˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ bad camera men˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀
pairing: dad!noel universe, 1995
genre: fluff
word count: 1237
synopsis: ever since he became famous, he wanted to protect alicia from the media, paparazzi never manages to capture her face, and now when they finally do, he's furious.
a/n: first dad!noel chapter yayyy
The park had ducks, which automatically made it superior to all other parks.
That was her official ruling.
She was two years old and absolute in her decisions, born in 1993 and entirely unconcerned with the cultural explosion quietly building around her father. The swings were secondary. The slide was tolerable. But the ducks — the ducks were important.
“Slow,” Noel said, though without much conviction, as she ran ahead of him with a fistful of crushed crisps.
She ignored him completely.
The morning had been ordinary in the fragile way ordinary things sometimes are. A grey London sky threatening drizzle, the air smelling faintly of damp grass and bread from the nearby bakery. He’d worn a cap low over his hair and sunglasses he didn’t technically need. Not paranoia. Just habit.
They’d been managing well lately. Fewer photographers outside the house. Different routes taken. Timing adjusted.
He let himself relax.
She crouched near the edge of the pond, trainers squeaking, curls falling into her eyes as she scattered crisps with intense concentration. The ducks surged forward in chaotic gratitude.
“Look!” she squealed. “They fightin’!”
“Course they are. You’ve thrown them junk food.”
She turned to him with a grin, eyes bright and wild with pride.
And that was when the first flash went off.
It was subtle — muted by daylight — but wrong. Artificial. Sharp.
She blinked.
“What was that?”
He looked up slowly.
Across the path, near the line of trees, two men stood too still. One lifted a camera again. This time there was no pretending with newspapers. No attempt at disguise.
Click.
The second photographer moved sideways, angling for a clearer frame.
He felt the shift in his chest — something dropping heavy and immediate.
He stepped forward automatically, placing himself between her and the lens. Calm. Not shouting. He’d learned that shouting fed them.
“Pack it in,” he called, voice even but edged.
They didn’t.
Click.
He could hear the shutter clearly now.
She tugged at his coat. “Why they takin’ pictures?”
“They’re not,” he lied gently. “Just goin’ for a walk.”
But she wasn’t stupid. She twisted around his leg, peeking past him, curiosity outweighing caution. Her face — open, unguarded — tilted directly toward the camera.
And one of them smiled slightly.
Click.
That was the one.
He knew it without knowing how.
He scooped her up immediately, crisps scattering uselessly onto the gravel. She protested the sudden movement.
“I wanna see ducks!”
“Another time,” he said, already walking. Not running. Never running.
Behind him, footsteps shifted, repositioned. They were following.
He kept his body angled so her face was buried against his shoulder, her curls pressed into his neck. She squirmed, confused by the sudden tension radiating through him.
“Dada, you’re holdin’ too tight.”
He loosened his grip instantly. Kissed the top of her head.
“Sorry.”
The flashes continued as they exited the park gates.
Other parents stared. Some recognised him. Some recognised the situation.
No one intervened.
By the time they reached the car that had his driver waiting, his jaw ached from clenching.
She’d already forgotten, distracted by the promise of a chocolate bar in the glove compartment.
He had not.
The paper arrived before sunrise.
He hadn’t slept much. Not from fear — from calculation. He’d replayed angles in his mind, assessed distance, tried to convince himself that maybe her face had been obscured by his shoulder.
Maybe it was just another back-of-the-head shot.
Maybe.
The thud of the newspaper hitting the step felt louder than usual.
He stood in the hallway for a long moment before opening the door.
Cold morning air rushed in. He picked up the paper.
And everything in him went very, very still.
Front page.
Full width.
Brightened.
Sharpened.
There she was.
Centered beneath a headline about fame and fatherhood, her small hand mid-air as she threw crisps, curls caught in motion, eyes lifted straight toward the camera. Clear. Undeniable. Beautiful.
Unprotected.
The photo wasn’t cruel.
That almost made it worse.
It looked candid. Sweet. Marketable.
He stared at it so long the tea in the kitchen went cold.
He hadn’t even realised they’d gotten that close.
From upstairs came the thump-thump of little feet navigating stairs too quickly.
“Da!”
He folded the paper reflexively — but the damage was done. It was everywhere already. Newsstands. Corners. Shop windows.
She reached the bottom step and saw it in his hands.
“That me?” she asked immediately.
He swallowed.
“Yeah.”
She padded closer, peering up at the glossy front page.
“I’m big,” she said, impressed.
Not scared. Not yet.
Big.
The word hit him harder than anger would have.
“You are,” he said quietly.
She pointed at herself. “Why I there?”
How do you explain commodification to a toddler?
“Some people wanted to show a picture of us at the park.”
She frowned thoughtfully. “They no ask.”
Noel blinked.
“No,” he admitted. “They didn’t.”
She seemed to accept that, but her gaze lingered on the image longer this time. On her own face blown up larger than life.
“Can we go park again?”
He felt the familiar crack form beneath his ribs.
“Not today.”
“Why?”
He crouched down so they were eye level, the folded paper hanging loosely in his hand.
“Sometimes when people see things in newspapers, they come lookin’ for more.”
Her brow furrowed, not fully understanding but sensing the shift in tone.
“I don’t like loud cameras,” she said suddenly.
His heart lurched.
“They were loud?”
She nodded. “Made my tummy funny.”
That did it.
It wasn’t rage that flooded him — it was guilt, hot and corrosive.
He’d thought she hadn’t noticed.
He’d thought she’d been oblivious.
He’d been wrong.
By mid-morning, the photo was unavoidable.
Every corner shop window displayed it. Radios mentioned it casually between songs. Commentary framed it as charming, wholesome, proof that even a rock star from Oasis had a “soft side.”
Soft side.
He turned the radio off.
She played on the living room rug, unaware of the wider echo. Building a tower from mismatched blocks.
He watched her more closely than usual.
Every time a car slowed outside, his shoulders tightened.
At one point, she crawled into his lap unprompted, resting her head against his chest.
“Are they comin’ here?” she asked quietly.
He froze.
“Who?”
“The camera men.”
He forced his breathing to stay steady.
“No.”
A beat.
“I won’t let ‘em.”
She nodded, satisfied with that answer, and returned to her blocks.
But he didn’t miss the way she glanced toward the window afterward.
That evening, he made his driver drive past the park alone.
He didn’t get out of the car.
He just sat there, engine idling, watching parents push swings and toddlers chase pigeons.
Ordinary.
Unrecorded.
He felt something sharp twist in his chest — not resentment of the band, not even anger at the press. Just the sudden awareness that normalcy was no longer guaranteed.
He had wanted her childhood to exist outside the frame.
Now it was printed in ink.
The next day, routines changed.
Different parks. Quieter hours. Caps pulled lower. Routes adjusted again.
He never told her why.
But the next time they saw ducks, he stood slightly closer.
And when she laughed — face tilted toward the sky — he found himself glancing around first.
Not because she wasn’t still his bright, fearless girl.
But because now the world knew her face.
And he hadn’t realised they’d captured it until it was already too late.
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