Author's note: I'm really sorry this chapter took so long to post! But my sister insists that it's much better--and her word is pretty much law as dictated by her to me. I hope you guys are still interested. Enjoy! :)

Light played on my eyelids, announcing the appearance of the sun with all the excitement of a small child. It was morning, after one more in a series of nights spent drifting in and out of shallow, dreamless sleep.

Munkustrap had only woken once, near midnight, coughing and whining unhappily. A little menthol applied to his chest and throat calmed the worst of the coughing, enough to allow him to fall asleep. His tendency to become ill easily had prompted me to keep a small stock of common medicinal herbs, though Mother's reputation as a healer had also influenced the decision. Mercifully, he had slept through the remainder of the night.

Stifling a groan, I pressed my face into the bedding, as much as to avoid elaborating on any thoughts concerning yesterday's events as in discomfort. The mildly unpleasant smell of damp sheets made me wrinkle my nose. At least the chill of the previous night had abated, if not the throbbing headache at my temples. I swallowed, hard, finding that the catnip had left my throat parched and a sour taste in my mouth. Even my tongue had a cottony texture.

A tiny paw came to rest on my cheek, carefully brushing my mane away from my face. The long stands tickled the nape of my neck, and I hid a small grin in the musty pillow. I felt the bed shift and creak under Munkustrap's slim frame, further proof of its sorry state.

Something that felt like an index finger prodded me in the ribs. Speaking of small children…

"Ma-caaaa-vity," Munkustrap called in a cheerful, sing-song voice. The pitch was higher than was perhaps normal, and less clear from the nasty cold I was sure he had caught. "It's morning now. You can get up!"

It amused me to no end to hear him put his stamp of approval on something that, the longer I lay awake, I was wanting less and less. Feigning sleep seemed an excellent course of action.

More blunt trauma to my side. "You're not fooling me, Mac. I know you're awake. You are!"

"Am not."

"Are too! You just proved it!"

I let out a low, rumbling growl of warning—only to have it met with a giggle. I could imagine the impish look of glee on his face, the brat.

Another tentative finger ventured forth, just to be sure.

"For the love of the Everlasting Cat, Munkustrap," I cried, laughing at his antics despite my resolve, "if you don't want to lose that finger, knock it off!"

"But I'm hungry," he said as I turned over to face him, leaning on an elbow. Casting wide, and utterly adorable, blue eyes in my direction, he nestled into the crook of my arm. "I love you…" he wheedled.

I snorted. "As if I believe that."

"Well, how can I love you if you won't even feed me in the morning, Mac?"

"Mmm… I'm terribly cruel, I know," I teased, pressing a light kiss to his cheek. "Come on, Kitten, just cuddle with me for five more minutes."

There was a decided pout to his tone as well as his lips, thrust out almost comically. "And then you'll feed me?"

Nuzzling his cheek, I made a quiet noise of confirmation.

"Fine," he said with an exaggerated heaviness, as if I had just assigned him to some unbearable task. But it was a playful resignation, judging from the way he seemed perfectly content to curl up with his head tucked beneath my chin. "Making me cuddle with you… mean, mean, mean extortionist."

"Extortionist? How—"

"Shhh," Munkustrap whispered, holding a finger to my lips. "We're supposed to be cuddling, Mac. Get it right!"

Not more than two hours later, having eaten and grudgingly taken a few sips of honey and catnip steeped in hot water, Munkustrap was sleeping once again. I gently rubbed the rest of the menthol ointment over his throat and chest after dabbing a bit under his nose—he sneezed before rolling onto his stomach. His mouth was hanging open slightly, but he appeared to be breathing easier now. Coughing had cleared a good deal of the congestion in his lungs.

A rustling came from off to my left as the curtain covering the entrance to my den was drawn aside. The crisp smell of autumn leaves, tinged with an early frost, blew in with the draft. My father waited politely on the threshold, offering a genuine, if tight, smile.

"May I come in?"

"Please," I said.

It was rare that he came to see me of his own accord, but when he did he was a bearer of bad news; accidents, security concerns, unresolved issues requiring father-son time. Deaths. Today would be no different in lieu of the circumstances. I found myself almost glad to see him all the same.

Much to my surprise, he wrapped his arms around me. After a moment's hesitation, I returned the embrace, admittedly savoring the ever-familiar scent of wood smoke, heady and comforting. We parted with some self-consciousness, though a broad paw remained on my shoulder. It had been years since he had showed me such affection.

"I would invite you to sit down, but as you can see, a certain someone has already staked out the bed."

He smiled. "Indeed… are you well, Macavity?"

Munkustrap sneezed loudly in the foreground. I watched him for a moment before responding. He rubbed at his raw nose with the back of a paw, but did not seem to have woken.

