IN WHERE: your boyfriend is a single dad and for the first time you will see him play with his son.
THIS ONE SHOT IS: fem!reader x marc bernal
note: i don't speak english, only spanish n a little portuguese. any errors are the translator's fault.
Marc always said that being a dad was the hardest job he had ever had, and that was saying something — he’d played matches where they’d made him run until he almost fainted. But nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to trying to get a baby to sleep when he had no intention of doing so.
From the moment you met him, you knew his life revolved around two things: football and his son. There was no in-between. There were days when the exhaustion seemed heavier than the world itself, but even then, he would get up before dawn to prepare a bottle or look for a lost pacifier between the sheets.
He told you that, at first, he felt completely lost. That when the baby’s mother decided to leave, he had no idea how to go on.
“No sabía ni cómo se calentaba la leche, y/n,” he had said on your first date. (“I didn’t even know how to warm up the milk, y/n.”)
Now, with a clumsy routine, Marc had learned to move with the child in his arms as if he’d been doing it all his life. He held him with one hand while making coffee with the other, rocking him against his chest while answering messages.
You loved seeing him like that in the mornings — messy hair, dark circles, pajama pants halfway up, and a tired smile as he said to the baby:
“¿Eh, campeón? ¿Mañana dejarás dormir a papá?” (“Hey, champ? Tomorrow will you let daddy sleep?”)
And the little one, barely ten months old, would laugh and light up his father’s face.
Sometimes you helped him. You’d prepare the milk while he tried to put the baby’s bodysuit on without losing his patience. There were mornings when the baby woke up crying, and you were the one who took him in your arms, humming softly until he calmed down. Marc always appreciated it — especially now that he was getting minutes again and had to manage his sleep schedule carefully.
Today was an important day. Not only because Barça was playing in the Champions League, but because Marc could finally get minutes again after months out.
“Dicen que me pueden meter al final,” he told you that morning while searching for a shirt among a sea of clean diapers and chewed-up toys. (“They say they might put me in at the end.”)
“Y tú no te la crees todavía,” you replied with a smile. (“And you still don’t believe it.”)
“Hasta que no esté en el césped, no,” he laughed, glancing up only when his son babbled from the crib. “Aunque creo que este enano ya confía más que yo.” (“Not until I’m on the pitch. Though I think this little guy already believes more than I do.”)
He approached and lifted him. The baby clung to his father, playing with the string on his pants. Marc kissed his forehead, whispering something you barely caught.
While he got dressed to head to the field, you stayed with the baby. It was the first time you’d take him to the stadium, and the idea both thrilled and made you nervous.
“Vamos a cambiarte,” you said, taking the baby in your hands before looking through his drawers for comfy clothes. (“Let’s get you changed.”) You rummaged until you found that Barcelona jersey with “Papá” on the back. “Mira, la de tu papi, Adri, ¿quieres esta?” you asked, shaking the shirt in front of him, and he laughed. (“Look, your daddy’s shirt, Adri — do you want this one?”) “Eso es un sí.” (“That’s a yes.”)
You started dressing the baby slowly — he was so playful it was hard.
Marc laughed, looked down at his son, and kissed him again. “Pórtate bien con mamá, ¿vale?” Marc said as he left the room. (“Behave with mommy, okay?”)
“Me ha llamado tu mamá,” you told the baby, squeezing his cheek. (“He called me your mom.”) “Eres tan mono,” you began to shower his face with kisses, overcome with love. (“You’re so cute.”)
“¡PODEIS DEJAR DE DARSE AMOR Y VENIR!” Marc shouted from the door. (“CAN YOU STOP GIVING EACH OTHER LOVE AND COME HERE!”)
“¡SII, YA VAMOS!” (“YES, WE’RE COMING!”)
You were sitting in the stands next to Bernat, Marc’s best friend, while the joyful noise of the stadium filled every corner. Barcelona was winning by a landslide.
Adri was sitting on your lap, calm for the moment, nibbling your finger while his curious eyes followed the lights of the field.
