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Chapter Text

The swamp was quiet. The way Shrek liked it.

Birds croaked instead of singing, the trees swayed like tired drunks, and the smell of bog water clung to everything like a stubborn relative. Shrek stood on his rickety porch, a carved mug of onion tea steaming in his hand. Inside, the kids were finally asleep—miraculously—and the fireflies blinked in and out like stars learning to dance.

This was the calm. The good part.

Then came the crunching.

Leaves. Twigs. A distant hiccup.

Shrek closed his eyes.

“Not again,” he muttered.

From the shadows, a small figure stumbled into view wearing a pair of swim goggles, a Hawaiian lei, and one sock. It was Bob, his beloved Minion husband, singing something that might have been “Livin’ La Vida Loca” or possibly just the word “banana” on repeat.

“Baaa-na-na-naaa~ livin’ la… bob life… OHH! Tree!” Bob tripped over a log and faceplanted into the mud, giggling to himself like a happy toddler in a blender.

Shrek watched as Bob attempted to do a somersault and only managed to spin in place, still humming.

“Bob,” Shrek said calmly. “It’s two in the morning.”

Bob looked up, eyes wide behind foggy goggles. “Shhrek! Mi amor!” he slurred, throwing his arms out in a wide, wobbly embrace. “I brought… gift!”

He pulled a soggy daffodil out of his waistband and presented it with dramatic flair. Shrek blinked.

“That’s a weed.”

“Love is weed too!” Bob grinned.

From inside the house came a thump. Then a wail.

“Oh no,” Shrek groaned, hurrying inside.

Sure enough, Zorp, their youngest and most mysterious child—half Minion, half something else entirely—was standing in his crib, face contorted in a scream, tentacle-arm flailing.

“DA-DA WAKE! DADA NOISES BAD!”

In the next room, Mimi sat upright with her ukulele already strumming a chaotic four-note chord. “Can’t sleep! Swamp’s haunted again!”

And in the top bunk, poor Grub just rolled over and moaned. “Tell Papa Bob to stop yelling about… bananas…”

Shrek tucked Zorp back in with his favorite moss-blanket and carried Mimi to her hammock. The ukulele slipped from her fingers as she fell back asleep, still muttering about goblins.

By the time Shrek returned outside, Bob was snoring in the firewood pile, wearing his sock as a hat.

Shrek stood over him, staring down at the little yellow chaos that had somehow become his husband. His partner. His headache.

“You promised,” he whispered. “You said it was just one drink. Just one night with the boys.”

Bob let out a little snore that sounded like “bee-do.”

Shrek sighed.

The swamp was quiet again—but only on the surface

Chapter Text

The next morning smelled like old banana peels and regret.

Shrek stepped outside to find Bob still snoring under a log, surrounded by empty coconut shells and glow sticks. A crab scuttled across his face. Bob giggled in his sleep and muttered something about “disco unicorns.”

Shrek bent down and poked him with a stick.

“Up.”

Bob flailed. “Ahh! Snake—no! Wait… hi honey.” He smiled, eyes still closed. “You look like a beautiful frog today.”

Shrek didn’t even flinch. “That’s not a compliment.”

Bob finally sat up, hair (somehow) greasier than usual. “What’s the problem? I’m here, aren’t I?” He stretched and cracked his back with the sound of snapping celery.

“You came home drunk again. You woke the kids. Zorp levitated. Grub had to eat a blanket to calm down.”

“Wow. Classic Zorp.” Bob chuckled, brushing moss off his chest like confetti. “C’mon, babe, it was just a lil’ party with the boys. Dave brought a flaming margarita machine. What was I supposed to do—not shotgun it?”

Shrek’s left eye twitched.

Bob gave a finger-gun and waddled inside, humming.

⸻

Later that day, Shrek visited the only creature in the swamp who still gave semi-reliable advice: Donkey.

Donkey had changed over the years. Now semi-retired, he ran a podcast called “Swamp Talk: Healing Through Honesty.” Every Thursday, he sat in a barrel wearing headphones made of lily pads and talked to woodland creatures about emotional vulnerability.

