Chapter Text
Sunday hiccups, coughs, and sneezes, all at once.
Morloch, who’s stretched out in his sister’s too-small desk chair, looks up from his phone and raises an impressed pierced eyebrow. “Now that’s gotta be a record. You doing okay, shortstack?”
Sunday sniffles indignantly. Her bright, blue eyes are red as she rubs at them in frustration. “What does it look like," she bites out in a completely expressionless voice. "I am quite clearly dying.”
“Mmmm," Morloch hums casually, returning his attention back to browsing his phone. There's a pretty decent-looking secondhand viola that someone's put up for cheap in the school group chat and he's been eyeing it for the past half-hour. "No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Nope.”
“Yes.”
“Nacho.”
“Ye- achoo! ”
Sunday sneezes again, rocking her head back into the pillows and sending her blonde hair, which was already a disaster from the bed head, flying out in every cardinal direction. Honestly, she’s starting to look more like an It than an Addams. Minus the bed head of course, an It would never be caught dead with the kind of messed up do that Sunday’s currently rocking. They’re kinda elitist like that.
Sunday sniffles again and wipes at her runny nose with her sleeve. “I’m dying,” she repeats, this time in an even deader tone than before. If Mamá were here she’d be impressed at how good Sunday's deadpan is turning out. “This isn’t fair. If the good die young, why must the wicked die sick and bedridden? There’s still so much I want to do. So many frozen frogs that I’ve yet to dissect and mount.”
It’s almost comical hearing all the doom and gloom coming out the mouth of a wee lil' 12-year-old girl who’s smothered in a pink and purple blanket burrito that’s decorated with cartoon unicorns. At this point though, Morloch’s used to his little sister’s dramatic antics. Idly, he wonders if it’s the insane amount of colors in Sunday’s room that’s adding to and aggravating her 'mysterious illness that she refuses to elaborate on even after Morloch picked her up from the nurses' office at Nevermore.' It’s no secret that Sunday adores every color under the rainbow save for black, and she’s made sure her room is the same way. The ceiling, the walls, even the pages of her notebook are some sort of bright, eye-watering primary color. Forget about sensory overload, it’s straight to sensory overkill.
“Okay, okay, I’ll bite.” Morloch pockets his phone and leans forward in the chair, resting his elbows on his thighs. He tries not to look down; he’s a hundred percent sure that his boots and black trousers are just soiled with glitter now. Sunday loves the stuff, spreads it around her room like Tinkerbell on crack. “What’s on your bucket list of stuff that you haven’t done yet.”
Sunday points a finger directly up at the ceiling. “One, taxes. Two, undergo a global-level extinction event- survival being a nice bonus, but not strictly necessary. Three, experience what it’s like to be mildly electrocuted.”
Sooooo, all in all, a pretty typical Sunday top three bucket list. Morloch raises his fingers in response. “One, no you don’t, trust me. Two, eh, give it a year or two and you might get your wish. Three, define mildly electrocuted because I think Great Uncle Fester can probably help you out with that one. Maybe. Remember that thing he did for your birthday party last year?”
“With the cattle prod and pigeon carcass?”
“That’s the one.”
Sunday opens her mouth, probably to say more, but before she can, there’s a frantic knocking at her door. Before she can ask who it is, it flies open on its hinges with a bam!
“Ohmigod, Sunny, I’m so, so, so, so, so sorry, I tried getting back here as fast as I could when the school called and said you were sick are you okay, what happened, how do you feel, many fingers am I holding up do you remember how old your brother is, what are your three favorite colors ending in either a vowel or consonant and ordered from least favorite to most favorite?!”
Morloch quickly scooches his chair out of the way as their Mom comes barreling her way to the foot of Sunday’s bed. Ohhhhh boy, is Mom in a mood . Windswept blue and pink hair, makeup slightly running down her face from sweat, and nails a good half-inch longer (and sharper) than the usual length. Thank jeezus full moon was three days ago; he’s not sure he could handle both mopey Sunday and his Mom wolfing out at the same time.
