#dad coded

it's on a saturday morning, one of those days where you feel like your brain will about to explode. he's standing in the kitchen while your daughter sits on the counter next to him, while you're curled up on the sofa and scrolling aimlessly on your phone.

"juice, daddy?" violet asks impatiently.

"yeah, yeah." he mutters.

he grabs a cup — plastic, with a lid, because last time had been an incident and poured some juice with careful precision.

but simon ghost riley, as gentle is he is, is clumsy as fuck, too. which is when it happens: the cap slips and so does the bottle. juice splashes across the counter, which violet narrowly misses, while the liquid drips down the floor.

there was a beat of silence, and then. "ah. shit."

the word slipped out before he could stop it. slowly, like he'd stepped on a landmine, he looked over at you who was watching him impassively with that look on your face. the one that screamed fix it.

simon straightened immediately. "i mean, ah, —"

"shit." she repeated perfectly.

he closed his eyes, running a hand over his face. "bloody hell."

"simon ghost riley," you hiss, simultaneously as your daughter repeats, lighting up, "bloody hell?"

"no, don't, no," he says quickly, "forget that. both of those. didn't hear it."

she giggles instead. "daddy said shit."

he shoots her a pointed look, but tries and fails. so much for being a strict father. "you don't say that. ever. got it?"

"why?"

because I just accidentally taught my toddler how to swear, that’s why. "because those are ... grown up words. not for you."

"you're grown up."

"yes, sweetheart."

"so you can say it."

he hesitates, shooting a look at you who's rolled your eyes. "probably not."