Simon Riley didn’t like babies.
Didn’t hate them – he just didn’t get them. Didn’t get how people melted over something that screamed, drooled, and stared at him like he was a nightmare in human form.
Kids always screamed when they saw him in his balaclava.
He took it off?
Worse. Way worse.
That was why he never showed at team dinners. Soap’s kids, Price’s kids – he didn’t want to be the reason they cried. Didn’t want to see that look again.
He’d seen it once before.
A kid on the street had stared at him too long and blurted out,“Mum, he’s uglier than a monster.”
The woman had grabbed her son and practically run, fear all over her face.
Ugly. Monster. Scarred. Scary.
So when it came to his baby girl, Simon was fucking terrified.
“No,” he said flatly the first time you suggested it.
You’d barely finished your sentence.
“She’s our daughter, Si,” you said gently. “She should see your face. Her father's face.”
“She doesn’t need to,” he snapped. “Mask stays on. End of it.”
He’d sit with her for hours, mask firmly in place, huge gloved hands impossibly gentle as he played with her. And she adored him —giggled every time he spoke, squealed when he leaned close.
“Yeah, you’re proper hard, you are,” he muttered one afternoon, bouncing her lightly. “Big strong girl. Gonna knock yer old man out one day, eh?”
She babbled back, fingers grabbing his crooked nose through the fabric.
You smiled from the doorway.“She thinks you’re pretty, Si.”
He scoffed. “Don’t talk shite.”
“I’m serious.”
“She’s a baby,” he muttered. “Give it a second. Soon as this comes off, she’ll scream her head off. I’m not doin’ that to her.”
Days later.
Steam still clung to the bathroom door when Simon stepped out, towel slung low around his hips, one hand scrubbing roughly at his face. Bare. Exposed.
You froze.
Then grinned.
“Oh no,” he muttered immediately. “Don’t you dare.”
Too late.
You stepped right into his path, your baby balanced on your hip. “Hi, love.”
“Absolutely not,” Simon barked, panic sharp in his voice. “Now’s not the time. Move.”
“Simon.”
He turned toward the wall, shoulders tight. “I said no. I’m not lettin’ her see me like this.”
“She deserves—”
“She’ll cry,” he snapped. “And I’m not havin’ that. So fuck off and let me get dressed.”
You reached for the towel. He tightened it instantly. It was heartbreaking seeing such a well trained soldier and more than capable man hiding himself out of fear of hurting his baby girl. Making her scared of him...
“Don’t,” he growled. “Don’t push me.”
Silence stretched - thick, painful. You didn't like this side of him. The side that hates himself so much he ends up hurting you.
Then–
The loudest giggle you’d ever heard.
Your baby shrieked with laughter, burying her face into your neck, shaking with it.
Simon froze.
“What…?” He turned slowly, confused.
She peeked out.
And saw him.
Her smile vanished for half a second–tiny brow furrowing, eyes studying his scars, his broken nose, the harsh lines of his face. Who was this man...huh...
Simon swallowed hard. “Sweetheart…” His voice cracked despite himself. “It’s me.”
That was it.
Recognition hit her like lightning. Her whole face lit up, mouth opening in a toothless grin as she squealed and reached for him.
“No! wait!!” Simon protested, panic flaring again.
You didn’t hesitate. You placed her straight into his arms.
He went completely still. Every muscle locked. Braced for rejection. A scream, a cry.
Instead—
She laughed harder.
Her chubby hands smacked against his scarred cheeks, fingers exploring every line, tugging his nose like it was her favourite toy. She pressed her mouth to his cheek and slobbered happily.
Simon let out a broken sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
“Oh...fuck,” he whispered.
Tears welled, spilling freely as he smiled, really smiled, for the first time in years.
You crossed your arms, smug through your own tears.“Told you.”
She babbled at him, patting his face like she was soothing him now. Little chubby hands awkwardly patting his cheeks and eyes.
He kissed the top of her head, breathing her in like she was air. Then he pulled you into his side with one arm.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured thickly. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry. Thought I’d scare her. Thought I weren’t good enough.”
You leaned into him. “She loves you, Simon. Mask or no mask.”
He spends days afterwards apologizing, doing everything he could to make you happy. But you already were the happiest seeing your daughter shriek with laughter as her daddy makes funny faces to feed her.
And begs you to make little skull patterned mittens for her. To match of course.
Simon Riley’s baby loved him more without the mask.
She grew up thinking she looked just like her dad. And that made her proud.
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