Work Text:
As Historia rises from the dredges of sleep to the mid morning sky, she realizes two things: One, something smells like it’s burning, and two, Ymir isn’t next to her. For a moment, panic strikes her, until she realizes the smell is coming from the kitchen, and that it’s vaguely reminiscent of pancakes. And as she listens closely, she can make out three young voices from beyond the door, all chattering happily. Her panic burns off, replaced by an unspeakable joy. With a smile on her face, she bundles up with a sweater and makes her way out to the kitchen. Absently, she realizes one more thing: It’s Mother’s Day.
—-
A little past dawn, Ymir heard the trademark footsteps of her daughters coming down the hall, followed by a hesitant knock at her door. She already knows what they’re here for, since they pretty much planned it in front of her. So, as much as she hates doing it, Ymir untangles herself from her wife’s grip and gets up. As the door creaks open, she sees the three girls looking up at her excitedly as they take her hands and lead her to the kitchen; all silently, of course, just as they’d planned.
(Well, as silent as a 7-year-old, a 5-year-old, and a 3-year old can be. In reality, they were quite loud. Ymir counted herself lucky that Historia was a heavy sleeper.)
It seems they’ve already started when Ymir steps into the room. A coat of flour covers the countertops, a broken egg sitting sadly atop it, along with a plethora of other cooking materials. The girls themselves, Ymir finally sees, are also covered in ingredients. She resists the urge to groan.
Unaffected by the mess, the oldest, Frieda, takes her place as their instructor, standing on a dining chair, making her nearly tall enough to reach Ymir’s elbow. Frieda is a confident, somewhat bossy little girl, already taking it upon herself to be the leader of her group of friends from school. She’s no different at home.
She points at Ymir with brows furrowed. “Mama! We need you to turn the stove on!” she whisper-shouts like a drill sergeant. Suddenly, Ymir is very, very thankful that their child-proofing oven knob covers actually worked. The same could not be said for the cabinet locks that she assumes Frieda found a way around.
“We already got the pancake mix maked,” the girl says with a grin, redirecting her finger to the mess on the counter. To their credit, some of it is in a bowl. Some , of course being maybe 1/16th of everything currently spilled on the counter. She leaves the girls to their own devices as she goes to clean up and make a new batch of batter.
From behind her, Ymir hears Frieda call out more orders. “Ok, Sasha, you have to go get the flowers, okay? Mommy likes the yellow ones, but not the ones from her garden. You got it?”
The 3-year-old looks triumphantly back up at her older sister. “I’ll gets the flowers!” she cries. As Sasha runs for the door, though, Ymir catches her by the torso and lifts her onto her hip without skipping a beat. It’s barely light out, and Ymir’s a bit worried she’ll go for the neighbour’s daffodils instead of the patch of wildflowers in their own yard, and she really doesn’t need another scolding from Ms.Yamamoto about being a better mother. She’s also worried that Sasha’ll get out in the road. After all, the yard attached to their condo was by no means large.
None of that happens, though, and the effects of waking up at sunrise hit Sasha as she yawns against Ymir’s neck. With a smile, she pulls out the flour untouched by children. Historia prefered homemade over box, anyways.
As if Sasha’s mission had never been interrupted, Frieda carried on. She directed her attention to Amaya, her 5-year-old sister.
“Ok, ‘Maya! You’re gonna help me set the table for Mama and Mommy!” Before Ymir could say anything about how they‘re not eating at the table, Amaya ran to the cutlery drawer and took out far too many spoons, not bothering with forks or knives. She split her stock with Frieda as the older girl descended from her chair, and the two began setting for… Six? Ymir looked on with her brows raised as she continued to mix her batter, one arm still holding a now-sleeping Sasha.
Her unasked question was answered as Amaya picked up the family cat, Rigatoni, from her nap and brought her over to the table. She immediately settled back into sleep on the extra folding chair pulled in from the closet. As the tabby cat slept, Amaya and Frieda’s steps became near silent, as if the cat’s sleep was more fragile than their own mother’s. Or maybe, they just knew it took a good shaking to wake Historia. Perhaps they learned it last Mother’s Day, when they tried to wake both Ymir and Historia at 5 am with no breakfast to greet them; it had taken Historia twice as long as Ymir to get up.
This time would be different, though. A normal wake up time, a good breakfast, actual gifts. It was going to be great.