"As well as can be expected," I said. He bowed his head. "And you? Father," I amended, belatedly.

Our relationship had long been marked by a certain frosty formality, something which had always irritated me. But I said nothing to divert the conversation elsewhere as we exchanged pleasantries and made small talk. Very small talk. I dug my claws into my palms—an old habit.

Discussion inevitably turned to my youngest sibling. I had vaguely entertained the notion that I would be punished not for bringing Munkustrap back to the den he shared with the Rum Tum Tugger, our other brother, but Father seemed in the mood to be lenient with me this morning. Exhaustion doubtless made the prospect of chastising me less attractive.

Father gestured to the sleeping kitten. "How is he? Not too ill, I trust."

As if on cue, Munkustrap twitched a black-mottled ear.

"A cold, with some minor chest congestion from the rain," I admitted. "He let me doctor him with a few sips of catnip-tea, although I had to add a teaspoon of honey for taste," I said wryly. "It will be good for his cough anyway."

I wasn't anticipating his incredulous hiss of a whisper. "You gave Munkustrap catnip? He's only a kitten, Macavity!"

A claw broke through the soft pad of my palm. I kept my exasperation in check only with great effort. "Catnip can be a useful decongestant and sleep aid in small quantities," I said, sounding patronizing in spite of myself. "It should keep off fever as well. Mother used it frequently when dealing with chest colds and pneumonia."

With a distinct air of anxiety, Father cleared his throat. "Do you know how Munkustrap is coping?"

There were too many unpleasant avenues which the conversation could take. I gave him the condensed version with an appropriately glossed description of Munkustrap's grief. Some part of me wanted to guard it—even from our father. It was a private sorrow for us alone.

I crossed my arms over my chest. "That's the long and the short of it. This morning, he was perfectly cheerful, perfectly normal. Munkustrap doesn't seem especially eager to talk about her yet."

"Surely you don't expect him…?" Father trailed off, puzzled.

"I expect him to talk to me when he's ready, not before them. I won't push him to talk where he's uncomfortable."

It wasn't meant to be a callous remark, nor one signaling my avoidance of the subject. But I was at a loss to explain my thinking coherently. There was no need to wait for a reaction from my father to pass my own judgement on what he would think, though his next words certainly affirmed it.

"Have you," Father pursed his lips, as if searching for a word difficult to find, "comforted him, Macavity?"

Not a difficult word, comfort. It was the most neutral term for which he had been searching. I knew full well what was meant by his question.

"We've had this conversation before, and my answer has not changed."

"I don't understand your aversion—"

"I won't fill his head with empty sentiments!" I snapped.

Father's previously warm demeanor was cooling rapidly. "It would be a comfort to him if he knew—"

A hiss of anger. "If he knew? You speak in absolutes, in certainty, but how have you any certainty about death?" I had heard this spiel before—we all had—and its application to my mother was more than I could stomach. "Where is she, Father? In your heaven, your paradise?"

Sharply, he admonished, "Do not mock me, Macavity, and do not insult the memory of your mother. She has returned to God, as we all return."

"She would have much preferred to have stayed with her children," I bit out between clenched teeth. "What need does your God have of my mother?"

The conversation had diverged drastically from its original focus, as it so often did. We never could help but dredge up old tensions. Like salt on fresh wounds. It was a reminder of why we avoided one another if we could help it, when even this mutual loss could not clear the air between us.

"I know we have never seen eye to eye," he said, jaw a hard set, "on matters of faith, but Munkustrap is only a child. He needs some reassurance, Macavity—be sensible!"

His remark silenced me, as it was meant. I could not deny his words—I wanted to reassure Munkustrap, every bit as much as he did. I wanted to be a comfort to him. But above all, I wanted to keep him from pain.

I missed her already. I missed the sound of her voice, her wit, watching her read by candlelight, the sound of her laugh that I would never again hear, and every other quality uniquely her own. These were the things I wanted to be reminded of, all the things I had loved about her.

Father always could see right through me. I felt him touch my shoulder. He spoke softly. "We can't always shield and protect the ones we love, Macavity."

I brushed a curl from Munkustrap's face, serene in the refuge of slumber. "I know."

"A little too well, perhaps," he agreed, smiling sadly. "I know how much you care for him, Macavity, and he needs that love now more than ever. Love him, and be there for him, but know that there are some things he must face alone."

Author's note II: I make Macavity so terribly devoted to Munkustrap, I know. I can't resist making them do cute things together. This story? Completely an excuse to write fluffy fluff between Macavity and Munkustrap. You know he secretly has a heart and that he's the world's sweetest older brother.

For now. evil laugh

I'm not sure when the next update will be, but I won't abandon this story!