Chapter Text
“Ed! Uncle Izzy!” Two shrill voices, followed by the pitter-patter of tiny feet. Izzy looks up from where he’s refilling the brown sugar packets. A pair of children are draped over the bar top, short legs dangling as they try to scramble across. Stede is still hovering in the doorway, looking guilty. Izzy nudges his husband’s arm.
“Why are there multiple Bonnets in our place of business? And why the f- why aren’t you Uncle Ed?”
Ed shrugs, tousling the kids’ hair - it makes Alma swat at him and Louis squeal.
“Far too cool to be an uncle.” He looks over at Stede. “Family outing?”
“It’s his shift…” grumbles Izzy while Stede wrings his hands.
“Mary and Doug are sick with the flu. I offered to take the children for a few days. Just until they feel better. I hope that’s alright?” The way he looks up at Izzy through his lashes is downright criminal. Bastard must have picked that up from Ed. So what’s a man to do but sigh and nod?
“Fine. As long as you can still work.” Izzy looks at his watch. “Ed has to leave… five minutes ago.”
“It’s ok. I can cancel.” The kids have made it around the counter and Ed has already supplied them with peanut butter cookies and milk. Didn’t even double-check if they have any allergies. Izzy feels the pit of his stomach go tight.
“You are not canceling therapy. I’m calling my mother.” Now that almost makes Ed drop the cookie jar.
“Whoa, love. Isn’t that a bit extreme?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to inconvenience you…” Stede still hasn’t dropped the damn kicked puppy look and now he’s wearing his flowery apron, too, and Izzy is only human, after all. He rises up to his tiptoes, gives Stede a dry peck on the temple.
“I said it’s fine, Bonnet. These rascals are better at making coffee than you, anyway. And Mum’s gonna be…” The thought of using a word like ecstatic or thrilled to describe his mother feels about as right as a shark on a bicycle. “Well… Lil and I never did get around to supplying her with grandkids. And she likes being around the little ones.”
“Yeah. So she can bake them into pies,” Ed mutters ominously, pulling on his leather jacket. Louis covers his face in pretend horror. Alma barks out a terrifyingly morbid laugh.
“I think we’ll be fine here. Now fuck off.”
“Language!” gasps Louis. Alma just holds out her open palm until Izzy pays her a shiny golden coin for his sins.
The place fills up rapidly, mainly college students craving their afternoon caffeine bump, and Izzy ends up banishing all the Bonnets to the back office. Sure, he could use another pair of hands, but he also can’t be tripping over tiny people left and right. That, however, leaves Stede manning the phone and peeking out at regular intervals with-
“Izzy, do we sell gluten-free brownies?”
“Izzy, do we have room for a party of twelve on December 2nd?”
“Izzy, are dogs allowed in here?”
It takes most of Izzy’s restraint to answer all his questions in the affirmative and the rest to avoid losing any more change to the pockets of Alma’s pink overalls.
Finally, the door opens to reveal a small, elderly woman leaning on a cane. Izzy comes round to take her coat, receives a pat on the cheek in greeting - her hand is icy from the chill outside.
“Thanks for helping out, Mum. Really.” Izzy guides her to an armchair by the last vacant table.
“Of course, after Edward left you all alone with this mess…” comes the inevitable reply. And Izzy refuses to get into it, to try and explain how Ed is finally getting the help he needs, how he’s learning to be a better husband, the very thing Margaret has wanted him to do for over twenty years… So he just goes to fetch the Bonnet children, and some paper and crayons to keep them occupied.
Soon, Stede is settled behind the bar, trying to perfect his milk foam artistry - he has at last mastered the heart and is now moving on to (still rather lopsided) feather patterns. Both he and Izzy sneak occasional glances at the kids, who are peacefully drawing unicorns while Izzy’s mother sips her tea.
“She really does have a calming effect on them. They were practically scaling the walls at home.” There’s something like admiration in Stede’s voice as he takes in the scene. Izzy nods.
“Yeah. It’s what she does. I was a fuckin’ neurotic kid. Perfectionist. Stressed about everything from my grades to my hair…” Stede shoots him a sidelong look, a barely hidden smirk. Izzy bristles. “Oh, shut up. Point is, it would always calm me down, just being around her, watching her work. She might not be the warmest person. But level-headed. Good in a crisis.”
“I see,” Stede says and there’s no more malice in his smile. Izzy makes sure to hand him a plate to dry before things get too sappy.
“Dad?” Louis crows across the room. “Can we have hot chocolate? With marshmallows?”
“Why, of course!” Stede gets right to it, eager as he always is when presented with an easy chance to score good parenting points. He even arranges the mini-marshmallows in the shape of little sail boats, held in place by a large dollop of whipped cream.
“You’re learning, Bonnet,” Margaret comments wryly when Stede carries the cups over personally. Where Ed’s always been too volatile for her liking, Stede is too sheltered. She’s told Izzy as much. Many times. But Stede is no stranger to disapproving parents so he just smiles, slightly cool but polite.
“Thank you, Margaret. I do have the best teacher.”
She accepts that with an unreadable hum and Izzy has to turn and wipe the foam nozzle. His cheeks are getting hot.
“Look at that, it’s like the Normandie all over again,” Margaret chides a second later. The kids have apparently started engaging in naval warfare by dropping sugar cubes on their foamy boats, splashing cocoa on the table and their faces alike. Izzy knows his mother always carries wet-wipes in her purse.
“Doug puts marshmallows on his sweet potato casserole!” says Alma, once her ship has been damaged beyond repair and gobbled up with a spoon. Margaret pretends to shudder all over.
“Oh my, who would do such an abominable thing?”
“He says it’s normal Thanksgiving food. It tasted funny.” Alma giggles and Margaret lowers her smoky voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Well, I bet Doug tastes funny, too.”
The kids’ eyes widen and Louis leans forward, trembling with curiosity.
“So Ed was right? You do bake people into pies??”
Both Izzy and Stede have to stifle a laugh but Margaret just leans back in her chair, a feline grin crinkling her cheeks.
“I do, indeed. But only Americans. And mouthy sons-in-law.”