Inspired by this tumblr post: post/50666446709/if-mary-gives-george-her-lucky-ch arm-dog-that
It was nothing more than a cold, Doctor Clarkson had assured her, and his tone had begun to get a bit strained by his last (and fifth) visit. Even Carson has tried to (subtly, of course) convince her to come downstairs.
But Mary doesn't want to leave her son's side, not for a moment. Her father had tutted when she ordered for George's crib to be moved into her room, reminding her that the boy was bound to keep her up at night. She had only to fix him with one very level look, however, and that was the end of that.
George does keep her up, but not with cries. He seems determined to keep those at bay until he well and truly can't take it anymore. (Mary's not sure if he got that from her or the both of them.) But it is starting to head into the second week of the horrible, wheezing coughs that rack the whole of his little body and the sniffles of his clogged up nose. At least the fever disappeared within the first week.
There has been a pillow propped underneath George so he can breathe properly, but, more often then not, he winds up propped up against his mother's shoulder while she leans back against the headboard of her bed. It's one of the few ways either of them manage to sleep, at least for a time.
Still, now Mary is standing over the crib, fiddling with the object in her hands while her son whimpers. She knows it's silly, had thought it was the first time she used it too. But it had worked then, so why shouldn't it work now?
George eyes the small stuffed dog she lowers into his crib with curious eyes, reaching out a hesitant hand towards it.
"It use to belong to your father," Mary says, her voice soft, "or, well, I suppose it belonged to both of us in the end. I gave it to him before he went off to war as a good luck charm. And it did work, really. He came back to us all."
She leaves out the period of horrible waiting over the state of Matthew's legs because this is supposed to be a happy story, or at least as happy as any story about her late husband can be now.
George's fingers have curled around one of the dog's legs now, dragging it in towards him. Mary reaches down to run a finger across the soft, downy curls on his delicate head. "And I want it to give you luck too, Georgie. I want you to get better."
George's mouth becomes a familiar moue of determination at that, as though he can understand just what his mother is saying and is determined to do her proud. His eyes begin to droop not long after and, for the first time in awhile, George manages to drop off all on his own.
It takes a little longer for Mary to fall asleep, but, once she awakens the next day, she realizes that she's slept in for the first time in a full week. She darts out of bed to rush to the cradle, a laugh breaking free from her when she sees what's there to greet her.
George is awake gurgling up at her while he waves his newfound toy in the air. He keeps holding it the whole time Anna helps his mother into a proper dress and even when he's crooked into his mother's arm while she goes to breakfast.
It started out as Mary's, then Matthew's, and, finally, simply theirs. So, in a way, it is a gift from both of them to their son.