“Easy there, Mom, little space.” Morloch gently pulls their Mom back a bit, letting Sunday breathe. “Sunday?”
“Yes, nothing, fine, eighteen and four months, three days, two minutes, red, blue, but only for Mondays and Tuesdays, yellow and pink for every other day afterward.” Sunday takes a deep breath. “Satisfied?”
Mom seems to relax as Sunday rattles off her answers, shoulders falling as the tension eases out of them. “Yes. Okay. Yeah, yeah." She lets out a shuddery breath. "Sorry for freaking out like that. I got the call from school saying you collapsed and my mind went immediately to the worst-case scenario.”
“Did the school also mention Sunday starting a food fight that left four students mildly injured, two students mildly traumatized and one teacher mildly stuck headfirst in the oven?” asks Morloch.
Sunday throws him a dirty look. “You don’t have to go around being a mild little tattletale either, you know.”
“Uhhh, hello? Who's the person who had to cut their date short to pick your sorry butt up from school and get an earful from the principal at the same time? Think of this as just desserts.”
Mom frowns slightly. “You know, I think the superintendent did mention something about a food fight on the phone as well, but it was hard to tell over the screaming, crying, and repeated shouts of ‘oh god, it’s a warzone, lord almighty, I’ve never seen a hambone used as a ballistic missile before, Jesus H. Christ.’” Mom pauses, then shrugs. “Or something like that. I kinda tuned out after the first scream of utter desperation.”
Morloch and Sunday share a look that their Mom notices. Her frown turns into a rather sheepish grin. "I mean, it sounds bad on paper, but... well, when you’ve been married to a woman like your Mamá for as long as I have, you kinda just learn to roll with the punches after a while.” She scratches lightly at the scars on her cheek, thinking back. “Ya know, I’ve lost track of the number of times where I’ve gotten frantic calls just like that one and had to bail your Mamá out of… usually it’s jail, but there was this one time it was the city mortuary. Long story, don’t ask. Your Mamá’s gotten a lot better since those days. Probably. Maybe.”
“Definitely not.”
As if summoned straight from Satan's pentagram itself, Mamá suddenly materializes from behind them, silent as a specter. Everyone except for Sunday starts in surprise. How she managed to sneak up on them is a mystery; she’s wearing one of Mom’s oversized pink hoodies and fuzzy bunny slippers that just scream tacky and loud. Usually, she favors something much more subdued (and black, always black) but since it’s only half-past twelve, it means she’s just waking up for the day. Case and point, the long, single braid she usually pins her hair in is just absolutely frazzled with bedhead. Still, she seems relatively alert, eyeing them all suspiciously with a raised eyebrow.
“Speak of the devil. We were just talking about you.” Mom reaches out for Mamá’s hand, linking their pinkies together with a fond smile. “Remember that time you stayed overnight in the Jericho mortuary and had me come break you out?”
Mamá’s lips quirk the slightest bit upward at the memory. “Ahh yes. The infamous first date.”
“First- oh my god, that was not our first date, stop calling it that!”
“The infamous first girl’s night out.”
“Can we get back to the more important matter at hand?” Morloch interjects before Mamá can start getting romantic because once she starts, it’s hard to get her to stop. “Mainly, Sunday re-enacting the French Revolution in a school cafeteria today.”
“I resent that.” Sunday stubbornly crosses her arms. “Do you know how hard it is to craft a makeshift guillotine out of whatever you can find in a classroom? Don’t try to undersell my efforts.”
“We'll be the judge of that, mi sol.” Mamá comes closer to the bed, standing over Sunday with a considering expression. Judge, jury, and executioner. “Imagine my utter delight waking up this afternoon to my electronic telephone filled to the brim with electronic voice messages from various callers detailing your colorful exploits, complete with screaming and crying. I'm curious, just what was the purpose of your little revolution in school today? And why you promptly fainted after causing such a scene. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for a little social destabilization, but on a larger, more impactful scale. The local government, perhaps, or maybe even the state, if we're feeling particularly ambitious. The school cafeteria during lunchtime is almost laughable in comparison. Doesn't exactly inspire anarchy now, does it."
