Work Text:
It was supposed to be a sweet, quiet morning.
The sun streamed into the living room, casting a warm glow on the floor where flower petals were scattered like confetti. Rachel Grayson—now West, though few ever called her that—knelt beside her daughter, demonstrating the fine art of being the perfect flower girl.
“Just like this, sweetheart,” Rachel said, gently tossing a handful of petals from the little white basket. “Light and floaty. Like the petals are dancing.”
Their four-year-old daughter nodded solemnly, her little brow furrowed in intense concentration. Wally was sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching with his usual grin.
“Okay, kiddo, your turn.”
She scooped up the petals, walked forward a few steps, and flung them in a dramatic arc.
“Nice!” Wally said encouragingly, clapping his hands.
And then she dropped the basket, put her hands on her hips like some kind of miniature diva, and declared:
“Fuck.”
The room went completely silent.
Rachel blinked. Wally looked like he’d been hit with a stun ray. And then—then came the sound.
Snrk.
Wally turned away, shoulders shaking violently as he tried to contain it, but it was no use. He bolted out of the room, nearly tripping over a rug as he doubled over in laughter in the hallway.
“Wally!” Rachel followed him, her expression stuck between horrified mom and incredulous wife. “I can’t believe you laughed!”
He had his back pressed to the wall, trying desperately to sober up. “I’m sorry—I know—but you know kids cursing is my weakness!”
Rachel narrowed her eyes. “We have to tell her it’s a bad word.”
“No, no! That gives it more power!” Wally held up a finger like this was a TED Talk. “The less we make of it, the better. We just… pretend it never happened.”
Rachel hesitated. “Maybe it didn’t. Maybe we misheard her. She could’ve said… ‘truck.’ Or ‘duck.’ Or ‘luck.’” She was grasping at straws now. “She could’ve said ‘yuck!’”
“Yes! Exactly!” Wally pointed like she’d cracked the code. “Our daughter is an innocent flower who says yuck, not—well. You know.”
At that exact moment, said daughter came padding into the room, completely unbothered.
“Daddy, can I have some ice cream?”
Wally opened his mouth to say yes, because he was a sucker and they both knew it, but Rachel cut in with mom reflexes.
“Honey, if you’re hungry you can have some fruit.”
The girl tilted her head thoughtfully. “Fruit. Fuck.”
Rachel froze. Wally made a high-pitched squeak—and ran again, this time into the kitchen, where his wheezing laughter echoed off the walls.
Rachel stared after him, then down at her grinning child who was clearly delighted with her new favorite word.
She sighed, pressing her fingers to her temples.
“I have two children,” she muttered, deadpan.
From the kitchen: “Love you too, babe!”
From the flower girl: “Fuck!”
Rachel’s eye twitched.
“We are never letting her near Roy.”