Work Text:
Mel pretends to be asleep that morning, just as she has once a year— twice, really, but her birthday isn’t quite the same— since having Celia.
She does a better job of suppressing her smile, her giggling, each time. The previous year had been the first where their daughter was old enough to be an active co-conspirator, and the morning had gone similarly thus far: Celia creeping into their bedroom just after dawn, as mindful of the creaking door as she can be, Viktor’s contented sigh and gentle stroking of Mel’s cheek once Celia wakes him up, and his slow untangling from her and departure from the bed.
Off-key singing, spilling out of the kitchen and down the hall, is almost enough to make her join them. It’s what keeps all their other attempts at serving her breakfast in bed from succeeding-- but just this once, she lets them win a minor victory.
“...and then you put the eggs right here, see? And don’t let the yolks get too close together, or else it’s ruined and you’ll have to start again,” Viktor says, the words carrying with them the familiar, gentle authority he reserved for teaching their daughter.
Mel’s smile widens as she listens, her eyes still closed, the warmth of the bed lulling her into a comfort she’s not quite ready to leave. She can almost see Celia’s nod of understanding, her little eyebrows furrowed in concentration. It’s a sweet sound, the clinking of dishes and the occasional sizzle of something in a pan, interspersed with giggles or Viktor’s instructions.
Her chest tightens and a knot rises up in her throat. Stinging tears are quick to follow, but she buries her face in the pillows rather than let them fall. She brushes over her wedding band with her thumb and the cool metal comes with a rush of emotion so sharp and potent she doesn’t know where to begin giving it a name.
She freezes in place when Celia’s giggles taper off and Viktor’s tone grows serious, and goes back to feigning sleep, though she can’t keep the trace of a smile off her lips.
“Just like we practiced, Stella,” he murmurs, and Mel strains to hear Celia’s soft hum of assent. “Don’t watch me, keep your focus on the tray.”
A loud, indignant huff came just before the squeak of Celia’s shoe scuffing the floor, and then a bark of laughter from Viktor. Mel can see Celia’s scrunched eyebrows and frown as clearly as if she was standing right in front of her.
The door swings open with a creak that’s more dramatic than necessary, and Mel’s heart jumps in anticipation. The smell of eggs and something sweet fills the room, and she has to fight the urge to crack an eyelid as she hears the sound of a tray being set down, and feels the mattress dip slightly at her side.
“Mama!” Celia squeals, poking at Mel’s shoulder with a little finger.
She pretends to stir awake, stretching out with a groan sustained for as long as she can, before the urge to scoop Celia into her arms grows too strong and she pulls her daughter into a tight hug.
Celia’s violet eyes are wide and bright, her smile beaming, and she squeezes Mel back with all the strength a four-year-old can muster. And in that moment, when their skin touches, she can feel it— all of Celia’s joy, her excitement, her love, it floods through her, and Mel finally lets herself cry. She cries, and she laughs, and she plants kisses on top of Celia’s head until the little girl is squealing with delight.
“Happy Mother’s Day, love.” Viktor’s hand finds her shoulder and she leans back into it. She doesn’t need to see his face to know he’s smiling, too, and it makes her hold onto their daughter a bit tighter.
Eventually, Celia pulls back to look at her, still buzzing with excitement, and glances toward the tray.
Mel’s eyes sweep over her breakfast with feigned surprise and genuine appreciation. Strawberry jam spread over a thin pancake in the shape of a heart, toast with the crust cut off, two fried eggs, and a steaming cup of tea.
“It’s perfect,” she says with a shaking voice and a wavering smile, and reaches out to pull the tray closer. “Thank you.”
Her husband’s cooking has improved considerably, something that she credits him for with a quick kiss. Chaste as it may be, it still prompts a loud gagging sound from Celia.
Viktor, ever the bastion of maturity, decides to blow a raspberry in response. “You should be glad your mother and I love each other so much, you know.” He’s smiling when he glances over at Mel, who’s already cutting her pancake into smaller pieces. “You wouldn’t be here if we didn’t.”
Celia considers his words with a thoughtful pout, her lips pursing as she thinks it over. She blinks, twice, and then shakes her head. It makes her look so much like Viktor that it’s all Mel can do not to cry again.
She clears her throat before speaking again. "Aren't the two of you going to eat anything?"
Viktor chuckles, and Celia brightens. "Well, as it happens, we already ate. It was quite the feast, wasn't it, Stella?"
Celia nods in agreement and points toward the door. "Goooo!"
Mel swallows a bite of her eggs and, not for the first time in Celia’s life, finds herself wishing that her daughter had even a bare modicum of patience. "Alright, give me a few minutes to eat, and we can go."
Viktor leans in to kiss her again, and gives her hand a squeeze. "Don’t rush. I’m going to get ready.”
Mel smiles up at him as he straightens up and lets out a tight sigh, and her eyes soften as she watches him leave. She swallows the rest of her breakfast down in large, hurried bites, and Celia seems content to watch her eat, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and singing quietly to herself.
When she finishes, she turns her full attention back to her daughter, and Celia’s excitement becomes palpable. Mel holds out her hands, and Celia takes them both with a bright, beaming smile. She squeezes her mother’s fingers, and another wave of warmth and eager joy that borders on giddiness rushes through Mel, so sharp it steals her breath away. She does what she can to return every bit of the gratitude and love that makes her heart feel so uncomfortably full.
Celia’s smile widens, and then her eyebrows furrow. “Oh! Oh!”
She almost seems sheepish as she lifts the plate holding what remains of the pancake to reveal a folded piece of paper doused in glitter. It takes Mel a moment— and Celia unfolding it to hold up to her in offering— to realize that it’s a crown.
Celia's expression is expectant, and Mel can’t help but laugh as she takes it from her. Gold glitter sticks to her hands and she'll no doubt be picking it out of her hair for weeks. It’s thick, and folded over onto itself enough times that it will hold its shape.
As she opens it up and sets it on her head, Mel wonders what, exactly, she ever did in her life to deserve it.