A/N: Everyone say it with me, "this chapter is longer than originally anticipated." But anyway, here we are, a somewhat typical Saturday for the McAvoys. I know things may seem... somewhat random at the moment, but I promise everything will tie together in the end.

Also, the time lapse of Chapter One has been edited, due to the fact that I am abysmal at math.

CHAPTER THREE: TWO WEEKS AGO

Charlotte runs to him as fast as her small legs will carry her (Jupiter, as always, dutifully following a few steps behind his charge) wallops him in the knees as he steps through the front door and into the foyer, screaming a very high-pitched loop of Daddy, Daddy, Daddy! until he bends down to scoop her up into his arms.

"Hi," she peeps, hazel eyes blinking wide.

Lifting an amused brow, Will brushes a dark blonde curl out of her face. "Hello, sweetheart."

"Kiss-ey!" she cheerfully demands, throwing her short arms around his neck, her mouth landing somewhere near the corner of his. He manages to land his lips somewhere on her forehead as he tries not to step on the small black dog at his heels, carrying Charlotte into the living room in search of Mac.

"Where's Mum?"

"In the kitchen," Charlotte answers. "On the 'lelephone with Gramma."

When he left earlier in the morning for an affiliates meeting Charlotte was still in her pajamas, hair in two neatly plaited braids. Now, giving her a good looking over, he wonders what in the hell happened.

"What are you wearing?" Will asks cautiously.

The answer is black and white striped leggings, a bright pink polka-dotted skirt, and a green cable-knit sweater. He knows he's not exactly what one would describe as fashion conscious, he's interested in how exactly this outfit came to pass.

"When Gramma called Mummy said that I'm not going anywhere today and let me pick."

Will sighs.

It's one of those phone calls with Susan McHale—the hour long inquiries about Mac's health, the baby's health, if Mac has cut down on her hours, or hired someone to do the nursery, if she's hydrating enough.

Mac loves to say that she gets her nerve from her mother, but she also gets her neuroticism from her as well, and in the past month his grieving mother-in-law has transferred all of her energy and worries on her pregnant daughter, resulting in afternoon-eating phone calls and long winded emails that demand an immediate reply. And MacKenzie, of course, complies, and immediately afterwards feels guilty about the distance and her mother's age and how lonely she must be, her hand rubbing frantic circles over wherever on her abdomen their son is currently launching his assault.

"I take it Mummy's been on the phone with Grandma for a while?" he asks.

"I think she should hang up," Charlotte whispers conspiratorially. (If nothing else, he and Mac have learned that their daughter loves a good conspiracy. If you want her to listen, tell her a secret.) "And then we should watch Little Mermaid."

"I think it's time for your nap and time for Mum to go to Aunt Maggie's thing, but nice try."

Actually it's time for Mac to put down the phone for her own sake, decompress, and then go to Maggie's first dress fitting, but Charlotte doesn't need to know that.

Walking into the kitchen, he settles Charlie down at her play table in the corner before rounding to the marble-topped island that Mac is leaning on with her BlackBerry pressed to one ear, eyes closed. Faintly, he can hear Susan's voice through the speaker. At the sound of his approach, Mac opens her eyes and gives him a weak smile, leaning in when he kisses her cheek in greeting.

"Two minutes," he warns Charlotte, who's surreptitiously unpacking art supplies. Pouting, her shoulders fall, but she starts putting her markers back into their container all the same, instead sliding from her chair to the floor to play with Jupiter. Fixing himself of a cup of coffee (Mac still makes a full pot out of habit, even if she can only drink two cups a day now, so there's ten cups of coffee still hot on the heated coffeemaker) he listens Mac's attempts to say goodbye to her mother.

"Yeah, I've got to put Charlotte down for her… Of course we'll talk soo—yeah, provided there isn't a story that breaks early that'll be… I love you too, Mum. Kisses." Sighing, Mac ends the call and places her cell phone screen-down on the counter before turning around to face him. "How was the meeting?"

