I love seeing Stonebridge and Scott's obvious love for each other. I don't know if you notice, but everytime Scott thinks Stonebridge is in danger, he yells his name and makes sure Michael's okay before doing anything else. The big lug is so cute. And have you seen Michael's chest? It should be illegal, how handsome that guy is. *drools*

Sorry, no beta. Written for fun, and not for profit.

Four Times Scott Carries Stonebridge and That One Time Stonebridge Carries Scott

Chapter 1

There's blood everywhere. On the bed, on the carpet, on the hardwood floor leading up to the bathroom. Dark, clumpy, metallic smells. I should be used to this, it comes with the job. Part of the lifestyle. Part of being a soldier. No biggie. Doesn't faze me. But this is a different kind of blood. The worst kind - blood of the innocent.

I follow the blood trail into the bathroom, making sure to peer into corners prior to barging in, so ingrained and instinctual that I don't even know I do it. It's clean and organized. There are blue candles on almost every surface, white fluffy towels on silver racks, bottles of shampoo neatly placed against recessed tiles. I see a white sunken bathtub and sitting inside with his back to the wall is Stonebridge. His eyes are hollowed, jaw clenched so tightly it must be painful. The white boxers hanging low on his waist now look purple, his hands and naked torso are covered with blood. But not his. If only it was.

"Hey buddy," I venture. Afraid to say anything. Afraid to say nothing. He looks up from his intent study of his hands. His hands that are covered in red. The skin on his face looks so taut against his cheekbones. He looks broken. "Let's go. Kerry's on her way to the hospital," I sit against the lip of the tub. "We can follow the ambulance in my car." No response. I'm not sure he hears me. "Michael, let's get you cleaned up." I have never seen him this way. He looks smaller, older. Shattered. I reach in and turn the faucet on, making sure the water is not too cold, not too hot. Just right. Like fucking Goldilocks and the Three Fucking Bears. I don't know why I bother. Stonebridge doesn't even move a muscle. I turn the overhead shower on and the water slowly drenches him, the white ceramic suddenly looks violently red. Fucking blood. All the mother fucking blood.

"She's gone," I hear Michael whisper. So low, I think I must've imagined it. "She's gone," he says again, a bit louder this time.

"I'm sorry, Mikey," I don't know what to say. Throw me in a burning building, have people shoot at me, burn my balls off with a cattle prod and I'm good. But not now. Not here. Not with Michael's pain.

"We were going to name her Ela," he says, his voice hoarse. Water dripping down his face.

"That's beautiful, buddy." And it is. My heart breaks.

"We saw her heartbeat. Just yesterday. I don't know… what... happened," he sounds like a little boy. Asking questions I am not equipped to answer. "What happened?" his eyes bore into mine. "She's supposed to have Kerry's hair. And my lips. Kerry's eyes. I was hoping she wouldn't get my ears. Have you seen my ears, Scott? She can't have my ears. She needs small dainty ones. Because she's ssssmall and p..p…precious and…." I can see Michael's shoulders start to shake. Shock is now being replaced by grief. I wish I'm better at this. I wish I'm not this big clumsy Yank who has no clue in how to handle heartbreak. I wish Richmond is here. She'll know what to say, what to do.

"Mikey, I'm so sorry buddy." I sit next to him. Water drips down my face, soaking my clothes.

"What happened?" he asks again. "Did I do something wrong? I think I did. I'm supposed to take care of her. Damien. I'm supposed to take care of her." He starts hitting the wall with his right fist. "My baby girl. My baby," his hand starts to bleed. Red rivulets cascading down the stark white tile. Blood. His blood, finally. Not his unborn child's.

I grab his fist with my right hand and his shoulder with my left. I hold him against me with all my might. I'm expecting some resistance. Afterall, this is big, bad, Sergeant Stonebridge. SAS soldier. Elite of the elite. But there's none. He holds on to me as if he's drowning and I'm his last hope for salvation. His hollowed eyes finally fill and he cries silent tears, falling on my shoulder, mixing with the water pouring down our heads.

"I'm sorry buddy, I'm so sorry Mikey," is all I can manage.