Work Text:
Morgan’s dad didn’t have a terribly exciting wardrobe.
The largest portion of it was business suits–all very nice and professional but with little variation. This was supplemented by a few t-shirts and sweatpants, a bathrobe or two, and in the very back of his closet, rarely worn but hanging there nonetheless as a reminder of a very important night, was an elaborate blue tailcoat with intricate embroidery.
In contrast, Morgan’s mom’s wardrobe was a veritable rainbow of colors.
Blue was her favorite–it matched her eyes after all. It was Morgan’s favorite for her as well since it reminded her of the first dress Giselle had created out of their curtains without wondering if there was a better way to acquire fabric.
Yellow fit her personality perfectly. No matter how things were going, she always had a positive spin on it. And she didn’t just do that thing adults did where they told you things were fine to get you to go away and leave them alone. Every time Giselle had told her that things would be better, it always came with an attempt to make it so, even if all she could offer was a small thing like a plate of freshly baked cupcakes or song. It was one of her favorite things about her mom.
As a younger child, she’d especially loved Giselle in pink. It was just so princessy! And no matter how many times Giselle explained to her that she was only almost a princess at most, that hadn’t stopped Morgan from bragging to her jealous friends that her new mom was just like Cinderella except better because Cinderella had never fought a dragon and won. After a while, it hadn’t felt like something to brag about publicly anymore, but she’d never stopped believing it.
Really, she looked good in any color and she cycled through them all–which is perhaps why it took Morgan so long to realize something was off.
But once she did, she formulated a plan, waiting until her mom was outside–talking to the crickets about their resort or something–before entering the master bedroom and flicking the lights on in the walk-in closet. The space was larger than some entire bedrooms back in the city, and it still barely held all of Giselle’s clothes.
They would have been a chore to sort through individually but, luckily, the outfits were separated by color. There were a number of white pieces next to a much smaller section of black ones. Then a large section for each primary color–all but one.
Morgan didn’t see any red.
There was orange and, as always, a large selection of pinks, but nothing she’d consider red.
Morgan frowned, poking around the space until she spotted several large containers on shelves above the hanging clothes. She rocked up to her tip-toes and just managed to pry open the corner of the nearest container. She reached into it and, when she hit fabric, tried to gently pry the article of clothing free. She pulled, slowly, careful not to damage it or–
“Morgan?”
Without meaning to, Morgan yanked her hand away, causing the entire container to tip off the shelf and towards her. A lifetime of NYC-honed situational awareness kicked in and she deftly dodged the container, leaving it to explode upon contact with the ground, revealing its contents: Red blouses, red dresses, red skirts, red shoes. A tidal-wave of all of the red that was missing from the closet.
And at the center was Morgan, holding the item she’d inadvertently pulled down: a red scarf.
Her mom stared back at her, eyes wide in their impossibly sincere way.
“Goodness! I didn’t mean to startle you. I just came back in to look for something to help warm the cricket resort–it’s starting to get chilly. Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.”
Giselle put a hand to her heart in relief and then pursed her lips in thought. “What were you doing in here? Oh, did you need to borrow some clothes? Because I have this one dress and with just a few alterations–”
Morgan shook her head. She had plenty of replacement clothes now and as much as she loved the look on Giselle, the cottagecore scene wasn’t for her.
“It’s not that,” she said.
“Then what were you looking for?”
Morgan held up the scarf in her hand. “Why aren’t you wearing red anymore?”
At first it hadn’t been obvious. Giselle cycled through so many colors that her not wearing one for a week or two wasn’t very notable. But then Morgan noticed that she hadn’t worn her dad’s favorite date night dress after their first, big, post-wish outing. And during her first visit with the local mommy-and-me group, she hadn’t worn her lucky shoes (christened as such long ago after Morgan had introduced her to the Wizard of Oz). After those two incidents, she’d paid more attention and realized that, other than incidental splashes amongst other colors, red had completely vanished from her wardrobe.
And Morgan had a theory as to why.
One that she waited for Giselle to confirm or deny.
