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Eugene Roe is very pregnant.
Not the dainty, glowy kind of pregnant some books try to sell you on. He’s real-life, third-trimester, "can’t see my own feet and everything makes me cry" pregnant, and yet, somehow, he’s never felt more at peace.
He’s nested deep in the worn-in couch of their cozy Louisiana home, a knit blanket bunched around his hips, his back cushioned by an army of throw pillows. There’s a bowl of pickles and vanilla ice cream perfectly balanced on his belly like a sacred offering. The late afternoon sun spills warm across the floor, and the whole room hums with the quiet chaos of three people learning how to become a family.
He’s watching his soulmates flounder.
On the left: Ralph, an ex-Army medic with the patience of a saint, unless you hand him an Allen wrench. He’s crouched over what was promised to be a "simple and modern" baby crib, the kind with elegant lines and Scandi style. The kind that, in theory, takes twenty minutes to assemble. In reality, it’s more like trying to build a battleship with chopsticks and sarcasm.
"You’ve got to be kidding me," Ralph growls under his breath, wrestling with a slat that refuses to behave. "Who designs this stuff? A Swedish sadist with a degree in structural engineering?"
"You could just read the instructions," Eugene says, utterly unbothered, licking a dollop of ice cream from his spoon. He doesn’t even glance up from the book he’s not really reading.
"I did read them. They’re in a hundred languages, none of which are English."
"Page five is in English," Eugene replies sweetly, flipping a page. "And by the way, upside-down isn’t a valid configuration for a crib."
Ralph doesn’t look back. He just raises one middle finger skyward in Eugene’s general direction.
"Love you too," Eugene chirps.
To the right, in the eye of the storm, Edward "Babe" Heffron sits cross-legged in the middle of a pile of torn wrapping paper and opened boxes like a red-headed raccoon high on sugar. The gifts are from the boys in Easy Company, a group of battle-hardened, deeply traumatized men who have responded to the news of their best friend’s impending fatherhood with a combination of pride, mischief, and absolutely zero chill.
"So, uh…" Babe holds up a tiny U.S. Army-issue helmet, toddler-sized, camo-patterned, and somehow adorable despite the implications. "This one’s from Luz. Says it’s for ‘historical accuracy.’"
Eugene snorts.
"Yea. That's a Luz thing. Dick and Nix warned me he would send that."
Babe tosses it gently to the side and opens the next box, revealing a baby-sized typewriter complete with paper.
"Dick," he announces, holding it up like it’s Exhibit A in a federal case. "He says ‘someone’s gotta start the memoirs early.’"
"Useful," Eugene says with mock seriousness.
"You’re gonna want a good first draft by month six."
Babe raises an eyebrow, but he’s smiling. He’s always smiling around Eugene. He tears into another gift, this one wrapped with what looks like duct tape and an apology written in Sharpie.
Inside is a handmade sock monkey wearing a miniature parachute harness and a tiny set of dog tags.
"An actual normal baby gift," Babe says. "Or possibly a warlock’s offering. This has Welsh written all over it."
"Probably cursed," Ralph mutters from the corner, slamming another bolt into the crib with more force than finesse.
"I love it," Eugene says, already setting it aside with a growing collection of deranged-but-heartfelt baby memorabilia. "Put it next to the helmet. Our kid’s first collection of war crimes."
Babe laughs, a sharp little burst of joy that makes Eugene’s chest ache in the best way. Then he leans over and kisses Eugene’s forehead, followed by a soft one to the curve of his belly.
"Your dads are losing their minds, just like your crazy uncles," he whispers to the baby.
Eugene threads his fingers through Babe’s hair, gentle and slow. "You say that like it’s news."
He watches them for a long moment, Ralph, cursing in increasingly creative ways as he discovers he’s attached one side of the crib backward, and Babe, unwrapping a framed map from Lipton with a note that just says, "In case they inherit uncle Peacocks coordination."
Eugene snorts.
"Poor Thomas, that man couldn't find his ass in a snowstorm, that and I'm pretty sure he's color blind."