Sunday doesn’t pout. Morloch doesn’t think she has the facial muscles to pull off an expression like that. The most she can do is frown slightly. Still, her expression doesn't give much away other than her subtle annoyance. Makes for a hell of a poker face.
And then she promptly ruins her poker face by opening her mouth and saying robotically, “I do not know what you are referring to, Mamá.” Morloch has to hide his snicker behind his hand because while Sunday's poker face may be immaculate, her lying face sucks ass .
"Sunny, it's okay." Mom scooches closer to Sunday, bringing her in close for a reassuring hug. Sunday accepts the gestures with a pained grimace and Mom begins brushing a comforting hand through Sunday’s hair. “Whatever you want to say, we’ll listen with an open mind. No one here is trying to blame you for anything. ”
“Not yet,” adds Morloch, smirking behind his fist.
“Not helping,” says Mamá, smacking him lightly up the head.
Sunday’s bottom lip quivers. A tell-tale sign that she’s about to give in.
“Well, there is one thing,” she sighs dramatically. “I didn't want to have to say this, but..."
Mom nods encouragingly. "Yes?"
Sunday signs again, placing a hand on her forehead.
"Morloch got another piercing while you and Mamá were out last Tuesday.”
Oh shit.
“What,” goes Mamá, at the same time Mom gasps and goes, “Morloch!”
Morloch jumps up from the chair, full-on damage control mode enabled. “You little snitch!” He jabs an accusing finger at Sunday, who actually has the audacity to smirk smugly back at him. “What happened to all those bottles of hydrochloric acid I bought for you to keep your trap shut?!”
“Simple,” Sunday’s smirk grows. “I drank them all.”
“That was thirty dollars worth of acid, you little twerp!”
“Should’ve bought more.”
“Morloch Belial Addams,” says Mamá, and ah shit, first, middle, and last name, he is so screwed. Mamá straightens to her full height… which still doesn’t even come up to Morloch’s own chin, but the dark look she shoots up at him still makes him feel approximately three feet tall. “What did I say about getting another piercing?”
Oh, this isn’t fair. This is so not fair. How the hell did he get to be in the hot seat now? Inwardly, he debates trying to fib his way out… but nothing comes to mind. Nothing plausible anyway. Damn.
“That after the last one got infected, either you or Mom had to be there to supervise when I got another one,” Morloch mumbles, embarrassed to hell. “But it was totally fine! Uncle Ajax said he used those guys before for his snakes and they never had any issues.”
“Uncle Ajax once petrified himself by staring too hard at his reflection in a bowl of expired cereal milk,” Mamá counters, looking highly unimpressed. “So forgive me if his recommendation does not exactly inspire a vote of confidence, cuervo.”
“We’re not saying you can’t get another piercing, Crow,” says Mom, jumping in before Morloch can defend Uncle Ajax's honor and whatever is left of his dignity (admittedly not much). “We’re just asking you to be safe and responsible and for one of us to be there to make sure you’re alright. Doesn’t matter if it’s your first piercing or your tenth, we just want to be there for you in case something happens. Okay?”
Ugh, Morloch hates when they do this- the good cop, bad cop routine. Making Mom worry feels bad enough and it’s a feeling Morloch actively tries to avoid. That feeling is nothing compared to the intense shame that comes from disappointing Mamá though. She has a way of expressing her discontent just through eyebrow movements alone. Case and point, she once reduced Uncle Xavier to sobs by simply furrowing her brows. It's unnatural.
“Fiiiiiiiine,” Morloch relents with a sigh. It’s not worth fighting over and honestly, as embarrassing as it is to be fussed over, he knows they mean well and all. “But seriously, this time really was okay. You guys worry too much.”
“That’s what parents do, Crow." Mom reaches out and smooths back a strand of his hair, pushing it behind his ear with a wry smile. "Worry about their kids and all the silly things they do."