"Slow, petty, full of people I never want to see let alone be stuck at a table with for an hour—the usual," he answers over the top of the mug of coffee. He takes a sip and then sets it down, takes the two steps across the tiled kitchen floor to wrap his arms low around her waist. "How are you?"

Wrinkling her nose and shaking her head, she places her hands on his chest and leans up to kiss him gently on the lips. Her belly between them means she has to lean up onto her tiptoes to reach his mouth, and he slides his hands down to frame her hips, steadying her. They break apart laughing a moment later when the baby lands a kick squarely between them. Mac startles, rubbing the spot with the heel of her hand.

"Is he misbehaving again?" Charlie asks, having materialized at Mac's side, staring up at her.

"Does that mean you're going to be good for Mummy?" she asks, and Charlie's face falls once she realizes she's trapped herself into taking a nap without a fight.

And she does, and they turn on the intercom in Charlotte's third floor bedroom before descending back down to the living room in the first floor.

Wearily, Mac presses her hand into the small of her back, dragging her feet along the plush rug covering the living room floor before gingerly sitting down on one of the overstuffed couches. Tilting her head back against the cushions, she pouts at him in a way that clearly indicates that he wants her to join her.

"How's your mom?" he asks, sinking down next to her and wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

She sighs, rolling her neck from side-to-side before resting her head on his shoulder. "Still won't leave the house. Feels guilty that she won't leave the house and come here. I offered her one of the guest rooms again, whenever she's ready, told her to take her time." Pausing, she plucks a spec of glitter off her green draped shirt. "My cousin Hannie is going to come down and stay with her for a bit."

"That's good," he answers softly, setting to combing what of her hair he can reach back from her face. "How's your back?"

MacKenzie had stood in the shower for a good thirty minutes this morning, positioned with her lower back under the spray, her palms pressed to the tile while she hoped that the hot water would do something to alleviate her pain.

"Still sore, but Charlotte's let me sit down. This one, not so happy about me squishing him when I sit down, but—"

His hand slides from her head, down her neck and shoulders, and to her belly. She's carrying bigger than she did with Charlotte, which they've been told is to be expected with a second baby. But in the years since Charlotte was born he knows that the adhesions that have been forming since the stabbing have been bothering her more, and they haven't been exactly slowing down their ten-to-twelve hour workdays, and the stress from grieving her father and helping Maggie and Jim with the wedding and then the general stress of chasing after a four year old and growing a person—

"You don't make small children," she teases, taking his hand and pressing it into her side. A second later the baby pushes back.

"Charlotte wasn't that big," he protests gamely.

(Their daughter is that big. She's habitually been in the 98th and 99th percentiles in all her benchmarks.

It's an odd source of pride for him.)

"She was three weeks early!" Mac says with a laugh, moving his hand to a different spot. "And look at her now! She's already outgrowing her car seat, she's sure to tower over me by the time she's like, thirteen."

Another kick. Or punch. Or possibly a knee or elbow. Last night the baby got the hiccups which made it easy to figure out where his head was, but god knows which way is up right now.

"Hardly. You're five foot eight, crazy lady. It isn't all from me," he retorts,

The baby's definitely awake now.

"No, but I get to blame it on you."

There's a moment where they both recognize that the conversation could continue, down rhetorical roads they've followed before—comfortable, fun, affectionate. But instead they fall into an equally comfortable silence, during which he continues instigating their son.

(Andrew, Edward, Thomas, Duncan, Alexander, Samuel, Josiah. Just like with Charlotte they're quibbling over names, but they eventually did find a name, two weeks before she was born. Mac had been absolutely miserable, on bed rest with high blood pressure, when they'd finally settled on naming her after Charlie. This kid, he thinks, will be less straightforward to name.

He's an advocate of Edward, for Mac's dad. For some reason she wants to name their son after him, wants another Billy running around, but he…

For whatever reason, the notion makes him uncomfortable.)

Eventually, though, Mac checks her watch and sighs.

"I have to get going. Maggie's appointment is at one o'clock, and she's been panicking that even though she found something with a higher waist that she'll be showing too much to fit into it the day of the wedding."

