Tiny Parrot with a Potty Mouth
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (established relationship, toddler)
Summary: When their toddler picks up a very specific new word, Bucky is forced to face the consequences of his not-so-clean mouth. What follows is chaos, damage control, and the realization that being her favorite person means she’s always listening.
Warnings: Mild language, toddler chaos, parental panic, humor
“Bucky, we have a problem.”
He looks up from where he’s crouched by the toy bin, one hand holding a plastic dinosaur, the other reaching for our daughter’s favorite stuffed sloth.
“What kind of problem?” he asks casually.
Our toddler, standing next to him in mismatched socks and a sparkly tutu, answers for me.
“Shi—!” she chirps brightly, stumbling over the pronunciation but absolutely nailing the rhythm.
Bucky freezes.
Slowly turns his head.
“…Did she just say—?”
“Yeah,” I say, crossing my arms. “She did.”
“Wait, wait. Maybe she meant ship.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Y’know,” he continues weakly. “Like… like a pirate. She likes pirates!”
Our daughter claps her hands. “Shi—!”
“Nope,” I say. “That is definitely not about boats.”
Bucky’s face flushes red.
“I… might’ve stubbed my toe this morning,” he mumbles.
“Oh really? That’s it?”
“And dropped a plate.”
“Mmhmm.”
“And stepped on one of her puzzle pieces.”
“She really paid attention to that one, apparently.”
Our daughter beams up at him. “Shi—!”
Bucky puts the dinosaur down like it’s betrayed him. “We’re doomed.”
Over the next 24 hours, she says it six more times.
Once while throwing a crayon.
Once while watching the dog bark at the neighbor.
Twice while trying to put on her own shoes.
And twice for absolutely no reason at all—like she just remembered it existed and wanted to share the joy.
Bucky is mortified.
Which, honestly, is hilarious.
“You have to stop reacting when she says it,” I tell him that night as we get her ready for bed.
“I’m not reacting!”
“You go stiff as a board and make that weird face like you’re trying to telepathically erase the sound.”
“She’s two,” he hisses. “She shouldn’t even know that word.”
“Well, she does. Thanks to a certain someone.”
He groans. “I thought I’d cleaned up my language.”
“You did. Mostly.”
“She doesn’t even repeat you!”
“Because I use mom words. Like ‘uh-oh’ and ‘whoops’ and ‘heckin’ rude.’”
Bucky stares at me. “You are not saying ‘heckin’ rude.’”
“She gets it from the dog videos.”
“I—what are we even doing?”
I smirk. “Trying to deprogram the world’s cutest little sponge.”
Steve finds out when our daughter drops her juice cup and exclaims, “Shi—!”
He chokes on his own coffee.
Bucky claps a hand over her mouth and turns to Steve with the most sheepish expression I’ve ever seen.
“She said ship,” Bucky says weakly.
Steve slowly lowers his mug.
“…Buddy.”
“Don’t say it.”
“She’s literally you. Just smaller and mouthier.”
Sam howls when he hears.
“First word?” he jokes.
Bucky sighs. “No, it was ‘dada.’ But this is a close second.”
We start “Operation Clean Mouth” the next morning.
It involves:
Replacing all curse words with ridiculous substitutes (Bucky now says “sugar biscuit” and “son of a sponge”)
A swear jar—just for Bucky (he owes like $12 by lunch)
Nat teaching our toddler to dramatically gasp and say “Oh nooooo” every time someone curses (this backfires when she does it at the grocery store because someone else says “damn”)
By the end of the week, the word starts fading from her vocabulary.
Mostly.
Except when she drops things.
Or hears Bucky sigh too hard.
“Shi—!” she’ll whisper.
And Bucky will put his head in his hands like he’s failed as a father.
“You didn’t fail,” I tell him one night as we lie in bed, our daughter finally asleep between us. “She just… listens to you. All the time. She watches everything.”
He groans. “That’s worse.”
“No,” I say softly, brushing my fingers through his hair. “That means she trusts you. Loves you. Wants to be like you.”
His eyes flicker to mine.
And soften.
“God help her,” he whispers.
“She’s lucky,” I say. “Even if she cusses like a sailor.”
He laughs.
And in the quiet between us, our daughter shifts in her sleep.
Then mutters, barely audible:
“Ship…”
Bucky winces.
“Close enough,” I whisper.