Babe reaches for another box, this one smaller, wrapped with military precision and zero frills, olive drab paper, crisp corners, no card. Just a white tag that reads: "For the kid. R. Speirs."
Babe pauses.
Eugene raises an eyebrow. "Oh no."
Ralph mutters, "Please let it be something normal. Just once."
Babe slowly unwraps it like he’s defusing a bomb.
Inside is a single item: a small black onesie. Stamped across the chest in white block letters, it reads:
"I Don’t Cry. I Assess."
There’s a matching beanie. All black. No design. Just one stitched word:
"Intimidate."
Ralph leans over to see, then immediately bursts out laughing, the sharp, involuntary kind that sounds like something broke.
"No way that’s real," he says between wheezes.
Babe holds it up like a sacred relic. "It’s real. It’s so real."
Eugene just stares, blinking.
"Did… did Speirs send our newborn a tactical mindset starter pack?"
"He did," Babe says reverently. "And I’m keeping it forever."
There’s more in the box. A handwritten note on plain military stationery:
Train them young. Strength is love. Crying is optional. – S.
P.S. I don't mind babysitting. You know how to reach me.
Ralph flops onto the floor, cackling.
Eugene just shakes his head, grinning despite himself. "Of course he sends the one gift that feels like it might double as a boot camp initiation."
Babe gently places the onesie on the pile next to the cursed sock monkey and the army helmet, nodding solemnly.
"This baby is going to have so many identities," he says. "Combat medic’s kid. Cuddle machine. Mini warlord."
"And emotionally supported by a sock monkey with PTSD," Eugene adds.
"You forgot ‘sleeping in a drawer,’" Ralph says, glaring at the half-built crib again.
Eugene pats his belly like a warning. "They’re gonna come out ready for anything."
Babe wipes a tear from his eye, still recovering from the Speirs "tactical babywear" moment, when his hand falls on a much larger box, dented at the corners, wrapped in brown butcher paper with haphazard twine tied around it like someone lost a bet mid-wrapping.
The tag is scribbled in barely-legible block letters:
To: Babe, Gene, Ralphie, and Gremlin
From Wild Bill + Toye
P.S. This is not a joke (Okay maybe a little)
Babe freezes. "Oh no."
Ralph groans from the floor. "Oh yes."
Eugene straightens up, already bracing. "Open it carefully. There might be fireworks. Remember Shifty, Skinny, and Tab's present."
Babe undoes the twine like he’s handling live ammo. The moment the paper’s off, he stares at the box beneath it, then slowly turns it around to show the others.
On the side is a sticker:
"Property of Wild Bill’s Survival Co."
Beneath it, scrawled in Sharpie:
"For baby's first street fight."
"Oh Jesus Christ," Eugene murmurs.
Babe cracks it open.
The first thing he pulls out is a baby-sized leather jacket, actual leather, patched at the shoulder with a custom emblem that reads:
"Lil’ Paratrooper"
Babe holds it up. "Okay. This is already a war crime."
"That’s so cool," Ralph breathes.
Next, Babe reaches in and pulls out, a plastic switchblade. Not sharp, but spring-loaded. When he presses the button, it springs out and unfurls a rattle.
Eugene laughs so hard he chokes.
"Tell me that’s not a knife-rattle combo," Ralph says, eyes wide with awe.
"It is," Babe confirms, his voice high-pitched with disbelief. "They… they made a tactical teether."
Ralph claps his hands. "That baby is gonna run the whole playground."
There’s more. Of course there’s more.
• A camouflage pacifier.
• A tiny set of brass knuckles that are actually a teething ring.
• A copy of Sun Tzu’s The Art of War board book edition.
("For when you want nap time to be strategic,"
a note adds.)
At the bottom of the box is a letter folded around a bottle of cheap whiskey.
Dear Heffron, Roe, Spina, and Mini-medic,
You’re gonna be fine. The kid’s gonna be weird, you’re raising it, after all, but they’ll be tough, and they’ll be loved, and that’s the whole damn game.
