Author's Note: Look, I know, I know, I promised a chapter of the new story and that's clearly not what this is. But sometimes these little plot bunnies just run away with us for a minute, okay? The new chapter of the other story will hopefully be up shortly, but in the meantime, spend a little time with Charlotte and Mason...

It's not terribly common anymore for Charlotte to wake in the middle of the night, but in the weeks since Erica's death she's been unsettled. She either sleeps like a log, all night and nearly through her alarm in the morning, or she wakes every few hours and ends up groggy and irritable the next day.

Tonight, it's the latter.

She was dreaming - she can't remember what about, but she doesn't think it was anything too terrible, and she doesn't think it's why she's awake now. But she is awake - wide awake - and she tries to remember all the many ways her nanny and her momma used to try to get her to sleep when she was little. She's too big to be rocked, lullabies aren't quite the same when they're not in her nanny's rich, raspy voice and there's no one to sing her one anyway, and counting sheep is a waste of time.

She runs her fingertips along her forearm, short nails scratching lightly along thin, sensitive skin. It's soothing, but she can't trick herself, so with a heavy sigh, she eases herself quietly from her bed, and heads for the kitchen.

Maybe warm milk will help? Maybe she just needs to prowl around a little bit?

She's in the kitchen when she hears it, and she can't believe she didn't notice before.

Mason is crying.

It's not loud, but it's loud enough for her to hear, and as she heads through the far side of the kitchen and into the short hallway to his office-turned-bedroom, she notices his light is on. Not the overhead, just the low bedside lamp. He's awake, too - and more than that, he's up.

She discovers just how up he is when she peeks around the wall into his room. He's pulled the covers off his bed, and is working on tugging the sheets off, too, clad in nothing but his t-shirt and underpants. There's a faint smell of urine in the air, and she spies his pajama pants and the day's skivvies pooled on the floor by his dresser. Charlotte frowns.

"Mase?" she asks softly, and he spins, looking guilty. Caught. Miserable. "You okay?"

His face crumples, his chin quivering, fat tears welling in his eyes and spilling down his cheeks, and Charlotte's heart breaks for him. His face is scarlet, though she's not sure if it's from embarrassment or crying. Probably both. He shakes his head, standing there with his sheets clutched in his little fists. He's such a mature kid that these moments - the moments when he looks so young, and vulnerable, and in need of care - always startle her just a little. It's such a far cry from the joking, sassy kid who went to bed a few hours ago.

She goes to him, steps past him actually, and moves to sit on the bed so they can be closer to eye-to-eye when she talks to him. But he stops her, reaching for her as she starts to sit and saying, "Don't!" Charlotte freezes, mid-bend. Then, he looks down at his feet, his voice quiet and shameful when he tells her, "I peed again."

She settles on the edge of the bed, anyway - she knows it's dry. She saw the darker splotch of damp, blue fabric as she crossed the room, and it's firmly in the middle of the mattress. "That's okay," she tells him kindly. She doesn't want him to be more embarrassed about this than he already is. He's still sniffling and breathing all ragged, too overcome with whatever it is he's feeling to get himself under control.

She reaches out, eases the sheet from his clutched fingers and tells him, "Y'know... you don't have to clean this up yourself, sweetie. You can come wake your dad or me if this happens." He sucks in a shuddering breath, then lets it out in a little sob. He's killin' her here, breakin' her heart into a million tiny pieces. "Hey," she soothes, finding his hands and squeezing them lightly. "It's alright. Nothin' to cry over. We'll get it all cleaned up and have you tucked away and dreamin' again in no time."

He hitches another breath, and shakes his head vehemently. "I don't w-wanna go back to sleep," he tells her.

Charlotte lifts a hand to brush his hair back behind his ear, and asks him, "Why not? It's late. I bet you're awfully tired..."

He chews his bottom lip, chin still trembling, and his voice is watery when he admits, "I had a bad dream."

She nods slowly, tells him, "I see. A scary one or a sad one?"

"S-Super scary," he admits, and now the bed-wetting makes even more sense. "There was this guy, and his face w-was all scary and weird, and he was t-trying to get me."

She knows from scary dreams of being chased down, so she hums sympathetically, and gives him a knowing, "I've had that one, too. It's a doozy, huh?" She tugs him a little closer when the memory of his nightmare makes it look like the tears might kick up again, and as she loops her arms around him, she assures, "But he can't get you anymore. I've got ya, now, right?" She gives him a little squeeze and smiles.

He doesn't smile back, but he nods, and that's something, at least.

"C'mere," she urges, pulling him into a hug and rocking back and forth gently. He lays his head on her shoulder, leans into her, and she presses her smile into his shirt. "Okay," she murmurs, rubbing his back, his shoulders shaking beneath her palm. "You're okay."

And then his voice comes to her again, shaky and miserable: "Do we have to tell my dad?"

"No," she soothes. "No, of course not. But you know he wouldn't be mad if you did, right? You know he wouldn't be disappointed, or upset with you for wettin' the bed."

Mason nods, and manages, "I just don't want him to know."