“You guys do realize I’m gonna be 17 this October,” Morloch points out, reluctantly accepting his Mom's fussing. “I think I’m old enough to worry about myself now.”
Mom opens her mouth and then closes it. A thoughtful look appears on her face. “You may have a point,” she admits and this time, Mamá turns to raise an incredulous eyebrow at her. “I mean, at that age, your Mamá was way worse. Larceny, grand theft auto, minor homicide, etc., etc.”
Mamá sniffs haughtily. “I resent that. The grand theft auto was Uncle Fester, not me.”
“See?” Morloch gestures to his Mamá as if to illustrate his point further, “One little piercing isn’t that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things.”
“We’ll see about that, cuervo” says Mamá, which means he’s off the hook for now. Score. “Either way, call either your Mom or me next time you decide to willingly embed a piece of metal into your ears. Or elsewhere, lord knows there’s hardly any real estate left where your ears should be. Sunday!” she exclaims abruptly, and Sunday starts a little, the smug smirk melting off her face. “A valiant attempt at misdirection and distraction while simultaneously throwing your brother under the bus. Well played, if a little heavy-handed in the approach, but we can work on that. Regardless, it’s your turn now to start providing answers. What happened exactly at school?”
Sunday glowers sullenly at becoming the center of attention once again. “Nothing, Mamá. Stress, overexertion, the horror of sentience, you know, the usual culprits that can lead to a dizzy spell. Plus, it was PE day. You know how strenuous PE day is.”
Which could be a smidge believable, if Sunday actually didn’t skip out on every PE class ever. She hates any sort of physical exertion and actively tries to avoid it as much as humanly possible. Point is, Sunday hasn’t exercised a day in her life, so whatever she’s trying to hide, she’s doing a terrible job at it.
Everyone else seems to have come to the same conclusion, judging by the dubious frown on Mom’s face and the unimpressed look on Mamá’s. Mom opens her mouth, probably to try to get Sunday to come clean, but Mamá speaks up before her.
“Let’s play a game,” she declares and like a bloodhound scenting fresh meat, Sunday instantly perks up. Ooooh, this should be good. Sunday might hate exercise, but if you can wrap it up in the guise of a game, then she’ll always join in. Especially if the game can end in a little bloodshed, but Morloch doubts that's the type of game Mamá has in mind. Probably. Maybe.
“It’s called two questions. I ask you a question, you ask me a question. The winner gets to make the loser do any task that is within their ability.”
That's not a game. That's not even anything at all. Wtf. Sunday, however, already has her game face on.
“Can anything we say be used against us in a court of law?”
“Absolutely, mi sol,” nods Mamá.
“I’m in.” Sunday sits up in bed, cracking her neck. “Fire away.”
“Ooooh, two questions!” Mom claps her hands excitedly. At Morlochs questioning glance, she elaborates, “Your Mamá and I used to play this all the time when we were dorming at Nevermore. Fun times!”
“First question,” says Mamá, completely ignoring Mom, “why did you collapse in school today, mi sol?”
Ahhh. So that's what type of game this is. Gottem. Sunday grimaces. For a second, she looks as though she might not answer and tap out, but then, she sets her lips into a hard, thin line. Now here’s the good ol’ Addams stubborn streak. Never one to back down from a challenge. Or to be the loser in a game without any actual losing conditions. Go figure.
“Susie Ellawit’s birthday was today and the teacher brought in a cake to celebrate. Everyone got a slice.”
Mamá clicks her tongue. “Ah,” she exclaims with vindication, a detective who's found the motive and cracked the case. “And here we have our culprit. Essence of vanilla.”
Mom starts in her seat. “You had vanilla?!” She looks like a cross between shocked and panicked. “Sunny, you know you’re allergic!”
“Susie said I could have a slice,” says Sunday and she almost sounds petulant. “It would be ill-mannered of me to refuse her generosity.”
Mamá snorts, crossing her arms. “The alternative being minor anaphylactic shock.”
