Your daughter was happily playing tag with Scolipede across Corbeau’s office, weaving between chairs with the agility of a tiny rogue-in-training. Scolipede clicked its mandibles delightedly, chasing after her in a careful arc as your little girl shrieked with laughter.
Corbeau, who was normally cool and collected, was very tense and agitated as soon as you had walked in with your daughter.
“You're weird today. Anything wrong?” You asked, glancing at him.
“It’s nothing.”
“Mmm, sure doesn’t seem like nothing.”
Corbeau closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The school’s nurse texted again about our daughter injuring herself.”
You didn’t even look up from the paperwork you were sorting. “Oh, you mean when our daughter crawled underneath a desk—which she probably wasn’t suppose to do—and bumped her head?”
He slammed the pen in his hand down on his desk. “This is ridiculous! This is the third time this week!” His voice was tight, dangerous, every inch the Rust Syndicate boss ready to flatten a government building.
“Corbeau,” you sighed, rubbing your temples, “kids are clumsy and have zero body awareness. They fall, they hit their heads. It’s normal.”
He stared at you, utterly betrayed. “Normal?! Our daughter is bumping her skull in an accredited institution of learning like it’s a sport—!”
“She’s fine,” you repeated, slow and patient.
“She could have a concussion!”
“She doesn’t.”
“She could need stitches!”
“She doesn’t.”
“She could lose consciousness!”
“She didn’t.”
He paced, practically vibrating with paternal fury. “This school is clearly unfit to supervise—!”
You cut him off. “I’m gonna stop you right there, sir.”
He froze.
You held up a finger. “Yesterday she bumped her head on the table during lunch time, running around and playing when she wasn’t suppose to.”
Corbeau’s eye twitched.
“And the day before she bumped her head standing up from underneath the slide during recess.”
His pacing stopped altogether.
You folded your arms. “Maybe the problem isn’t the school. Maybe it’s the fact that our daughter isn’t watching what she’s doing and hasn't learned her lesson.”
Corbeau opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“She could still be—”
THUNK.
You both snapped your heads toward the sound.
Your daughter had just smacked her head on the underside of one of Corbeau’s low tables while trying to evade Scolipede. She paused for exactly one half-second, blinked… then giggled, crawled out from underneath, and kept running, completely unbothered.
Corbeau stared.
You stared at him, pointedly. “See? Now this makes it the fourth time this week, and she’s still be-bopping around like nothing happened.”
Corbeau slowly lowered himself into his desk chair, the fight draining out of him in a single exhale.
“…Perhaps I overreacted,” he muttered.
You snorted. “Perhaps?”
He leveled a glare at you that held no real heat. You walked over and sat in his lap. Across the office, you both watched as your daughter shrieked with joy and ducked under another table.
Corbeau winced. “…Why does she love hiding under furniture?”
You shrugged. “Why do kids do half the shit they do? They’re kids.”
Corbeau watched with scrutinizing eyes as his Scolipede effectively blocked your daughter from crawling under the table from before, before she screeched and ran away, laughing. Scolipede gently on her heels.
“Maybe we should do a DNA test to check that she’s really mine.”
You gave him a deadpanned look. “Corbeau, I can assure you she is 100% your child—"
DONK.
Your daughter, hyper and focused in her escape from Scolipede, had ran straight into the golden statue of Kingambit.
You snorted and wheezed, shaking your head, while your husband groaned into his hands.
=======
Grisham
Café Nouveau Truck No. 1 was in its usual rhythm— Grisham on the espresso machine, precise and unhurried, Griselle holding her tray and yelling at passerbys to come buy some coffee. And you, at your usual table, enjoying your coffee and a flaky pastry.
The sun was warm. Your coffee was perfect. Your daughter was at school and it was shaping up to be a peaceful day—
PING.
A text from your daughter’s teacher.
You opened it, and froze. Because the picture—which loaded before the attached message—showed your five-year-old with what looked like a bruised, purple lip, mouth smudged as though she’d been punched or fallen face-first into something.
But you didn’t hear the words. Your pulse spiked. Your breath caught. Your brain short-circuited. Bruised lip. At school. Your baby.
You stood so fast your knee hit the table, rattling plates and sending your coffee spilling across the surface.
“Oh—hey, hey!” Griselle called. “Where are you going in such a—”
But you were already half-running toward the truck window.
“I'm leaving to go to the school,” Your voice shook, the picture trembling in your hand. “Look what's happened to her!”
Grisham leaned out the window, wiping his hands on a towel. His expression was calm. Steady. Almost amused.
“Did you read the message,” he asked gently, “or just look at the picture?”
“…Message?”
He raised a single eyebrow.
Griselle, behind him, burst into laughter. “Oh my god, she’s just like me—panic first, read later—”
You blinked at your screen, finally seeing the text under the image.