"Okay," she assures him. "We won't tell him."

He's scared, and embarrassed, and out of sorts, and she just wants to make it all better for him as soon as she can. So she gives him a tight squeeze, then lets him go, easing him back as she says, "I'm gonna change the sheets. You need to get cleaned up?"

Mason shrugs a shoulder at her. It's not much of an answer.

"Mason. Use your words, please."

He sighs - he's doin' a lot of that tonight - then eyes her warily for a second with wet, red eyes. "Will it wake my dad up if I take a shower?"

Charlotte frowns, considers it. "It might," she says. "Why don't you just use a wash cloth, hmm? Little soap, little water, you're good as new."

He nods, and steps back, and Charlotte smiles at him, and stands. "You go on," she urges. "By the time you get back, the bed will be ready, alright?"

Another nod, another sniffle, and he sulks his way out of his bedroom, toward the bathroom. He's back before Charlotte has time to strip the last sheet away.

"W-what if I wake my dad?" he asks again, from his doorway.

"Mason, baby..."

He hitches a breath again, blinks out a few more tears, and looks at her helplessly. And suddenly the reason for his misery hits her like a sucker-punch. There's something in the way he looks at her that makes it painfully clear: he misses his momma so much he can't stand it. She should be here right now, soothing him, cleaning him up, taking care of things like she has since he was an itty-bitty baby. Instead, he has to settle for the replacement mom, has to let someone he's known for barely a year try to make him feel better, clean up after his mess, say all the right things - except she doesn't know what the right things are, and she knows she's not half the comfort his momma would be. He needs his mom right now, and Charlotte feels the acute need to step up her performance.

She presses her lips together, then relaxes them, and asks, "You want me to help? I can go get the cloth, clean ya up in here, your daddy will never be the wiser."

Mason nods, and looks at his feet again.

She squeezes his shoulder as she passes, and only goes as far as the kitchen. She grabs a clean dishtowel, and eases the faucet on to warm, figuring the kitchen tap is less likely to wake Cooper than the bathroom. She wets half the cloth, gives it a little squirt of soap and heads back to the bedroom.

Mason is right where she left him.

She crouches in front of him. "Pants off, please."

Mason frowns, looks at her. Hesitates. She doesn't blame him - as close as they are, they're not exactly to the strip-you-naked-and-handle-your-parts place.

"I don't have to do it, Mason," she assures him. "You can do it yourself while I change the sheets."

But he must decide he's more okay with it than not, because his pushes his underpants down wordlessly. Charlotte looks at a spot on his shirt, keeps his business in her peripheral as she wipes him down with the soapy corner of the towel. He's not looking at her.

"Hey," she urges, hoping if she can keep him distracted, he'll be less uncomfortable. He looks at her, and she meets his eyes and gives him a little smile. "I'm a doctor," she reminds. "In a hospital, no less. I clean people up all the time."

He relaxes a little, and nods. She glances at his shirt again, so she can see what her hand is doing just a little better, then says, "Your pajamas are startin' to get a little ratty. We should take you to buy some new ones." She looks him in the face again. "What do you think? Phineas and Ferb? Pokemon? Somethin' else you like?"

She flips the towel and uses the damp, unsoaped portion of the cloth to clean away the thin suds on his skin, as he answers, "Can I get ones that match my dad's?"

Charlotte grins. "Sure, you can." A thought occurs to her and she chuckles, saying, "Or maybe we can get him ones that match yours. I bet we can find Pokemon, or maybe Superman or somethin' like that for grown-ups. You can have matchin' superhero jammies. I bet he'd be game for that."

Mason nods, but doesn't smile back at her. "Yeah. That'd be okay."

She adjusts the towel, until she has the end the water never managed to soak into, making quick work of drying him off. He frowns, and sighs, and she announces him clean as a whistle, and tells him to go get fresh pants.

"These ones are clean," he scowls. "I put them on after I woke up."

"But you weren't clean yet," she points out. "So get another pair, please."

Mason lets out an exasperated sigh and trudges toward the dresser, and Charlotte's grateful she manages not to smirk until his back is to her. He's getting back to his usual exasperated-with-his-parents self. She considers it a good sign.

She pushes to her feet and finishes tugging the fitted sheet from the bed, balling it up and tossing it to join the others on the floor. She uses the towel she cleaned Mason with to wipe down the plastic sheet, then tosses it onto the dirty pile as well, before heading to the linen closet in the hall to get clean sheets. On her way back, she grabs the stain remover.

Mason is sitting on the end of the bed when she gets back, his expression dark and stormy. Charlotte sits next to him, the stack of sheets settling onto her lap. "What's up?"

For a second, he just scowls more deeply. Then, he grumbles, "I'm not a baby."

"I know you're not," she answers, brow knitting slightly with confusion. "I never said you were."

"No, I mean..." He sighs. "Babies wet the bed. I'm not a baby."

"Ah." She nods, slowly. "I see. Well. You had a scary dream. Even grown-ups get so scared they pee themselves sometimes. Doesn't mean you're a baby, just means you got good and well spooked."