“Míralo,” Bernat said, pointing toward where your boyfriend was warming up. (“Look at him.”) “Se nota que está nervioso, ¿eh?” (“You can tell he’s nervous, huh?”)
You searched among the players and found him right away. Marc stood there, still wearing the substitute bib, hands on his hips, watching the game before starting to jog again.
“Le van a dar minutos, lo sé,” you whispered. (“They’re going to give him minutes, I know it.”)
Time passed, and with every substitution that wasn’t his, your heart tightened a little more. Until, at the 80th minute, the fourth official raised the board.
Number 8 lit up in red. Pedri off. Below it, 22 in green.
“¡Vamos, Berni!” Bernat shouted, jumping to his feet, infecting everyone around. (“Let’s go, Berni!”)
Suddenly, the entire stadium began chanting his name.
“¡Berni! ¡Berni! ¡Berni!”
You bounced your knee with each chant, making Adri giggle. At first, he looked startled by the noise, but when he saw his father running onto the pitch, he laughed and waved his hands, babbling something that sounded too much like pa-pa.
“Sí, cariño,” you said through laughter. (“Yes, darling.”) “Ese es papá.” (“That’s daddy.”)
Marc crossed the pitch with the biggest smile you’d seen on him in weeks. He high-fived Pedri and glanced toward the stands. There was no way he could see you among thousands, but you swore he did.
Bernat nudged you and stroked the baby’s belly, murmuring: “Tu papá, Adri, tu papá.” (“Your dad, Adri, your dad.”)
You nodded, eyes fixed on the field. Marc touched his first ball, and the crowd roared again. Adri clapped his little hands, and you couldn’t help but laugh, kissing his chubby cheeks.
The rest of the match went by in a blur of emotion — you couldn’t take your eyes off Marc. Every time he touched the ball, your heart skipped.
When the referee blew the final whistle and the crowd started to leave, you took Adri in your arms and told Bernat:
“Vamos a esperar un momento. Todavía queda nuestro jugador favorito.” (“Let’s wait a bit longer. Our favorite player’s still there.”)
You went down the nearly empty stairs, dodging the last fans and staff cleaning up. At the tunnel entrance, Marc appeared among the last players leaving the pitch. His eyes found yours almost immediately.
“¡Ahí están!” Bernat shouted, already pulling out his phone for a picture. (“There they are!”)
Marc walked toward you, tired steps, and Adri, recognizing him, started flailing his arms and babbling happily. “Pa-pa… pa-pa…”
Marc bent down and took him in his arms, you steadying the baby’s back as Marc placed a long kiss on his forehead.
Of course, Bernat took a photo right before that. Cameraman instincts.
“Hola, mi niño,” Marc whispered, then turned to you. (“Hi, my boy.”) “Gracias por venir… y por cuidar de él mientras yo estaba ahí.” (“Thank you for coming… and for taking care of him while I was out there.”)
You smiled and caressed Marc’s cheek gently, feeling his exhaustion and euphoria. “Siempre, sabes que siempre,” you replied. (“Always, you know always.”)
The baby nestled between you both, and for a few seconds, everything stilled.
Bernat raised the phone, and the click of the camera broke the moment.
“Listo. La foto familiar perfecta,” he said, satisfied. (“Done. The perfect family picture.”)
“Mándamela luego,” Marc said. (“Send it to me later.”)
Bernat nodded, smiling, and patted his shoulder. “En serio, tío. Me alegra verte así. Hoy jugaste de diez.” (“Seriously, man. I’m glad to see you like this. You played a ten today.”)
“Y con el público coreando mi nombre…” Marc raised an eyebrow, pretending to be modest. (“And with the crowd chanting my name…”) “ No está mal para un papá con ojeras.” (“Not bad for a dad with eye bags.”)
You rolled your eyes, adjusting Adri on his chest. The baby yawned, exhausted, and Marc gently stroked his back.
“Creo que este ya se durmió,” you whispered. (“I think he’s asleep already.”)
