(no subject)

Work was difficult.

Where last night she'd been able to bury herself in work, today she couldn't concentrate.

(For all that you flaunt yourself as such a decent person, what happened to the common fucking courtesy of at least telling me?)

There were blotches of ink all over the parchment. Her fingers were unsteady.

She was tired, Nymphadora told herself. And it was true; she'd hardly slept last night, and when she had, it wasn't restful.

(You'd think that if you felt you were ready for the responsibility of a child, 'Dora, you'd have taken on the responsibility of being honest about it right off the bat.)

Around two thirty, she accidentally looked at the family picture on her desk, and flinched.

It still wasn't okay. She knew it. He was still upset. Mad. Furious.

With her.

And nothing she had said made any difference.

(Well, while you were busy procrastinating, Charlie was having his heart broken by a disinterested third party, and I had to deal with the fallout!)

Nymphadora crumpled up another piece of parchment, giving it up as a bad job, and buried her face in her hands.

She meant well. She did. She loved these people. They were her whole world. If they thought less of her, or if they'd been hurt by things she had to tell them--


But they were hurting anyway.


Because of her.

(Act like you're my partner and not my fucking handler.)

All she wanted was for him to tell her it was okay, that they were okay, that he'd love her no matter what sort of stupid things she did. Because she knew he would, deep down, but last night his eyes had been so cold and he was so far away, and--

(I can't just let it go)

--and she was in the women's loo again, shut up in the last stall, crying silently.

It was her fault.

Hers.

Hers.

(no subject)

[From here.]

Cloak goes behind the door. Book on the coffee table. Down the hall to check on Sunny.

One can always fall back on routine.