“You said it yourself. It was minor.”
Mamá rolls her eyes back so far that only the whites are visible. “She gets that from you,” she says exasperatedly, addressing Mom.
Mom blinks at the accusation. “Me?”
“The inability to say no to a pretty face.”
Mom softens. “Awww, is that what this is?” She turns to Sunday, the stars in her eyes practically lighting the room up. “Did you just want to make little Susie happy? Does my baby girl have a little cruuuuuush?”
“No. Absolutely not.” Sunday says vehemently. It would probably sound even more genuine if her cheeks weren’t dashed with pink. “Do not read more into the situation than what is necessary.”
Mom relents, holding her hands up in surrender though her grin remains as cheerful as ever. “Okay, okay, consider it unread. Just… in the future, please be truthful with us. You still haven’t wolfed out yet, so these allergic reactions can get pretty dangerous if you aren’t careful. Thankfully, it was only one slice, but still…” She reaches out and smoothes back Sunday’s hair. “You scared the crap out of me when I got the phone call. And I bet you scared your Mamá too.”
“I never scare,” Mamá instantly counters. “Though a slight agitation, I will admit to.”
Both Morloch and Sunday blink in surprise. That’s… a lot for Mamá to admit to. Like... A LOT.
Sunday is the first to look away under their mother's combined attentive stares. "Sorry,” she mumbles, her hands bunching up a wad of her blanket. “It was stupid. I thought if it was a small bit, it wouldn’t be that big of a deal. I didn’t… I thought it would be okay.”
“Ooooh, now that’s a bargain I’ve tried making with myself more times than I can remember,” Mom says, though the bite is lessened by her reassuring laugh. She pulls in Sunday for a hug, resting her cheek on the top of Sunday’s blonde curls. “It’s okay, hon. We're just glad you're safe and that you learned your lesson. Just remember to be extra careful from now on. No more scary phone calls from the principal except for when he calls to tell me that you managed to infect the majority of the student body with a new, undiscovered viral strain.”
“One, Morloch’s the one who engineered the virus ( oh my god, can you stop snitching for one-! ), and two, I’ll keep that in mind.”
“That is not permission to re-infect the student body with said virus, mi sol,” Mamá interrupts, though it’s hard to disguise the look of pride in her eyes. “Bioterrorism aside, your health and safety should always be at the forefront, Sally Ellawit’s pretty face notwithstanding. So long as you know better in the future, then you are forgiven.”
“Promise to be safe from now on, Sunny?” says Mom, sticking out her pinky.
“And don’t worry about not having your slice of cake,” adds Morloch, because Sunday might be a little shit and a little tattletale but she’s their little shit and tattletale and no one can change that ever. “We can swap. You can have my chocolate cake and I’ll take your vanilla.”
Sunday is quiet for a moment, and then she links pinkies with Mom, who smiles happily in response. “Okay. No more vanilla cake ever. Promise.”
“Very good.” Mamá reaches out and pats Sunday’s head. Once. Wow, she must be feeling extremely emotional today. That's like, at least two public displays of affection today. And it's not even dinner time yet. “Now, I believe it is your turn for our game. Fire away, mi sol.”
At the mention of the game, Sunday perks up again. “Oh. Okay. Um…” she thinks, frowning thoughtfully. A sudden light comes into her eyes. “Oh. I know. Mi sol. Cuervo. Our nicknames. How did you come up with them?”
Mom suddenly lets out a noise that sounds suspiciously a lot like a laugh turned into a cough. Mamá gives her a long, thousand-yard stare, expression completely blank.
“It’s a habit I picked up from a mutt somewhere,” she says dryly, ignoring how Mamá stops coughing to let out an indignant ‘hey!’ “Not much of a story behind them, I’m afraid. They’re not exactly creative nicknames if you haven’t noticed. Mi sol for you, because your Mom thought she was being oh so clever and funny when we were picking out baby names.” She turns to Morloch. “Cuervo for you, because as soon as you learned how to speak, you never stopped and this house has not known a second of peace ever since.”