"Hi! Just letting you know that your daughter tried to use DRY ERASE MARKERS as lipstick today! She’s totally fine—we washed it off, but it stained a little for now! No injury, just… very strong artistic choices! 😂"
You stared. Then stared harder. Then slowly…slowly…nodded. “That…That makes sense,” you murmured. “It actually… tracks for our daughter.”
Griselle wheezed. “She’s a genius. A feral genius. You can tell she tried to use a red marker--good color, by the way. Looks like she'd fit in with Team Flare back in the old days.”
"Griselle, please do not associate my daughter with Team Flare," Grisham told her.
Your adrenaline abruptly crashed. Hard. You let out a long, shaky exhale, rubbing your face with both hands.
A moment later, the truck door opened.
Grisham stepped out with a fresh steaming cup—not coffee, but tea. Soothing herbal, fragrant and warm.
He held it out to you.
You blinked at him. “Tea?”
“You don’t need caffeine right now,” he said simply.
You accepted the cup, hands still trembling, and before you could thank him—
Grisham leaned forward and kissed you. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just a soft, grounding kiss that told your nervous system to unclench.
When he pulled back, he brushed a thumb along your cheek.
“You’re doing great,” he said quietly. “Better than you think.”
Your chest loosened.
Griselle made gagging noises in the background.
Grisham ignored her. You smiled into your tea. And somewhere across the city, your daughter was proudly telling her classmates that she invented her own makeup line.
=======
Ivor
The walk through the Jaune District was peaceful—Lanterns overhead, neon murals on the walls, the usual hum of city life—and your daughter swinging your hand with her tiny pouty face, and clutching a Falinks plush in the other.
You glanced down at her. “You know pouting doesn’t change what happened.”
More pouting.
“I know you know that,” you added.
The pout deepened.
When you reached the Fist of Justice dojo—really just a sectioned-off square of pavement with mats, benches, and a hand-painted banner—you found the whole crew waiting. Ivor. Gwynn, who was sitting at her spot in the chair. The Fist of Justice girls. All mid-training, laughing, stretching.
“Hey!” Gwynn waved.
“Hey spunky-monkey—why the long face?” one of the girls, Josiee, cooed.
Your daughter refused to answer.
Ivor, already smiling, stepped forward and scooped your daughter straight off the ground into his massive arms. She squealed and clung to him instantly, her pout melting into giggles.
“That’s better,” he rumbled fondly. “But… what’s this mood I walked into?”
You crossed your arms, amused but also serious. “Oh, you know. Just the usual. Your daughter got into a fight at school today.”
Ivor’s smile froze mid-charm.
Gwynn’s eyes went wide. The girls all gasped theatrically.
Ivor looked from you… to your daughter… back to you. “A fight? What—what kind of fight? Like a disagreement? A little shove? A—”
“She punched the crap out of a boy in her class,” you said plainly.
The dojo went dead silent.
Your daughter hid her face in Ivor’s large chest.
Ivor’s jaw dropped. His eyebrows shot up. He gently set her back so he could look her in the eyes.
“The Fist of Justice does not punch people,” he said, stern but still soft. “Not like that. That’s not what we taught you.”
Your daughter’s lip wobbled.
“But he was picking on my friend,” she blurted. “And she told him to stop and he didn’t and—and—so I just—”
She punched the air in a reenactment.
The girls all inhaled sharply.
Gwynn groaned, clapping a hand to her face and shaking her head, “Oh my god, she really is his daughter.”
Ivor blinked. Then, he looked at you helplessly.
You shrugged, half amused, half exasperated. “I talked it over with the teacher and principal. It’s been handled.”
Gwynn leaned in. “Any consequences?”
“NO,” Ivor blurted, horrified at the very concept.
You laughed. “Relax. She got a warning. Given the circumstances. And, well…” You made a small gesture toward Ivor. “…given who her father is.”
Ivor actually deflated a little.
“Oh no,” he groaned. “She got in trouble because of me. Because I taught her how to block and strike—”
“Ivor,” you cut in, stepping closer, placing a hand on his chest. “No. She got in trouble because she hasn’t learned when not to punch.”
Your daughter nodded earnestly.
“And,” you added, “that’s what you and I are going to teach her. How to handle things without using fists the first second something goes wrong.”
Your daughter, now freed from Ivor’s arms, scampered straight to the dojo girls—who immediately wrapped her in a swarm of hugs, offering praise, snacks, and dramatic reenactments of justice poses.
Ivor watched them with a complicated expression—pride and guilt wrestling behind his eyes.
You curled your arm around his waist.
“Hey,” you said softly.
He looked down, still brooding.
You rose on your toes and kissed him—slow, reassuring, affectionate.
When you pulled away, you kept your forehead against his.
“I’m glad,” you told him, softly, “that she knows how to protect herself. And that she protects others who are weaker.”
