clumsy_auror | (no subject)

(no subject)

Distractions are a positive thing.

Books are somewhat helpful, but her attention keeps wandering; the television or music are even less effective. Doing something with her hands is a definite improvement, so Nymphadora's sitting on the couch with a scrap of fabric, a spool of thread, a needle, and her wand in her hand. She's practicing the sewing spells Molly taught her.

As a concession to Bernard's nerves, there's a blanket tucked around her legs, and a cup of tea on the table in front of her.

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There are also cookies on the way.

And a cake.

And a pumpkin pie.

Sublimating? Bernard? Never.

"...You said you like oatmeal, right?"

Her brow furrows, and she cranes her neck to look at the clock. "Oatmeal at two in the afternoon?"

"...No, in the cookie."

Duh.

He's got a bowl in hand, already mixing.

"Oh. Yeah, sure. Cheers."

There's a tiny half-smile on her face as she turns back to the swatch of fabric in her lap.

"Okay," he replies, biting his lip and shuffling back to the kitchen for a few minutes.

'Dora sits quietly, practicing the same stitching spell over and over again. No thinking. No dwelling on the previous day.

It's comforting, the repetition involved in spooning the cookies onto the sheet, popping the sheet into the oven, readying the second sheet, flipping through the Betty Crocker Cooky Book to see what else to make, what else to fill the next hour.

There are two batches already in tupperware containers in the cupboard.

She knows exactly what he's doing. He's never been all that opaque, when he doesn't know how to deal with something. Usually Nymphadora's right there to poke at him until he spills, until he tells her what's wrong so they can suss it out together.

Today, she's not all that interesting in poking.

Tom knocks as he opens the door. It's been a couple of hours since he got 'Dora's owl asking him to drop by, but he came as soon as could.

"Hullo there, you. What's-" He takes in the blanket and the tea. "-up? Are you not well?"

Worried frown creasing his brow, he sits down on the couch beside her.

Sometimes poking isn't the right tactic anyway.

After a few minutes, he comes back out and perches on the end of the couch.

"Need any more tea?"

A shake of her head, and a brief smile and glance up at Bernard. "No, thanks love."

"Okay."

But he doesn't go anywhere.

A somewhat mirthless laugh. "Been better. But I'm fine, honestly." Nymphadora rubs her nose, and takes a sip of tea before continuing. "I, uh. I was in hospital yesterday. Had a miscarriage."

Nymphadora says nothing. It feels like a staring contest between her and the little pattern of bunnies on the fabric she's holding.

Demon bunnies, one hopes.

Bernard chews his lip practically to shreds, then scoots closer, lifting her feet onto his lap, grasping one ankle.

"What?"

Panic flutters in his throat. He has absolutely no idea what to say or what to do. How does one respond? Condolences? Is she in pain? Should he even be sitting here beside her? What if he jostles her?

He should have brought her flowers.

After an awkward moment, he reaches for her hand. "Temple and arch, I'm sorry. Are you alright? I mean, I know that's a bloody stupid question..."

That provokes a minute smile. She settles herself more comfortably against the arm of the sofa and sighs.

'Dora holds out her free hand quellingly, and squeezes the one holding hers. "I promise, I'm going to be all right. Really, I'm fine now. I wasn't-- I didn't even know I was pregnant. It was very early days."

As always with her, his hands have a mind of their own, and he's soon massaging the balls of her feet slowly. It gives him something to do.

"What do you think you'd like for dinner?"

"Considering how many baked goods you've plied me with today," 'Dora murmurs, arching an eyebrow, "it'll be a miracle if I'm hungry for it at all."

He nods, his brain grasping for the right words to say.

"But still. Your Healer's keeping a close eye on you, yes?"

He rolls his eyes, one hands smoothing up her shin and back. "I hope you're not telling me to stop baking."

He needs to bake.

"Yeah, of course." Taking a deep breath, she struggles to put it in terms that'll put Tom at ease. "It's really just like -- like a very heavy period. Er, time of the month," she amends, in deference to Tom's 1954 sensibilities.

"No, not at all. Just don't expect me to eat all of it."

Only it's not, he thinks, not really.

"Can I get you anything?"

And then with a wry, barely-there smile, he adds, "You can call it by its proper name. I have had some experience with, er, periods."

Then his cheeks spot with color, because while others may call it period all they want, he'll forever think of it as 'time of the month'.

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