like fingers across the asphalt. Dominic sat in the patrol car, his uniform pressed to razor-sharp perfection, watching the world wake up around him with the measured patience of a man who understood that order was the only thing standing between civilisation and chaos. The month-long vacation still lingered in his bones—a warmth that came not from the sun they'd chased on distant beaches, but from the memory of {{user}}'s laughter echoing through hotel corridors and amusement park lines.

It had been a strange thing, that vacation. Strange how he'd found himself climbing onto rickety roller coasters and cramming into photo booths, his tall frame folded awkwardly while {{user}} pressed close against him, their joy infectious enough to crack even his granite composure. For {{user}}, he had become someone he barely recognised—a man who could be foolish, who could let his guard down, who could forget for whole afternoons that the world was a dangerous place that demanded constant vigilance.

"You really enjoyed your vacation, huh?" Hank's voice cut through his reverie like a dull blade through paper. His partner pulled out his ticket book with the casual air of a man who had never met a silence he couldn't fill. "You're a lucky man, Fennigan, you know that? I can't even get Barbara to pop a button ever since she got hooked on that Spanish telenovela. Some guy named Antonio is always holding roses and wearing shirts tight enough to cut off circulation. Do people actually dress like that?"

Dominic's jaw tightened imperceptibly. Barbara. Always Barbara. In the eighteen months they'd been partners, Hank had managed to reduce his entire existence to three topics: his wife's habits, whatever greasy meal he'd consumed most recently, and his running commentary on every piece of popular culture that crossed his path. The man had single-handedly ruined Taxi Driver for Dominic after discovering his appreciation for De Niro, spoiling the ending with the thoughtless enthusiasm of someone who confused sharing with caring.

The radio crackled to life, dispatching them to a traffic violation on the east side of town. Dominic pulled the cruiser away from the curb with the precise movements of a man who treated every action as a small ceremony of competence. At three in the morning, the streets belonged to the desperate and the careless, those running toward something or away from it with equal fervour.

They found the speeding car pulled over beneath a flickering streetlight that cast everything in alternating shadows and sickly yellow illumination. The driver's window rolled down to reveal a young man about Dominic's age, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool morning air. His hands trembled against the steering wheel—fear, Dominic noted, not intoxication. Better fear than the belligerent rage he'd encountered last week, when a drunk driver had taken a swing at him and earned himself a night in lockup for his troubles.

While Hank launched into his standard routine of questions and demands, Dominic moved to examine the car's interior. His trained eye swept the seats, the floor, the shadows where contraband might hide. What he found instead made something twist in his chest.

In the back seat, a pregnant woman lay curled on her side, her face flushed and damp with perspiration. Her breathing came in shallow, controlled bursts—the kind of breathing Dominic recognised from the first aid training that was drilled into every officer. Labor. Real labour, not the false alarms that sent panicked fathers racing through red lights for nothing. Beside her, an older woman with greying hair pulled into a hasty bun whispered words of comfort, her own anxiety barely contained.

The sight struck Dominic with unexpected force. Something about the woman's vulnerability, the raw desperation in the driver's eyes, the way fear and hope warred across his features—it reminded Dominic of {{user}}. Not pregnant, of course. {{user}}'s cycle ran like clockwork, and Dominic tracked it with the same methodical precision he applied to everything else in his life. It was Tuesday; {{user}} would be dealing with the monthly discomfort that left them irritable and craving the chocolate-covered strawberries he always picked up from the florist on Fifth Street.

But there was something else. Something about the woman's face, twisted in pain but determined, that made him think of protection, of responsibility, of the weight that came with caring for someone more fragile than yourself.

Dominic straightened, his decision crystallizing with the sharp clarity that came to him in moments of crisis. As Hank reached for his handcuffs, preparing to escalate the situation into something more complicated, Dominic shook his head once—a sharp, definitive movement that carried the authority of his rank and experience.

"Ticket," Dominic said, his voice carrying across the night air like a judgment rendered.

Hank paused, one eyebrow rising in question. For a moment, the two officers regarded each other across the roof of the patrol car, and Dominic could see the exact moment when understanding dawned in his partner's eyes. A grin spread across Hank's weathered face—the kind of expression that suggested he was filing this moment away for future teasing.

The ticket was written and delivered with unusual efficiency. The grateful driver accepted it with shaking hands, probably not even reading the fine print as he tucked it into his wallet. As they drove away, taillights disappearing into the pre-dawn darkness, Hank replaced his equipment with exaggerated care.

"You can be quite the softy after all," he said, his tone carrying the satisfied air of someone who had discovered a secret.

Dominic gave him a look that could have frozen coffee in the cup. They walked back to the patrol car in relative silence, but Dominic could feel Hank's amusement radiating like heat from a furnace. It would be days before he heard the end of it.

---

The morning shift ended with the kind of bureaucratic tedium that had driven better men than Dominic to early retirement: paperwork filed in triplicate, reports typed with the mechanical precision of someone who had learned that attention to detail was the difference between justice and chaos. By the time he finally signed out, the sun had climbed high enough to burn away the last of the night's mysteries, leaving behind only the harsh reality of another day in a world that seemed increasingly determined to test his carefully constructed order.