We figured you’ve got the soft stuff covered. So we got you the essentials.
Toye says sorry about the teething brass knuckles. I don’t.
Wild Bill & Joe
P.S. The jacket’s made from real leather. Don’t ask how.
Babe just sits there for a minute, blinking down at the chaos in his lap.
"Why do I feel like our kid’s gonna lead a gang by age three?" he asks.
"Because it will," Eugene answers. "Because it has to. At least according to our deranged friends."
Ralph leans over and taps the rattle-knife. "You know what? I feel safer with this baby already."
Eugene nods. "If anyone tries to touch them without permission, they’ll get rattled and stabbed. In that order."
Babe is trying to look outraged, but it’s a losing battle. He gives up and cradles the tiny jacket like it’s gold.
"I love them," he says quietly. "Both of those idiots."
Eugene reaches out, takes the board book version of The Art of War, and flips it open to page one.
"Chapter One: If the enemy is overtired, strike at nap time."
They all dissolve into laughter again, and somewhere in the belly of the home, the baby kicks like it’s laughing too.
The living room is a mess. There’s packing foam in the houseplants, string ribbon trailing into the kitchen, and someone’s boot print on a burp cloth.
But Eugene’s never been happier.
Even as his back aches and the baby kicks like it’s training for the Olympics, even as his body feels like borrowed space, he’s here. He made it out of hell and into this. He’s whole. And he’s surrounded by the two people who made surviving worth it.
Ralph lets out a strangled noise of victory as one side of the crib finally clicks into place.
"Look!" he says proudly. "Structural integrity!"
"You mean it hasn’t collapsed yet," Eugene corrects.
"Details."
Ralph turns, triumphant, and accidentally knocks over the half-built frame with his hip. It topples like a drunk uncle at a wedding.
"Goddamn it!"
Babe loses it. He throws his head back and howls, one arm wrapped protectively around Eugene’s belly like he’s shielding the baby from the sheer force of his laughter.
"Oh my God, Spina, that’s the third time!"
Ralph sits down hard next to the pile of parts, wiping sweat from his forehead with the hem of his shirt. He stares at the pieces like they’ve personally betrayed him.
"I’m just saying," he sighs. "In the Army, you broke it, you buried it."
"Don’t tempt me," Eugene deadpans.
Babe lifts the sock monkey again, eyeing it with suspicion. "Still think this thing’s gonna eat our child."
Eugene laughs so hard his eyes water. It starts deep in his chest and rolls out slow, shaking the whole couch. He presses both hands to his belly as the baby kicks again, like they’re joining in the fun.
Babe and Ralph immediately shift into motion. They’ve got this routine down, one rubbing Eugene’s lower back, the other resting a palm over the spot where the baby’s dancing.
Eugene grabs both their hands and lays them across the swell of him, palm over palm.
Three hands. One heartbeat.
This is home.
Not just a place, but a feeling. A memory in the making. A future wrapped in soft fabric and cuss words and the sound of laughter echoing off chipped walls.
"Hey," Ralph says suddenly, looking down at the baby bump. "You’re not allowed to come out until your dad finishes building your crib, got it? Or your going in the dresser drawer."
Babe makes a face. "Are you threatening the baby? Cause I'll put you in the dresser drawer."
"Just setting expectations."
Eugene sighs, exhausted but glowing.
"You’re both idiots," he murmurs fondly.
"Yeah," Babe says, grinning. "But we’re your idiots."
The sun dips lower, casting long shadows across the room. Somewhere, the radio hums faintly with some old swing tune. The smell of dinner, something slow-cooked and probably slightly burned because they forgot about it lingers in the air.
It’s not perfect.
But it’s theirs.
And as Ralph hauls himself up for another round with the crib and Babe starts organizing the increasingly unhinged gifts into a "questionable" pile and a "possible use" pile, Eugene leans back into the cushions, strokes his belly once, and smiles.
Their kid is going to be so weird.
So loved.
So unbelievably lucky.