His breath caught.
“And I’m glad she learned that from you.”
His arms slid around you, gentle despite the size difference, his shoulders relaxing as if a weight had lifted.
The girls cheered something in the background. Your daughter giggled.
And Ivor held you tighter.
“…Okay,” he murmured. “Okay. We’ll teach her both. Justice and wisdom.”
You smiled.
“You always do.”
=======
Urbain
The meeting room at Lumière Academy was bright, clean, decorated with motivational posters about kindness and hydrating. You, Urbain, and your daughter sat in tiny pastel chairs far too small for grown adults—especially a sitting president.
Urbain looked like he had accidentally wandered into the wrong dimension.
The teacher smiled warmly. “Thank you both for coming. I know your schedules must be busy.”
Urbain folded his hands politely. “I’m honored to attend.”
You nudged his knee under the table. Honored because you forced him to come this time.
The teacher cleared her throat gently. “So… today, your daughter had a bit of a tantrum.”
Urbain blinked. Your daughter avoided eye contact.
You froze.
“…A tantrum?” you repeated. “What tantrum—who is tantrum? Is that someone in her class?”
The teacher pressed her lips together, fighting a smile.
Urbain leaned toward you. “I think she means our daughter threw the tantrum.”
You slowly turned to your daughter. “Come here. Show me the tantrum. Because tantrum is WILD.”
Urbain touched your arm. “Sweetheart—let’s not—”
“No, no, Urbain, I need VISUALS. Because if she has the confidence to throw a tantrum in front of her teacher, she can have the confidence to throw it in front of us.”
Your daughter sunk into her chair.
The teacher—very professional, very amused—continued, “It happened during centers today. She insisted on being a cat.”
"A CAT?!"
Urbain frowned. “Okay, but—kids pretend all the time.”
The teacher nodded. “Yes, but she wanted to stay in character all day.”
You blinked. “…All day?” you echoed, weakly.
The co-teacher poked her head through the doorway. “Oh—technically, it wasn’t all day. More like… half a day.”
You placed your face in your hands, mortified.
Urbain tried not to laugh.
You spoke through your fingers. “I am SO sorry. We will… handle this at home.”
Your daughter meowed.
You shot your daughter the Mom Look™, the one that could stop a Tauros stampede.
After many apologies and assurances, the meeting ended and the three of you walked out into the courtyard. You released AZ’s Floette from her Poké Ball, the little flower Pokémon twirling happily before floating toward your daughter.
“Go on,” you said tiredly. “Play with Floette. Stay where we can see you.”
As your daughter skipped ahead, meowing occasionally, Urbain exhaled.
“I don’t think it was that big of a deal,” he said gently. “Kids throw tantrums all the time.”
You rounded on him, exhausted, incredulous. “She practically started a revolution because she wasn’t allowed to be a cat.”
He tilted his head. “She was expressing herself.”
“She hissed at the teacher.”
Urbain tried—and failed—not to smile. “…Creative expression.”
You threw your hands up. “This is exactly the problem! You think everything is fine because you’re never home to actually deal with it!”
His smile faded.
“Hey—”
“No.” Your voice cracked. “I am tired, Urbain. I am tired of being the bad guy. Of being the only one disciplining her. Of juggling everything while you’re fixing Quasartico.”
He looked down. Guilt flickered across his face—real, painful.
You continued, softer now. “I know your job matters. I know your responsibilities aren’t small. But I need your support and she needs your presence. Gifts and toys and special treats don’t replace her father.”
Floette drifted closer, as if sensing the tension.
You swallowed hard. “I know you’re trying. I do. And I love you for it. But you’re missing things, Urbain. Things you’ll never get back.” You paused. "When I married you, I didn't expect to be so...alone. And when we had our daughter..."
He said nothing for a moment. His throat bobbed.
“My mother raised me alone,” he said quietly. “She did everything. And I always… wished she didn’t have to.” Urbain looked at you—really looked—and stepped closer.
“You’re right,” he murmured. “I’ve been absent. I thought providing stability and resources was enough. But…” He reached out, brushing your cheek tenderly. “It seems I'm always relying you to do the hard parts. Even when we were Team MZ."
He leaned in, pressing his forehead gently to yours.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I will do better. I want to do better. For her. And for you.”
Floette twirled her flower. Your daughter meowed somewhere in the distance.
You sighed, letting your body rest against his chest.
“That’s all I wanted,” you whispered. “Just you. With us.”
Urbain kissed you—soft, sincere, promising.
And when your daughter ran back toward you with Floette in tow, laughing and pretending to pounce, Urbain picked her up effortlessly, kissed the top of her head.
“Next time you want to be a cat, mon petit chaton, let’s practice at home first.”
She giggled. Floette gave a happy cry.
And for the first time in weeks, the three of you walked home together.
