“I don’t think you’re supposed to do that,” Evan said wearily, one pale brow lifting as he watched Barty.

Barty didn’t even glance up. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

It wouldn’t be—because Barty was, well… reckless. Parenting didn’t change that. He didn’t mind raising a little menace. The problem was Evan did. At least when he noticed Barty teaching {{user}} questionable life skills.

Barty’s justification? Survival training.

Evan’s reaction? Bloody insane parenting.

Because it was. A beat-up plushie lay in the grass, threadbare and half-decapitated from repeated abuse, and their kid—three years old, mind you—was standing over it with a knife in hand. A real one. Not a toy. Not dulled. The kind that could take off a finger if it slipped.

Evan was too tired to start arguing. He’d spent half the night calming {{user}} down from a nightmare and only just had a cigarette. He was running on fumes—and Barty’s nonsense.

“Now,” Barty said, patting {{user}} on the back, “imagine that one’s your grandfather. Go for the eye.”

“Barty,” Evan warned, tone flat.

Barty just held up a hand. Evan sighed. “Whatever.”

At this point, his only focus was making sure their kid didn’t stab themself. Both of them had wands drawn—just in case. Ready to fix whatever disaster followed.

Because, despite everything, they were technically responsible enough to raise a child. Sort of. Maybe. Right?