“My husband’s out of control,” Shrek said, pacing the edge of the pond where Donkey had set up a tiny studio. “He parties every night, comes home sloshed, and treats it like it’s cute.”

Donkey nodded solemnly. “I hear you. That ain’t good swamp energy. Not at all.”

“He says he’ll change. Every time. And then the next night, it’s tequila and trampoline fights again.”

“I once drank so much swamp cider I proposed to a possum,” Donkey offered. “But you know what I did the next morning? I apologized to that possum and my wife and made pancakes for the whole bog. That’s growth.”

“I just…” Shrek sighed. “I didn’t think marriage would be like this.”

“Buddy,” Donkey said gently, “nobody tells you that love means sometimes dragging your drunk banana husband out of the gutter. But if he don’t wanna be dragged no more—you gotta decide whether to let go.”

Shrek stared at the pond.

From the water, a frog croaked “banana” and immediately exploded. Shrek blinked. “…What was that?”

“Swamp’s weird today,” Donkey said.

⸻

Meanwhile, Bob was not at home resting or apologizing.

He was at Ye Olde Coconut Club, the Minion-only tiki bar floating on a log raft halfway across the swamp. Strobe mushrooms pulsed in the corners. One Minion crowd-surfed across others while yelling in German.

Bob sat in a banana-leaf booth, wearing sunglasses and a shirt that said “PARTY HARD, NAP HARDER.” He was mid-toast with Kevin and Stuart.

“To frogs that explode!” Bob shouted.

“To chaos!” Kevin replied.

“To being emotionally unavailable!” Stuart added.

They all cheered.

⸻

Back at the swamp, Grub was sleepwalking again—this time into a pile of compost. Shrek gently scooped him up and laid him back in bed.

He kissed Zorp’s forehead, even as it oozed something strange, and tucked Mimi in beside her ukulele.

Then he walked out onto the porch, alone again.

“Bob…” he whispered into the fog.

A single banana peel floated by in the water.

Chapter Text

The morning started with a scream.

Not from Shrek.

Not from Bob.

From Mimi.

“MY VOLCANO IS DEAD!” she wailed from the kitchen, holding up a crushed papier-mâché volcano like it was the corpse of a beloved pet.

The handmade school project—lovingly glued together from beetle shells, leaf shreds, and hope—was now soggy and stomped through, leaking baking soda foam across the mossy floor.

“I worked on it for FOUR DAYS!”

Shrek came rushing in, bare-footed and bleary-eyed. He’d fallen asleep beside the fire again, waiting for Bob to come home. Bob hadn’t.

“What happened?” he asked, crouching down beside her.

Mimi pointed a trembling, banana-sticky finger at the scene of the crime: a trail of muddy footprints… a broken ukulele string… a single, half-bitten marshmallow.

Bob.

“Oh, Mimi…” Shrek whispered, hugging her.

That was it.

No more pretending. No more excuses. No more banana-scented apologies.

⸻

That evening, the door burst open with the force of someone who didn’t believe in subtlety or doorknobs. Bob stumbled in, wearing a traffic cone for a hat and riding an inflatable crocodile like a noble steed.

“Honey! I conquered a beast!” he bellowed. “Also, they had nachos!”

Shrek stood in the middle of the living room, arms crossed, face a blank slab of green fury.

The kids had been ushered upstairs. The house was eerily quiet.

Bob blinked. “Oop. Trouble vibes.”

“You crushed Mimi’s volcano,” Shrek said.

Bob paused. “Oh.”

“She cried. Grub sleepwalked into the fireplace again. Zorp tried to fix things by licking the floor, which I do not think is sanitary, and you weren’t here.”

“I was at a… celebration,” Bob slurred, peeling a sticker off his cheek. “Kevin got a new tattoo. It’s a banana with abs!”

“You said you’d change.” Shrek’s voice was calm, low, deadly. “You always say you’ll change.”

Bob smiled lazily and flopped onto the couch. “C’mon, babe. Don’t go all ogre-mode on me. You knew who I was when you married me.”