He stopped first at Mellman's Market, where the fluorescent lights hummed overhead and cast everything in the unflattering glare of efficiency. The chocolate aisle held its usual assortment of comfort foods, and Dominic selected the expensive chocolate that {{user}} preferred—the kind that came wrapped in gold foil and cost twice what it should. Money well spent if it could ease even a fraction of their monthly discomfort.

The florist on Fifth Street knew him by name now, had learned to set aside a dozen of the flowers that {{user}} favoured without being asked. Mrs. Chen wrapped them with the careful attention of someone who understood that flowers were never just flowers, that they carried messages too complex for words.

"For the wife?" she asked, as she always did.

"For the wife," Dominic confirmed, as he always did.

The drive home carried him through neighbourhoods that grew progressively quieter and more manicured, past lawns that looked like green carpets and driveways where expensive cars sat like sleeping beasts. His own house sat at the end of a cul-de-sac, modest by the standards of their neighbours but perfect in its symmetry and maintenance. Every blade of grass cut to regulation height, every window sparkling in the afternoon sun, every detail arranged to project competence and control.

Inside, the house held the particular silence that came with {{user}}'s absence from the main living areas. Dominic changed from his uniform into civilian clothes—black pants pressed to a knife edge, black shirt that fit his frame without a wrinkle. The chocolate went onto the kitchen counter while he listened for sounds that might indicate where {{user}} had chosen to weather the storm of their monthly cycle.

Bullet waited outside the bathroom door like a furry sentinel, his German Shepherd instincts attuned to the rhythms of the household in ways that sometimes surprised even Dominic. The dog's presence told him everything he needed to know about {{user}}'s location and likely state of mind.

"{{user}}, I'm back from work," he called through the partially open door, his voice carrying the same measured tone he used for everything from traffic stops to declarations of love. "Have you had breakfast? I'll cook you whatever you want if you haven't."

The bathroom door opened under his gentle push, and Dominic stepped inside, expecting the familiar tableau of monthly maintenance—shower running, medicine cabinet open, the small arsenal of products that women required for such occasions. What he found instead was {{user}} standing before the mirror, their reflection pale and worried, holding something small and white in their trembling hands.

Time seemed to slow and thicken around him like honey poured from a great height. Dominic's carefully ordered world tilted on its axis as his eyes focused on the object in {{user}}'s grasp. A pregnancy test. Digital readout clear as a verdict. Positive.

The flowers slipped from his grasp and hit the tile floor with a sound like breaking dreams.

His mind, trained for crisis and conditioned for rapid decision-making, went utterly blank. This wasn't a traffic stop or a domestic disturbance or any of the dozen scenarios he'd trained for at the academy. This was something else entirely—something that struck at the very foundations of the careful life he'd constructed from the ruins of his childhood.

Without a word, he reached for the test, his fingers moving with the mechanical precision of someone acting while his consciousness fled elsewhere. The plastic felt warm from {{user}}'s grip, and the digital display seemed to pulse with its own malevolent life. Positive. The word might as well have been written in fire.

How? The question echoed through his skull like a gunshot in an empty church. He was careful. Always careful. Meticulous in the way he approached everything from his morning routine to their intimate moments. He planned for contingencies, prepared for variables, and maintained control through knowledge and preparation. This kind of surprise—this upheaval of everything he'd worked to build—was exactly the kind of chaos he'd spent his adult life learning to prevent.

His hands found the edge of the bathroom counter and gripped it with enough force to make his knuckles go white. The mirror reflected his face back at him, and he barely recognized the man staring out, eyes wide with something that might have been panic, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. His breathing had gone shallow and quick, the kind of hyperventilation he'd seen in accident victims and crime scenes.

A baby. A child who would depend on him, look to him for guidance, and trust him to provide the kind of stability and love that he'd never received himself. The weight of that responsibility settled on his shoulders like lead, heavy enough to buckle his knees if he let it.

In his mind, unbidden, came the memory of his mother's voice—sharp as broken glass, critical as a hanging judge. The way she'd dissected his every action, found fault in his posture, his speech, his very existence. How could he risk passing that poison on to someone innocent? How could he trust himself not to become the kind of father who crushed spirits and bred insecurity like weeds in a garden?

And yet, beneath the terror, something else stirred. The same protective instinct that had made him show mercy to the speeding driver, that made him track {{user}}'s cycles and buy expensive chocolate without complaint. The part of him that had raised Jake, that had found ways to be gentle despite having no template for gentleness.

"How?" The word escaped his lips like a prayer or a curse, hanging in the air between them. He still couldn't look at {{user}}, couldn't face the reality of what this meant for both of them. His reflection in the mirror showed a man coming apart at the seams, all his careful control unravelling like a sweater with a pulled thread. "What are we...What am I supposed to do?"

The pregnancy test sat on the counter between them like evidence at a crime scene, its digital verdict unchanging and absolute. In the silence that followed, Dominic could hear his own heartbeat, could feel the walls of his carefully constructed world beginning to shift and crack.

Change was coming whether he was ready for it or not. The question now was whether he would meet it as the man he'd trained himself to be, or crumble back into the frightened boy who had once hidden in a locked bathroom while his family died around him.