Frieda and Amaya sat expectantly at the table, after each having dashed to their closet to pick out a princess dress for the special occasion. Frieda’s pale blue sleeves puff up against the edge of the table, and the absurd amount of tulle makes her skirt look as if it’s a booster seat beneath her. Compared to Amaya’s one-tier yellow dress, handmade by Historia for last year‘s Halloween, Frieda looks like a loofa, clad in glitter and a cheap plastic diadem.
Well, as long as they’re not fighting over anything.
And yet, like the speak of the Devil, a fight broke out. Ymir had been pouring the second batch of pancakes as she heard the beginning of a scuffle; something about the tiara. Upon hearing the word, Sasha’s eyes flew open and she wriggled out of Ymir’s grasp to join in on the excitement. For a while, there wasn’t any way she could intervene; that is, until the scuffle turned into a full blown screaming match as Ymir heard plastic snap. As she turned around, she saw Amaya on the floor, crying, holding one half of the tiara as Frieda screamed and stomped while clutching the other. Sasha switched rapidly between the two reactions in an effort to be included, even if she really couldn't care less.
Pancakes forgotten, Ymir walked over and crouched to the floor, attempting to meet Frieda’s eyes. Grabbing the girl’s hand, she took the broken half of the accessory from her and lifted her into her arms. Frieda calmed down almost immediately. Hesitantly, she whispered something into Ymir’s ear.
“Mama, do you still have the super glue, like from last time?” Memories of a nearly identical event came back to her, and Ymir wanted to roll her eyes as she realized that it hadn’t even been a week since the last tiara debacle. Still, she knew exactly how to deal with it.
“Yes, I do, but first you have to apologize to your sister and get the other half,” Ymir advised softly, setting the blue-clad girl onto the floor. As the two reconciled, Ymir suddenly remembered that she left five pancakes on the griddle. The smell is unpleasant. She ran over to the griddle, where she discovered that yes, five pancakes were charred and inedible. Unplugging the griddle and lifting one of the failed pancakes with a fork, Ymir heard her daughters laughing across the kitchen.
“Frieda, I think the pancakes are done,” Ymir called out jokingly. Frieda visibly recoiled into her seat, while Sasha hopped up and ran over. “Mama, I’ll takes it! I’m hungry!” Just like her godmother, Ymir thought fondly.
Just as she’s about to tell Sasha about the non-torched pancakes available to her, Ymir hears familiar footsteps padding through the hall.
“Mommy!” all three girls call out, rushing out of the room to greet her. And just like she’d planned, Ymir grabs the bouquet of sunflowers and the bag with all their gifts from atop the fridge, along with a cup of coffee just the way Historia likes it, and walks over to her wife.
As Historia steps into the kitchen, feet dragged down by three little beasts, Ymir presses a kiss to her forehead and hands her the mug. One by one, she pulls the children off of Historia’s ankles and guides her to a chair. She makes sure to replace the two spoons at her space with proper flatware as she brings out the pancakes and bacon that had just finished up. In a final flourish, Ymir sets the flowers into a vase sitting on the table before heading back over to the counter
The three girls take their seats too, but not before taking out their collective gift from the bag and shoving it across the table to a smiling Historia. As Ymir brews her own coffee, she can’t help but feel so grateful for her family. Even though her kids are little gremlins who can scream and cry over the simplest things, she still loves them more than anything. And Historia- she’s never not felt grateful for that woman. Maybe that’s why Ymir wanted to make Mother’s Day so special for her.
As Ymir takes her seat next to her wife, Historia leans over. “You know Mother’s Day is a holiday for both of us, right?” Her tone is light and teasing.
In response, Ymir rests her head against Historia’s as she replies with nonchalance. “Well, you deserve it more.”
“I’m not the one who woke up with the kids at 5 AM to make her wife breakfast, even if said wife woke up to the smell of burning.”
Ymir’s face heats as she tries to defend herself. “Well, the kids were fighting, and the stupid pancakes were sitting on the griddle while I had to defuse the situation, so forgive me-“
Historia cuts her off with a quick kiss, much to the audible disgust of their daughters. Ymir sticks her tongue out at them in jest.
“I was kidding, Ymir. The pancakes are delicious, by the way,” Historia says, leaning her head back on her wife’s shoulder. “Happy Mother’s Day.”
“Happy Mother’s Day,” Ymir parrots, looking around at her family. Frieda and Amaya talk animatedly about the game they’ll play later, while Sasha wolfs down her third plate of pancakes. Historia sips her coffee with one hand and intertwines the other with Ymir’s.
It’s mornings like these that make Ymir feel like the happiest woman alive.