“I thought you were fun,” Shrek said. “I didn’t know you were broken.”

The smile dropped from Bob’s face.

Silence.

Then, a laugh. A short, tired, drunk laugh. “Wow. Okay. So that’s what this is now.”

Shrek’s fists clenched at his sides. “You come home loud. You make promises you don’t keep. You call chaos love and call it passion when really, Bob, it’s just selfish.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t have to party so much if this place wasn’t so miserable!” Bob snapped suddenly, lurching to his feet. “It’s mud and frogs and crying mushroom babies! I miss lights! I miss noise! I miss me!”

Shrek stepped back.

Bob stood there, breathing heavily, goggles fogged, tiny fists clenched.

“I thought this was our life,” Shrek said quietly. “I thought we were building something.”

Bob shook his head, swaying. “You built a swamp. I just live in it.”

The words hit Shrek harder than a dragon tail to the gut.

He turned and walked to the door.

“Where are you going?” Bob asked.

“To sleep without the sound of you vomiting in a bucket.”

And then he left.

Bob slumped back onto the couch, alone with the smell of marshmallows and mildew.

He blinked, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a wrinkled drawing Mimi had given him: the five of them, smiling, standing beside a volcano labeled “Fambly Time!”

He stared at it for a long moment.

Then burped.

Chapter Text

Shrek was many things.

A husband. A father. A reluctant friend.

But he was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a therapist.

Still, desperate times called for swamp-based group interventions.

He stood under the twisted willow tree that served as the unofficial “family meeting place” and looked around at the motley crew he’d assembled. A broken circle of log-stools, lily pads, and one overturned wheelbarrow formed the seating area. The air smelled like old cabbage and nerves.

Donkey sat cross-legged on a moss mat, sipping something herbal. He wore his “therapy shawl” (a blanket with holes in it) and a headset microphone even though it wasn’t plugged into anything.

“Ready to unpack some emotional gunk,” he said, adjusting imaginary controls on his podcast soundboard.

Puss in Boots lounged on a stump, arms crossed. “I was promised snacks,” he muttered, sharpening a claw.

Fiona, dialed in via a foggy swamp-portal mirror, gave a strained smile. “This is either going to be beautiful or explosive.”

Shrek paced.

“I don’t know if this’ll work,” he admitted, chewing on a reed. “But if it doesn’t… I don’t know what else to do. I miss who Bob was. I miss who we were.”

Donkey nodded. “Sometimes, the only way out is through the nonsense.”

And right on cue, nonsense arrived.

Bob stumbled in late, dragging a wagon filled with fireworks, plastic flamingos, and two Minions wearing matching tutus.

“Party time?!” he chirped, swaying slightly.

Everyone stared.

“No, Bob,” Shrek said flatly. “Intervention time.”

Bob blinked. “Inter… what now?”

“We’re all here because we care,” Donkey announced, pressing buttons on his unplugged mic. “Let’s start with intentions. Shrek?”

Shrek took a deep breath.

“I want you to stop coming home drunk, Bob. I want our kids to have peace. I want to look at you without wondering if I’m loving a memory instead of a person.”

Bob snorted. “Wow. Dramatic. Is there a slideshow next?”

“I made one,” Fiona offered from the mirror, holding up a painted flipbook titled “Bob, Before the Booze.”

“Not helpful, Fiona,” Shrek muttered.

Puss stood up, eyes blazing. “You disrespect him, you disrespect me. I watched that ogre raise three screaming children while you were out guzzling fermented fruit juice from a coconut skull!”

Bob folded his arms. “I’m fun. Fun is good. Kids love fun.”

“Zorp tried to bite a police duck,” Donkey snapped. “Because he thought that’s what ‘fun dads’ do.”

Bob opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Shrek stepped forward. “You think this is about being boring or fun? It’s about showing up. Being present. You can wear tutus and sing in banana-language, I don’t care—but you have to show up.”

For a moment, Bob just stared at the ground.

Then, with a wobble, he turned to go.

“Whatever. I didn’t ask for this. I’m going to Kevin’s. He has nachos.”