"But I did it before, too..." he points out, and Charlotte nods her head.

"That's true. But you're havin' a hard time right now, dealin' with losin' your momma, and movin' in with me and your dad, and all that... Sometimes kids who're havin' a hard time wet the bed again." She lifts her fingers, brushes some of the hair out of his eyes, and tells him, "It doesn't mean you're not a big kid. And you don't need to be embarrassed, or hide it, okay? Not from me and your daddy."

He's still frowning, and he sighs his frustration again. "I just wish I wouldn't do it anymore."

"I know, sweetie." She slides her arm over his shoulder, squeezes him to her side for a second. "It'll get better. Everything you're feelin' lately... it'll get better. Or easier, or maybe you just get used to it, I don't know. I just know that this kind of pain... it isn't every day all the time for the rest of your life."

"You promise?" he asks her, giving her another one of those looks she just can't stand. All of this - everything he's being forced to go though - it's unfair. It's unthinkable that someone so young, and sweet, and innocent should have to suffer through the soul-ripping pain of losing a parent at all - much less the only parent he's ever known, with painfully little time to adjust to the reality, and after they'd been given so much hope on top of it. It's no wonder he's struggling, but, God, she just wishes she could take it all away from him for a few minutes. She'd more than happily pile it all on herself for a while, let him get some rest, know some peace. She's been in this hole before, she knows the way out. She's had years of NA to build up the tools to cope with these dark, desolate feelings. She can take it.

But she can't take this away from him; she knows that. All she can do is smile reassuringly at him, and tell him, "I promise. I know it does. I've been through it."

He nods, looks down at his hands again, and announces, "I'm tired."

"I bet," she murmurs, glancing at his alarm clock. "It's late. After two. Why don't we get these sheets on the bed, and then I'll tuck you in before I throw the others in the wash, alright?"

He hesitates, looks at her, then asks, "Charlotte...?"

"Yeah, sweetheart?"

"Can you sleep in here with me tonight? In case I dream about the scary guy again?"

She smiles warmly, runs a hand over his head, and tells him, "I can do ya one better than that. You can come sleep in bed with your dad and me again. That way, if you get scared, we'll both be there. How's that sound?"

He comes over all anxious again, and shakes his head. "No... No, I want to sleep in here."

"You sure?"

"What if I pee again?" he asks from under his lashes, and Charlotte gets it. Bad enough he peed the bed once, even worse he might do it again with her bunking down with him, but doing it in a bed where he could stain the mattress - the one they had to flip not too long ago the last time he wet the bed - that's just out of the question tonight. She wants him to settle in quickly, doesn't want him to worry or fret about anything - even something as trivial as a mattress cover, so she nods.

"Alright. We can sleep in here if you'd rather."

"I would," he tells her, and she leans in on impulse, and presses a kiss to his hair.

"Let's get your bed made," she urges, and together they spread his clean sheets out, tuck them into their corners and smooth them into place. She fishes through the pile of covers on the floor, hoping the quilt managed to make it through unscathed. It's on the bottom of the pile, but passes inspection. It seems most of the urine ended up on Mason and his sheets.

She spreads it out onto his bed and tells him to climb in, and then she gives the stained parts of the sheets a quick spray with the stain remover and scoops the whole pile up to carry it into the hallway. She nudges open the laundry closet, and piles all the sheets into the washer, starts the load, washes her hands again, and heads back to the bedroom.

Mason is dutifully tucked under the covers, and she crawls in with him, reaching to turn off the bedside lamp.

"Can you leave it on?" he asks her, and she cranks it down to its lowest setting without protest. There's enough light that he doesn't have to worry about the dark, but it's dim enough for her to sleep soundly.

"You need a cuddle?" she asks, and he nods, so she scoots in close, and lets him wriggle into place, until they're spooned snugly. She tugs the covers up to his shoulders, wraps one arm around his torso and presses a kiss to the back of his head. "How's that?"

"Good," he tells her, wiggling just a little, and then sighing and relaxing into her. She slides her hand until she finds his arm, then draws her fingertips lightly from elbow to wrist, and back again, slow and soothing, her nails scraping lightly over thin, delicate skin.

For a few minutes, all is silent, and Charlotte finds her eyelids growing heavy. Then, she hears Mason's voice, sleepy and small: "Charlotte?"

"Yeah?"

"I really, really miss my mom."

"I know, baby," she soothes, keeping up the lazy, steady strokes of her fingers against his arm. "It's okay to miss her. It's good, even. Missin' her just means you love her a lot, right?"

He nods, and lets out a heavy breath.

"You promise it gets better? Double, cross-your-heart, promise?"

"Yeah, Mason," she smiles. "I double, cross-my-heart promise that it won't always be this hard. And in the meantime, you have me."

"But not just in the meantime, right?"

"No, not just then. Always," she assures. "You have me always, Mason." She abandons his arm to tuck her own in against his torso, holding him snugly, and telling him, "Now, hush. Close your eyes, and get some rest, okay? I'll be right here."

He nods again, and settles, and before long they're both sleeping deeply.