"She is fairly… petite," he cautiously says. Not that Jim is particularly tall either, but Maggie is exceptionally short. With both of Mac's pregnancies they'd been able to conceal the state of things until she was thirteen or fourteen weeks along, but at ten weeks Maggie already has a discernible bump.

Mac's face twists into an expression of plain exasperation.

"I know, I know." He waves a hand in front of him. "Supportive face."

From the moment it became apparent that Mr. and Mrs. Jordan had no desire to approve of her relationship to Jim or the final proof that Maggie would forever be tied to Manhattan and her career (Maggie's parents had hoped, Will thinks, that she would fail to get a foothold in journalism or a social circle, use up all her savings, and move back to Kansas where they could suitably manage her life) he and Mac had sworn that they, at least, would be there for her as much as humanly possible.

After all, Maggie's loyalty to them and to the show has been unflinching.

So what if the thing that's finally getting Jim and Maggie down the aisle (after what looked like would become an endless engagement) is a baby? All children come into this world half-improvised and half-compromised, even in good circumstances. And this baby is very much wanted.

Despite his childhood (he almost laughs drolly at how stupidly optimistic he's remained) Will could never fathom a baby being unloved. Before he gets the chance to try to fathom it (which would undoubtedly send him back to Habib's office) MacKenzie says something that pulls him from his thoughts.

"She's going to ask you to walk her down the aisle," she says briskly, using her palms to sweep the wrinkles from her skirt. "So don't be an ass and question her, just say of course quickly followed by thank you and—"

"Wait—"

Mac stands, and he follows her up to help her stay on her feet.

"Well, her parents aren't showing up to the wedding," she continues, staring at him like he should have already come to this conclusion, like he's somehow naturally the apparent successor to escort Maggie to the altar. "I don't think… anyone from her family is actually coming… so I mean I'm already doing all of the mother of the bride things. At least you're actually old enough to be her father."

"Thanks," he deadpans.

But his wife is off and spinning, bracing one hand on her back and the other on the round of her stomach while looking about the living room for her scattered things. "Well, she's been working for you for eight years now and you've gotten her through more things than her actual father has ever cared to do. And I'm standing up for Jim as his Best Matron or whatever we've decided to call me, so—but Maggie is going to ask you, probably today."

"Why doesn't she just walk herself down the aisle?" he asks, locating her purse for her and handing it into her custody. Mac balks, stepping into her flats, and he feels himself respond equally. "What? She's thirty, and she's not an object to be handed over from one man to another part and parcel—"

"You actually don't have a clue, do you?" she scoffs, and then reconsiders. "Then again, we did get married at City Hall… "

"What?"

He has no idea where Mac is going with any of this, or if the last bit was a reference to how Charlotte has begun complaining about the fact that they got married at City Hall with no planning on their lunch break two days after the Dantana suit was dismissed. He's of half a mind to tell Charlotte that if he and Mummy had waited to plan a wedding then she probably wouldn't exist at all, but four is far too early for the resulting explanation of reproduction or failed birth control or the potential existential crisis.

"I—okay, I really need to go." Sighing, Mac brushes her lips against his before looking at her BlackBerry and heading for the front door. "I love you."

"Love you too," he calls out after her.

A few seconds later he hears the front door open and close, and absent the quiet noises of Jupiter snoring over the monitor from Charlotte's room, the house is silent.

Not for long, of course.

Will attempts a nap on the sofa, but in the natural course of things the moment he drifts off to sleep he's awoken by the distinct sensation of a little girl gracelessly climbing on top of him.

"Daddy?"

Exhaling lopsidedly (as one does when a small child is seated on your diaphragm) he cracks open an eye.

"Are you hungry?"

"Nope."

Charlotte violently shakes her head, honey blonde curls flurrying around her face, and she plants her tiny hands on his chest.

"Are you thirsty?"

"Nope."

"Do you need anything?"

"Nope," she answers solemnly, and he finally allows himself a chuckle, wrapping his arms around her small body and pulling her down to lie atop his chest. "Daddy!" she squeals, kicking her legs out, squirming within his hold.