“Bob,” Shrek called after him, voice breaking, “please. I love you. But I can’t keep dragging you home like a lost puppy. If you walk away tonight… don’t come back.”

Bob paused.

He didn’t turn around.

He just raised a hand and waved—casual, lazy, like he was leaving a party early.

And then he was gone, swallowed by the mist.

⸻

That night, the swamp was quieter than usual. Even the frogs seemed to croak in minor chords.

Shrek sat on the porch with Donkey, watching the moon skim across the fog.

“He really left,” Shrek said, hollow.

“Sometimes they do,” Donkey replied gently.

Inside, the kids slept in a pile on the floor, tangled in blankets and glowing mushrooms.

Mimi clutched the ruined volcano like a teddy bear. Zorp snored upside down. Grub whispered “Papa Bob” in his sleep.

Shrek wiped his face on his sleeve.

“I don’t know how to fix this.”

Donkey bumped his shoulder. “Maybe you don’t. Maybe he has to want to fix himself.”

A long silence stretched between them.

Then, from far off in the swamp… a tiny voice screamed, “BANANA PIRATES, ATTACK!”

Donkey winced. “Welp. That sounds like Act Two.”

Chapter Text

It had been three days.

Three days without Bob.

Three days of quiet mornings, empty banana peels left untouched, and no late-night singing of ABBA in Minion-speak. Shrek had cleaned the entire house twice—out of habit, out of rage, out of grief. The kids noticed. Even the swamp noticed.

Mimi refused to sing.

Grub sat motionless in the garden, whispering to worms.

Zorp began drawing unsettling family portraits where Bob was just a floating question mark with sunglasses.

Shrek didn’t sleep.

⸻

On the fourth morning, a letter arrived.

It wasn’t in an envelope. It was nailed to the front door with a tiny cocktail sword.

Shrek tore it down and read the crumpled note aloud:

Dear Shrek and tiny ones,
I’ve joined the Banana Pirates. It’s a real thing. Kevin is captain now. We’re sailing to find the Forbidden Smoothie of Ultimate Power.
Please water my cactus.

Love (maybe?),
Bob
P.S. Tell Zorp to stop licking frogs. Or at least ask permission.

Shrek stared at the note in disbelief.

“Forbidden Smoothie?” he muttered. “This idiot joined a pirate crew to chase fruit juice?”

⸻

That afternoon, Shrek sat on the porch with a mug of very bitter onion coffee and stared into the swamp. Fiona appeared in the portal mirror, brushing her hair.

“You okay?” she asked gently.

“I keep checking the shadows,” Shrek said. “Like he might walk out of one, waving a mango and yelling something stupid.”

“Maybe he still will.”

Shrek grunted. “And maybe pigs’ll sing opera.”

A beat.

Then Grub wandered outside, wearing a cardboard tricorn hat and dragging a net full of potatoes.

“I’m Captain Grub now,” he declared. “I command the Backyard Navy.”

“Go inside,” Shrek said flatly.

“No. I’m saving Papa Bob. With carrots.”

Shrek blinked. “Potatoes.”

Grub frowned. “…Don’t correct a navy, Dad.”

⸻

That night, Zorp activated the swamp emergency beacon: a glowing onion set on fire. The flame burned a sickly green, pulsing with chaotic Minion energy.

Ten minutes later, Donkey and Puss in Boots arrived, ready for war.

“Did someone call for nonsense?” Donkey asked, cracking his hooves.

“I brought grappling hooks and passive aggression,” Puss added, flicking his tail.

“We’re going after him,” Shrek said.

Donkey nodded. “Banana Pirates are no joke, man. They once kidnapped a fruit stand and held it hostage for six hours.”

“I don’t want revenge,” Shrek said. “I just… I need to know if there’s anything left in him worth saving.”

⸻

They set sail at dawn.

Or rather, they borrowed a swamp raft from a retired water snake and loaded it with survival gear, ukuleles for emotional moments, and snacks.

As they drifted through the mists, the mood grew tense.

Then came the singing.

A chorus of off-key Minions belting sea shanties in a mix of Spanish, gibberish, and bad harmonica.