“Guilty and of guilt-free conscience.” Morloch holds up a palm and Mamá high-fives him back.
“What about Mom though?” Sunday chimes in. “Why is it mi sombra?”
“Oh, yeeeeeah!” Mom suddenly sits up, looking excited. “Why is that? I mean, I’m not against it or anything but shady isn’t something I’d ever think to describe myself as.”
“It was that or chucho,” Mamá deadpans and Mom smacks her lightly on the arm.
“You’re a liar, you are such a liar! Think of the children, how impressionable they are!”
Mamá glances over at them. Both Sunday and Morloch widen their eyes and stick out their bottom lips. On Sunday, the pouty look is perfect, on Morloch, well… the snake bite piercings probably aren’t doing him any favors but dammit, he’s trying.
Probably not hard enough, since Mom seems to pivot and change tracks. “Well, fine, keep your secrets. I guess that just means Sunday wins this round of two questions.” She lets out a long, exaggerated sigh. “Oh well. There goes that forty-four game win streak, but what can you do~?”
Mamá stares back at her. If looks could stab, Morloch’s pretty sure that their Mom would’ve been riddled into a large, human-sized piece of swiss cheese by now.
“Mi sol,” she says and Sunday starts at being suddenly called out. “Do you remember how miserable you were when you started your first day at Nevermore? I believe your exact words were ‘they will never take me alive, I will claw my way out with fang and nail if I must.’”
Sunday frowns a bit, before slowly nodding. “Ah. Yes. I remember.”
“So does the minivan,” says Mom, wrinkling her nose. “Which reminds me, I need to replace the back seats. I know you like the slash marks, Wednesday, but I don't care if they add character or whatever. I volunteered to pick up the Crawfords' kids from soccer practice last week and they would not stop crying when they saw the slash marks because they thought I was taking them to be eaten by a pack of hungry raptors like that one guy in the beginning of Jurassic Park. You know the one.”
“Point being,” interrupts Mamá with a pointed look, “you resigned yourself to an absolutely terrible time at Nevermore, no matter what your Mom and I said. Nothing would change your mind. If I asked how you felt about Nevermore now, what would be your answer?”
Sunday looks like she’s swallowed a lemon. “I would say more or less the same. Nevermore, and by extension, the outside world is still the miserable, blighted hellscape of a prison that I anticipated it would be.”
“But…?” Mamá prompts and Sunday glowers before looking down at her hands.
“But… I’ll admit, there are moments when the outside world could be considered… enjoyable,” she says in a low mutter. “Enjoyable only from a distance though. And from a nice, shaded place where it’s not too bright. And the sun isn’t in my eyes. Or there at all.”
“Lotta stipulations just to touch grass,” mutters Morloch. Sunday picks up a plush lion from her bedside and tosses it at his head, which he catches easily and tosses back. “I’m just saying!”
“Nobody asked,” says Sunday, primly placing Sir Floffers back in his proper place. “But, Mamá, what does all this have to do with Mom’s nickname.”
Mamá lips turn up in a small smile. Usually, her smiles come in flavors of wry or snide, but this one is different. It almost seems… genuine. Caring.
She comes around to the other side of the bed and places a hand on their Mom’s shoulder, a soft fondness in her eyes that Morloch rarely sees.
“Because if the outside world is a cloudless summer day with the sun blazing high above, then your Mom is the large, steadfast oak, standing tall and providing a small slice of peace and quiet in the shade of her branches.”
Ohhhhh, so that’s why Mom is mi sombra. Makes sense, once you think about it. Mamá may be the head of the family and the one who calls the big shots and decisions, but Mom is the glue that holds them all together. She’s the one who can get anyone to smile, even Mamá and she has enough love and heart for the whole family, with plenty to spare. She's what makes their family a family.
Mamá takes their Mom’s hand into her own. The small smile on her face grows ever so slightly larger.
