Work Text:
Margot has never been a heavy sleeper.
As an infant, according to her parents, she'd fussed and screamed, never been content to doze for more than a few hours at a time. Perhaps there was a period as a toddler where she'd slept soundly, but then she'd entered childhood, and Mason had discovered that there were many games he could play with her that didn't involve store-bought toys.
From that point onward, all it took to awake her was the creak of a door, a nearby footstep, a far-off laugh. And even though Mason has been dead for nearly a year, Margo's sleeping patterns haven't changed.
Some survival instincts are just too deeply ingrained.
As soon as Morgan starts snuffling in the crib beside their bed, Margot awakens. She flicks on the lamp on her nightstand, crosses the few steps to the crib and peers over the edge. He's still asleep, but his feet are kicking, and his chubby fingers are curled into fists. The light brown down of his hair is sticking up in multiple places.
He doesn't look like a Verger yet.
She can only hope that he never will.
"Margot?" Alana mumbles from the bed, sheets rustling as she stirs. "Everything okay?"
"It's fine," Margot replies, glancing back over her shoulder at her beautiful, exhausted wife, before returning her gaze back to their son. "I've got him. Go back to sleep, Alana."
She stays sentinel at the side of his crib until he goes still once more.