“There,” Puss pointed ahead.

A glowing ship creaked out of the fog—carved from driftwood and coconut shells, flying a flag with a banana skull and crossed popsicles. Fireworks shot off the deck. A parrot wearing sunglasses squawked insults at the moon.

The Banana Pearl.

Bob’s new home.

Shrek swallowed hard.

Donkey patted his shoulder. “Time to find your mess, Shrek.”

“And see if he remembers he’s still yours,” Fiona whispered from a pocket mirror in Shrek’s vest.

Shrek stepped forward as the ship grew larger, louder, and utterly unhinged.

Chapter Text

The Banana Pearl rocked on the swamp waves like a drunken duck on roller skates.

It was, without a doubt, the least seaworthy thing Shrek had ever seen. Half raft, half carnival attraction, it creaked under the weight of disco balls, glitter cannons, and Minions in mismatched pirate gear. One was manning the crow’s nest with a megaphone made from a funnel. Another was fencing with a fish.

“Who built this thing?” Donkey whispered.

“Regret,” Shrek muttered.

Their raft bumped up against the hull with a squish. The gangplank was a repurposed seesaw.

Shrek climbed aboard first, stepping into a world of utter, banana-scented madness.

Minions scurried across the deck singing a shanty that went:

🎵 “Yo ho yo ho, it’s bananas or death!
If you don’t like smoothies, then hold your breath!” 🎵

Kevin spotted them first. He was wearing a monocle over both eyes and wielding a pool noodle like a saber.

“INTRUDERS!” he screamed.

Before Shrek could explain, a spotlight snapped on. Glitter exploded. The harmonica blared.

And Bob emerged.

Wearing a crown made from bottle caps. A cape made of gold tinsel. And a sash that said “MOST SPIRITED.”

He posed on top of a barrel.

“SHREK!” he shouted, dramatically. “You came to rescue me? Or stop me? Or kiss me? Ooh, is this one of those slow-burn tropes??”

Shrek stared.

“What are you doing, Bob?”

Bob swirled, nearly falling over. “I’m living my best life! I’m Captain Bob now. They need me.” He gestured at a Minion who was currently setting a crate of marshmallows on fire.

“They seem… fine,” Shrek said dryly.

“I’ve got purpose out here!” Bob continued, chest puffed. “We’re on a quest! A noble journey! For the Forbidden Smoothie of Ultimate Power!”

Puss hopped aboard behind Shrek. “That is not a real thing.”

“It might be,” Bob snapped, pointing with a banana-shaped telescope. “The ancient scrolls say—”

“Bob,” Shrek cut in. “Look at me.”

Bob hesitated.

“Is this really what you want? Living on a floating food fight with Kevin and a cannon full of whipped cream?”

The Minion crew paused mid-chaos. Even the fish-fencer lowered his weapon.

Bob opened his mouth.

And then a boom shook the deck.

A coconut cannon had misfired. Smoke poured across the ship. Minions screamed. One launched out of the crow’s nest and landed in the jello stash.

In the chaos, Bob stumbled. His crown fell off. The glitter on his cape caught fire, briefly and dramatically, before being smothered by Kevin using a pillow labeled “Emergency Drama.”

And finally, as the smoke cleared, Bob sat in the middle of the deck, coughing.

Looking very small.

And very tired.

“I thought I needed to be loud to be me,” Bob muttered. “But maybe… I’m just scared of being quiet.”

Shrek stepped forward, soft now. “I never asked you to be quiet. I just asked you to be here.”

A long silence.

The only sound was a Minion hiccuping in the background.

Then Bob looked up.

“You still want me? Even like… this?”

Shrek nodded. “Every ridiculous, exhausting part of you. But you gotta want to come home.”

Bob glanced around. The flamingos. The smoothie map. The disco monkey in charge of morale.

Then he looked at Shrek.

And took his hand.

⸻

That night, the Banana Pearl was docked permanently on a swampbank, its brief but dramatic journey at an end. The crew threw one last party (strictly juice-based) and waved Bob off like a hero returning from a noble quest.

