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She knows that Charlotte isn't the most approachable (nor emotionally dependable) sister in the wide world but, God... she may be the fiercest protector their little Morgan could absolutely ever ask for – and even when the bully isn't even an individual. Maybe especially then. Because when it's a predator that neither girl can see, Charlotte Harper puts herself right out front and center, a willing target for the invisible.
She's more and more like her father every day, really...
And Morgan vacillates between worshiping her older sister or wishing her lost in the laundry.
Because, sometimes... well, sometimes Charlie is the biggest bully in the room.
“Mum.” And the unceremonious whack Mac gets in the arm proves that too true. As though she hadn't already heard them coming from half down the hall, their oldest announces them without much grace. She's succinct. Tactless. McAvoy-esque. “She's sick.”
“M'not sick.” And good for her baby, standing up for herself and griping back at Charlotte's inelegant delivery. But her argument doesn't hold very well against the bitter tanged smell of bile and leftover vomit. There's got to be some on her pale yellow pajamas, maybe in her hair or the taste is still in her mouth. It's truth itself, telling her out in the night's half-light and the comfort of Mum & Dad's bed.
“She is,” Charlie counters with 'Big Sister' certainty. “Puked up.”
“Didn't! Mummy!
“Girls.”
It's Will's strong voice that stills them suddenly, the fact he's awake surprising them both as they pause their leaning. Mac just smiles in the half darkness and lifts into the way Morgan had been reaching for her, curling the child up into her lap as she sits up against the pillows. He stays down against the mattress but reaches across her, his fingers outstretched to give their oldest leverage as she scrabbles up against them both too. Mac already has Morgan cuddled into her chest and turned so that the child is facing her father, her cold little feet forcing him to draw his head up as she tries to cuddle closer and near kicks him in the jaw.
“What's wrong, darling?”
“She puked up. And s'gross.” Charlie tells them, distracted by her mission to cuddle in between her parents, her feet already kicking at the comforter to shuck it out of the way. Mac hugs Morgan tighter, slipping her hand up against the side of the child's head while her husband shifts the blankets slowly, stretching his torso back so that Charlotte can wiggle down between them. She's possibly the most stubborn and insistent child MacKenzie has ever met and it's no wonder, really, considering her parents. Still, sometimes she's exhausting.
“You're no help, Charlotte. Let her answer.” Mac gives her oldest a tug of reprimand with the other hand, fingers tweaking the darkening blonde lightly and leading so that Charlie just giggles, shy and chagrined in response. Mac turns her jaw against Morgan's sleek and sweated hair, warming them closer before kissing at damp silkiness. “Did you throw up, love?”
In the McAvoy house silence seems always to be a harbinger of something unwanted or worrisome. Or, more often, a begrudging (in)admission of guilt.
Will groans into the silence and “Morgan Mae?”
… “Lil' bit.”
His sigh is nearly as long and welled deep as the silence that preceded her answer. “I'll get it.”
“No! Did it already!” Charlotte argues abruptly, hugging against her father's mid-section with a tinny little whining from high up in her throat. Her head is butting into his chest, arms cinching on him. Mac arches a brow and catches the way he drops his palm against the back of Charlie's head, rubbing softly as she mutters something barely audible into his t-shirt. “I did it.”
“You cleaned it up?” Mac feels her face reflexively tip into a wince as she meets Will's eyes and the lift of his brows is near comical. “Oh, God.”
“I did good!” their oldest argues, self assured and positive that she's taken care of the problem. And, really, all Mac can think about is where the sodden bedclothes may have found themselves. God, Charlotte could have just dumped them out the nearest window and figured she'd found the quickest and most appropriate solution possible. “I did.”
“Well,” Mac whispers in correction as she cheek tests how warm Morgan's forehead is feeling. At least her fever isn't very high, if she has one. “I'm sure you did well.”
But the younger girl is overly warm, swamped and sweated and still trying to get closer to her mother's touch while Charlie chatters on. “Tha's what I said.”
“Why don't we go make sure, Pip,” Will suggests softly as he shifts from under the blankets, music inherent in the sound of his voice and loving in the lightness of it. “Leave your sister alone awhile.”
“I was just helping.” Charlie's voice dips near whining but then it collapses as Will grabs after her and she laughs. Her father matches the sound easily in the half darkened bedroom, tugging her out from the center of the bed by one of her ankles as he stands. Mac mentally makes silent thanks for the fact he's wearing a pair of pajama bottoms at least, his arm stretched straight as his oldest pulls at it. She holds Morgan close as the other two of them shift off from the mattress with smiles and silliness.
“Thank you,” she says gently, just barely loud enough for him to hear as Charlotte climbs up the back of him and near chokes around his neck with both arms. One of his hands catches against her smaller clasped wrists as he leans forward and balances her on his back, winking at his wife before wordlessly heading out into the hall. And Charlotte laughs all the way (because, well, simply because Charlotte laughs all the day).
Though he'll regret the carrying in the morning, likely. And she'll hear about it for ages after.
Because Charlie weighs more than she used to and his back isn't near as sturdy as it once was.
Mac sighs and kisses against her other daughter's dark hair, mumbling against how damp it is. “We should probably check your temperature.”
There are tiny fingers tugging at her hair in response and they get more insistent after she's suggested leaving the bedroom. It's only a moment before the answer comes breathed against her neck. “Better now.”
“Are you? Feeling better?”
Morgan shrugs and her whole body fidgets with the movement, fingers twisted into Mac's hair and likely knotted now. “Lil' bit.”
“I still think we should check, just in case,” Mac nods down into the sharp pitched sound her youngest makes in argument. The fussy little whine is just enough to make her arch a brow as she stares down deep dark blue eyes and paleness. Morgan has softer features than Charlotte, rounder and wider ones and more like a McHale in the eyes and nose. Charlie is Will's daughter, all the way round. But Morgan? Morgan is Mac's own untouched and untainted mirror. “In a few minutes, then. Relax first.”
“Sorry,” the three year old whispers.
“Shhh,” MacKenzie shushes her, her voice gone lush with loving. “Don't you worry at all.”
“Daddy mad?” Charlie's eyes may be a brighter blue but, bloody hell, Morgan's are wider and occasionally more wounded, more begging and innocent in their depth.
“Not at all.” She kisses the child's cheek with a whisper, “We're just worried about you.”
“M'okay, mum,” their youngest assures her and she can't help but wipe against a sweated cheek before dropping another kiss to the child's face. And then another. Once more and another for luck.
Mac hears the girl giggle past the fact that she's still not feeling well, kisses still fluttering over her cheeks, eyelids, temples, forehead and back down. “Yeah? We'll make sure of that, we will. I promise.”