(no subject)

She's standing in front of the mantle clock.

Eleven fifty-eight.

"Honey?" Bernard's voice drifts out from the kitchen. "Want a last cup of tea before bed?"

"No thanks," 'Dora replies, eyes still fixed on the clock.

After all, if you think you're going into labour, you're not supposed to eat or drink anything, right?

Right.

Eleven fifty-nine.

"Okay, well I'm gonna go--" Bernard pauses in the kitchen doorway, brow furrowed. "What're you doing?"

She holds up a finger as the seconds tick over.

The Barman comes to stand beside his wife. "What're we looking at?" he whispers in her ear.

"Clock," is her short reply.

"Ohhhh." A pause. "Why?"

...aaaaaaand midnight.

Nymphadora immediately looks at her belly.

Nothing.

Not even a kick. He's bloody well asleep.

"Don't you know," she says testily to her slumbering son, "that it is January ninth? You are meant to be coming out. Out. Let's get a move on."

Then with a frustrated curse, she stalks down the hall, leaving an extremely bemused husband in her wake.

Bernard stands there for a moment, scrubbing a hand over his tired face, and then follows.

It's a good thing she's cute.