He held Shrek’s hand the whole way back.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Shrek nodded. “We’ll figure it out.”

Bob smiled. “Can I still sing at breakfast?”

“As long as it’s not ABBA.”

Bob paused. “…What about Cher?”

Shrek groaned.

Bob grinned.

Chapter Text

Bob’s detox began at sunrise.

Not because it was symbolic.

Because Zorp had screamed directly into his ear at 5:14 AM.

“WAKE UP, PAPA BOB! I MADE YOU PURPLE SOUP!”

Bob sat bolt upright, dazed and terrified. “Is it… edible?”

Zorp beamed. “Only emotionally.”

Shrek smirked from the kitchen. “Welcome back, sunshine.”

⸻

Day One: Sweat and Regret

Bob had decided—dramatically, tearfully—that he would transform. Not just stop drinking, but cleanse his “banana soul” from the inside out.

Step one: Swamp Yoga.

He wore stretchy pants made of old curtains and joined a local meditation circle run by a toad named Clancy who only spoke in burps. Bob stood on one leg in the mud, chanting:

“Ooohhhmm… banana… ohmm… forgivenessss…”

He fell over six times and accidentally swallowed a beetle.

⸻

Day Two: The Apologies Begin

“Okay, okay,” Bob said, pacing the living room. “I’ve rehearsed my lines. I’m ready. I can do this.”

“Just be honest,” Shrek said gently. “And maybe don’t try to rap it this time.”

Bob nodded solemnly.

First up: Mimi.

She sat on the floor, holding her rebuilt papier-mâché volcano like a fragile dream. Bob knelt before her, eyes huge and sincere.

“Mimi,” he began, “I am sorry for smashing your science volcano. It was wrong. I was wrong. I didn’t respect your art. I also stepped on your ukulele, and that too was a tragedy.”

Mimi stared.

Bob pulled out a gift: a new ukulele made entirely out of hardened banana peels.

“It smells… weird,” she said, sniffing it.

“It’s biodegradable,” Bob said proudly.

“Fine. But you still owe me a duet.”

“Deal.”

⸻

Next: Grub.

Grub was in the garden talking to mushrooms when Bob approached. He looked up slowly. “You yelled too loud. It made my ears feel like jelly.”

“I know,” Bob said softly, sitting beside him. “That wasn’t fair. I was loud because I didn’t want to hear how bad I was doing. But you didn’t deserve that.”

Grub held up a worm. “This is Wiggly Steve. He says you may stay if you don’t yell for seven moons.”

Bob nodded. “Deal.”

They shook on it. The worm, too.

⸻

And finally: Zorp.

This was the hardest.

Zorp didn’t understand sadness like the others. He felt it, but he expressed it in odd ways—through swamp graffiti, frog mimicry, and emotional slime.

Bob approached him slowly, covered in apology stickers and holding a jar of “calm jam” (which was just mashed blueberries with glitter).

“I missed your slime hugs,” Bob said. “I don’t want to miss anything else.”

Zorp blinked his twelve lashes.

Then launched himself at Bob in a full-body tackle. “PAPA BOB BACK!!”

“Yes,” Bob gasped, sinking into the mud. “Papa Bob back… and covered in goo.”

⸻

That night, Shrek found Bob on the porch.

Sober. Calm. Holding a teacup of peppermint bogwater and staring into the stars.

“They don’t trust me fully yet,” Bob said. “I don’t blame them.”

“It takes time,” Shrek replied. “Trust is built like a… really weird, smelly swamp house. Takes patience. A lot of mud. Maybe a permit.”

Bob leaned against him. “Thanks for not giving up.”

Shrek kissed the top of his head. “I’d have to be pretty dumb to give up on someone that annoying.”

A moment passed.

Then:

“I made a smoothie,” Bob said suddenly.

Shrek stiffened. “Is it forbidden?”

“No. Just questionable.”

They both sipped.

It was awful.

And perfect.

Chapter Text

The day of the re-wedding dawned sticky, loud, and slightly haunted.