“You said it yourself, Sunday. As much as you dislike the outside world, you do find aspects of it you can enjoy, so long as you can enjoy it from your corner of the world, safe and shaded. To me, your mother is that corner.
Oh boy. Morloch has to disguise his exasperated smile with a shake of his head. Mamá is getting into one of her moods that she insists isn’t romantic, but everyone else knows better. Whatever the mood is, it always makes Mom teary-eyed and she definitely looks like she's on the verge of a good ol' cry any second now.
“The world outside might be a blighted, miserable hellscape to you, Sunday, and there are days where I would agree with that sentiment. But still, despite all this…”
Mamá raises their entwined hands to her lips, placing a quiet kiss on the back of their Mom's hand.
“Despite all this, I find it comforting, knowing that there is still a place for me in the world, right by your side, mi sombra.”
Oh yeah. Mom is definitely crying now. Sunday looks like she might cry too because as much as she likes to think she’s cool, calm, and collected under fire, she’s a sucker for any story that involves how their parent’s got together.
“You’ll always have a place by my side,” Mom says, voice thick with tears that have yet to be shed, but it's the happy kind of tears, the ones that make your voice tremble and your face hurt from smiling so hard. “All of you.” She laughs, breathy and warbly and happy. “I love you all. So, so much.”
Okay, shit, now Morloch feels like he might start tearing up too. Pull it together man. He loudly clears his throat, feeling all sets of eyes turn on him at that moment.
“So, yeah, cool story, Mamá, really. But, uhhh, before we all start losing our collective heads, we should probably figure out who the winner of this little game is, yeah?”
At the magic ‘game’ word, both Sunday and Mamá blink, instantly slipping back into all business.
“I agree, thank you for the reminder, Morloch.” Mamá turns to Sunday, regarding her with all the respect of an opponent who’s met their equal. “I think it’s clear who the winner is. A loss is a loss. I concede.”
Sunday nods back, just as serious and just as respectful. “It was a close game. You played exceptionally well, Mamá.”
“The same to you, mi sol.”
“So, Sunny,” Mom brings Sunday into her side, giving her a cheerful shake, “Winners get one freebie, so what’ll it be? And before you ask, no you cannot ask for another viper/s, not until you’ve found Lucifer and Lilith. I can hear them slithering around in the pipes at night and it drives me and your Mamá crazy.”
Sunday pouts, but thinks it seriously over for a moment. A second later, she lights up. She holds out her arms to Mom and Mamá.
“Group hug.”
It’s not a request. Mom looks delighted. Mamá looks exasperated.
“Incorrigible,” she says dryly, though the fondness in her tone is clear as day. She sits on the opposite side of Sunday and brings her in close, placing a small kiss on the top of her head. “Just like your Mom.”
Sunday giggles and then looks pointedly at Morloch.
“You too. I’m the winner so what I say, goes.”
“I wasn’t even part of the game,” Morloch feels the need to point out, though his protests are half-hearted at best. He was going to join in, regardless if Sunday let him or not. He just has to find a way to make it look cool… or failing that, at least make it look like it was his idea to begin with.
“You get your butt right over here this instant young man and let your family smother you with affection,” says Mom.
Ah screw it, what the hell.
Morloch shrugs, backing up the length of the room to get a good running start. Might as well make it a family hug for the history books then. “Well, if you guys insist…” He bends his knees, calves tensing as he prepares for the best running-jump-skip-hop-leap-into-a-group-family-hug-ever. “Guess I have to go ahead and just do it.”
Sunday suddenly looks very tense. “Wait. Morloch, don’t you dare…”
“Too late, no take backsies.”
“Morloch!”
The rest of Sunday’s words are lost in her indignant shriek as Morloch bolts the remainder of the distance and jumps into the family hug with all the force of a hurricane. Mamá swears loudly, Mother’s surprised shout turns into a bright laugh and Sunday pounds furiously on his back, promising a fate worse than death if he doesn’t get off her right this instant.
Morloch grins. Mamá was right. This corner of the world isn’t so bad after all.