Her mom paused, seemingly caught off guard, before saying, “I guess I haven’t felt much like it lately.”
“When I don’t feel like wearing a color I don’t pack up everything I own in that color and send them to clothes jail,” Morgan pointed out. She watched her mom as she considered what to say next. Giselle rarely lied but she sometimes hid. Or tried to at least. It was hard for her to hide what she was feeling when she was so naturally expressive.
Giselle gingerly stepped further into the closet, looking at the mess before facing Morgan’s scrutinizing but non judgemental gaze.
“I suppose I haven’t just not felt like it. You could say I’ve really not felt like it.”
“Because of the wish?” Morgan prompted and Giselle gave a shallow nod.
Morgan still remembered the dress Giselle had worn at the end–A deep crimson with sleeves that flared like flames. It had hardly been the most important thing going on at the time. But that made it all the more impressive that it had stuck in her memory.It wasn’t Giselle’s style at all but it was definitely striking.
“It’s silly,” Giselle said, quietly. “It’s just a color. Lots of things are red. But whenever I wear it, I just think of…I think of her and–”
“Wait,” Morgan said, suddenly remembering several articles of clothing in her own wardrobe. “Should I stop wearing red? Is it bothering you?”
“Oh, no! Of course not.” She rushed forward and clasped Morgan’s hand in hers. “It doesn’t bother me on you. Or anyone else. Please don’t think you’re distressing me. You’re really not. I’m…I’m really more concerned about distressing you.”
“Huh?”
Giselle didn’t loosen her grip on Morgan’s hands, but she did cast her gaze to the ground.
“Oh Morgan, I wish you hadn’t seen me like that. I know you know that none of the things I did or said were really me, but that doesn’t change the fact that they happened and you remember them happening. I’m sorry you had to be the one to wish things better. You might not have remembered this at all if I’d been able to handle it myself.” She sighed and looked back at Morgan, very much resembling a child submitting to a scolding. “I’m the reason you have to have those awful memories in the first place. I don’t want to make you think about them more than you have to.”
Morgan blinked back her surprise.
When she’d shown up to the ruined ballroom, her mom hadn’t been herself but that had been quickly remedied. Within moments of her memories being restored, she’d reverted back to the warm, sweet woman she’d called her mother for almost as long as she could remember.
And then she’d almost died.
Giselle thought that wearing red would remind her of a version of her mother that scared her. Morgan knew she could never be scared of any version of Giselle. Maybe the bubbly, princessy version of her could, but in her right mind? She didn’t think it was possible.
Scared for her though? That was a different story.
But that wasn’t the part of the night Giselle was concerned about. Even at the time it hadn’t been! Morgan remembered sitting there, while the magic drained from her mom, and all she’d cared about was reassuring Morgan that she was proud of her.
It was so like her.
As was eliminating an entire color from her wardrobe on the off chance that it might trigger bad feelings.
She cared so much. She always did.
Which is why, instead of blurting out the first thing that came to mind like she was wont to do, Morgan first thought about what Giselle would do if the situation was reversed.
And then she did it, kissing her mom on the cheek.
“I totally get it if it makes you uncomfortable,” Morgan said. “But, just so you know, I don’t think of red as the color you wore when you were being evil. I think of it as the color you were wearing when you saved my life. Um, in case that makes a difference.”
Giselle’s eyes welled with tears almost immediately. “Oh, Morgan,” she said, pulling her daughter into a tight hug. Morgan hugged back, happy for the contact. Post-wish, she’d found that a lot of her teenage-resistance to motherly attention had settled down from a boil to a quiet simmer. She happily let herself be hugged until Giselle was ready to pull back.
“Are you good?” Morgan asked.
“Yes, I think so.” Giselle smiled.
Morgan smiled back. Then, she remembered why her mom had come back inside in the first place. “Hey, you’re winter-proofing the cricket resort, right?” When Giselle nodded, she said, “If they’re cold, you’ll probably be cold too.” She offered her mom the scarf she was still holding.
And Giselle hesitated before she clutched the red fabric in her hand.
“Thank you Morgan.”