A heavy fog hung low over the bog, clinging to the ground like an overenthusiastic guest. The birds were singing ominously out of tune, and somewhere in the distance, a frog croaked in the unmistakable shape of a heart. Bob stood in front of the cracked mirror in the bedroom, adjusting the lapels of his formal sash—which was actually a glittery bathrobe tied shut with twine.

“How do I look?” he asked nervously.

Shrek, struggling to fasten the last button on a vest that had definitely shrunk in the wash, gave him a long once-over.

“You look like a banana who joined a cult,” he said.

Bob grinned wide. “Perfect.”

The swamp had been decorated to the limits of its emotional capacity. Moss garlands hung from the twisted branches of the willow trees. Floating lily-pad lanterns bobbed gently on the surface of the swamp water, casting soft golden light. A choir of half-reformed Minions hummed a strangely moving version of Can’t Help Falling in Love on kazoos. It was weird. It was beautiful. It was theirs.

Donkey stood at the altar, wearing a flower crown and holding a large stick he claimed was “spiritually significant.” He cleared his throat with all the drama of someone about to host a live therapy podcast.

“Friends, family, talking mushrooms who wandered in by accident,” he began, “we are gathered here today to witness the re-binding of these two totally unhinged souls.”

The crowd—which consisted of Minions, swamp creatures, and one goose wearing a veil—cheered.

Bob stepped forward, his hands shaking just slightly. Shrek joined him, solid and steady at his side. Just behind them stood their children: Mimi in a sparkly dress and tiny combat boots, Grub looking ceremonial in a monocle and cape made of cabbage leaves, and Zorp—glowing faintly purple and levitating ever so slightly off the ground.

Donkey looked at them both. “Say what you gotta say.”

Bob cleared his throat, eyes locked on Shrek. “Shrek, you’re the only person who ever saw past the noise. You let me be messy. Loud. Deeply flawed. But you also asked me to be better. Not different—just better. You showed me what love looks like when it’s tired and scared and still shows up anyway.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a banana-shaped pendant—small, handmade, lopsided. “I’m still gonna mess up,” he said. “But I’ll be sober. I’ll be present. I’ll be your mess, if you’ll still have me.”

Shrek blinked, just once. Then he nodded.

He took a breath. “Bob… you drive me absolutely mad. You are the single most ridiculous thing to ever happen to this swamp—and I live in a bog full of raccoons with drama disorders.” A ripple of laughter moved through the guests, and Bob smiled through wet eyes. “But when you’re not here,” Shrek continued, “this place feels wrong. Empty. Like a sandwich without the filling. Or a fairy tale without the fart joke.” He squeezed Bob’s hand. “So yeah. I’ll have you. Forever. Even when you’re weird. Especially then.”

Donkey beamed. “By the power invested in me by a turtle I met during a rainstorm, I now pronounce you husbands. Again. You may kiss, or headbutt, or whatever it is you two do.”

Bob launched himself into Shrek’s arms like a glittery cannonball and kissed him with all the drama of a soap opera finale. The crowd erupted in applause. Confetti mushrooms popped. One Minion fainted from joy. Zorp screamed, “EMOTIONAL JOY OVERLOAD!” and shot purple sparks into the air.

Later that night, after the cake had been eaten (a towering mess of mashed marshroot, crushed berries, and what might have been frosting), and the Minions had collapsed from dancing, Shrek and Bob sat by the fire.

The kids were curled up in a hammock pile nearby, snoring softly in the glow of fireflies. Mimi mumbled something about volcanoes in her sleep. Grub clutched a potato like it was sacred. Zorp twitched once and giggled.

Bob leaned against Shrek’s shoulder, holding a mug of swamp chamomile. “So… is this happily ever after?” he asked.

Shrek looked up at the stars.

“No such thing,” he said quietly.

Bob turned his head. “No?”

“There’s only happily right now,” Shrek replied. “And then we keep trying.”

Bob nodded slowly. “I like that.”

They sat together in the silence, listening to the frogs sing in wobbly harmony, watching the mist curl like ribbon through the trees. The swamp, for once, was peaceful.

Swamped. Messy. Loud. And whole.