"Daddy's tired," he says, ducking his chin to kiss the top of her head. "Someone decided they wanted to get up at five o'clock this morning. You have any idea who that could be?"

"Sorry," Charlotte chirps, immediately settling.

"You wanna watch something, lovebug?" he asks, already reaching for the remote, finding it on the cluttered coffee table. He knows Mac meant to tidy up this morning while he was out of the house, but between her mother and Charlie, he suppose she never had a shot in hell in getting it done.

Not that he particularly minds.

The buttercup yellow (or however Mac described the paint color to the decorator they'd hired when they bought the townhouse a year ago) living room is, even in this state of disarray, fairly clean and organized. And disregarding anything else, his favorite piece in the living room—the deep suede overstuffed couch that they basically lived on during Charlotte's first few weeks of life—has not been reduced to an extension of the library or laundry room, which is all that truly matters.

"I already watched two things today," she replies, in reference to their somewhat-strict sixty minute policy regarding Charlotte's television consumption.

"You can watch another thing if you promise not to tell Mummy," he tells her, because it's a rainy Saturday, and what could it hurt. Besides, if she was subdued enough to let Mac sit down for any length of time this morning then Charlie is feeling her early wake up time, although probably not as much as he is. "You can watch two more things if it's not Mickey Mouse."

Will could happily go to his grave if he never heard the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse title song ever again.

"What about Scooby Doo?" she eagerly asks, propping herself up onto her forearms, her feet kicking against his knees.

"Acceptable."

And so Scooby Doo it is. The original series that he grew up with, which he thinks they have pretty much episode recorded on the DVR. Not that the newest series is inherently trash (not that he's… watched it while paying an inordinate amount of attention to it), but Charlotte, for whatever reason, prefers the grainy seventies aesthetic and shoddy animation of the first incarnation.

He tucks her blanket around her after she finishes making herself comfortable, her head fitted snugly under his chin by the time the opening strains of Scooby Doo, Where Are You? begin to play.

"Are we still going to do this when the baby comes?" she asks during the first commercial break, almost fearful.

Stroking her hair, he cranes his head to get a good look at her face, the tight, nervous lines that resemble Mac. "Why wouldn't we?" he gently responds.

(But still, the niggling doubt has been placed in his mind. He and Mac have worried about balancing a newborn with an almost-five-year-old.

And with his brain dredging up the memories of his childhood, the tumult and the uncertainty… he remembers, most of all, the lack of commitment that was given to anything outside his dad's fidelity to Jack Daniels. Broken water heater, no money for gas, no money to repair the car, or the roof. An electricity bill gone unpaid, or a pair of rabbit ears for the television that were too old, picked up too few stations on a TV set that would have a fist through it when the Cowboys beat the Broncos in Super Bowl XII.

But there was always enough money for Dad to drink.

Charlotte will have her cartoons, and she will have him.)

She shrugs, tightening her short arms around his neck. "You said babies need lots of taking care of. I don't need as much, 'cause I'm big."

"We'll still do this," he assures her, kissing the top of her head again, hoping that this is the sort of problem that can be smoothed away with a kiss. "You're my best girl, remember?"

"I'm your only girl.

He laughs shortly. "Don't tell Mum that."

"Mummy's not a girl, she's a woman," she explains indignantly.

"Good point," he concedes.

He expects her to continue voicing her concerns, but instead she falls quiet again, moving her thumb to her mouth. Firmly removing it from between her lips he meets her scrunched-up look of displeasure with another kiss atop her hair.

But Charlotte doesn't question him. She's secure. That's the word that Habib used, back when she was first born and he was still going to therapy every week.

Charlotte feels secure.

It's a good thing, he reminds himself, rubbing circles into her back as they continue watching.

For Mystery Incorporated it's business as usual—the van has broken down, the mansion has a monster problem, Fred and Velma are finding clues, Daphne's in danger, when Charlotte lifts her head off his chest and, squinting, asks:

"Are they investi—investigative journalists?"

Thanks for reading!