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 is a pause, then Bernard lifts his head. He's grinning.

"Why would I want to hibernate? I'd miss you being mushy at me."

Her eyes crinkle just a bit as she smiles, wider than she has at any point in the last twenty-four hours or so.

"All right, then."

"All right, then," he echoes, leaning up to press his mouth to hers. He hasn't kissed her since yesterday; not by design, but because, for one reason or another, it just didn't seem like the right time.

Distance can be good. Or, rather, it can be very necessary.

It's a brief, closed-mouth kiss, and 'Dora's eyes only shutter closed for a second. The smile fades by the time Bernard pulls back, because a flash of something -- guilt? -- jolts her.

Bernard's brow furrows.

"What?"

Maybe even this wasn't the right time.

But 'Dora shakes her head, and smiles wanly at him. "Nothing. Just feel all off-kilter."

He nods, shifting up so that they're a little closer. "Yeah. Kind of to be expected."

"Guess so."

She moves over a bit to make room. Takes a breath.

"Healer Durkin says this happens a lot. More than people would expect."

"As the day I was hatched."

He says brightly.

"Can I come in? Or should I continue to display with mucho gusto the fact that I was raised in a sewer?"

"'Course you can come in. How've you been?" She beckons him over to the couch.

His head's on her shoulder, now, and he fiddles with the ends of her hair as it spills over her shoulders. "Makes sense, I guess."

Nymphadora lets the breath out and leans her head against his, feeling a bit at a loss.

Mike wiggles his non-existent eyebrows at her.

"Ooooh, the come hither. Never could turn down a come hither."

He enters the room properly, even going so far as to wipe his feet as he does so. Tonks should be warned, Mike's carrying a rather large picnic basket.

Eyeing the picnic basket, she pats the cushion beside hers. "No, I don't expect you could turn such a thing down."

Bernard's eyes close, and he turns his face into her shoulder, breathing her in, tamping down the manic urge to do, to fix.

Then the kitchen timer goes off. "Shit. Be right back." He climbs over her and stumbles off to the kitchen.

Once he leaves, she straightens the blanket and curls onto her side, gazing into the fireplace.

"What can I say? Slave to my passions."

The basket goes on the coffee table, the turtle goes on the couch. A place for everything, and everything's in its place.

Oatmeal chocolate chip cookies are the best cookies ever conceived. This is a universal truth.

Bernard puts a couple piping hot ones on a plate and brings them out, setting them on the table. He sits in the middle of the couch, in the hollow left by her curled up body. Cupping her cheek only a little hesitantly, he leans over and presses a kiss to her cheek.

"Thanks," she whispers, catching his hand in hers and kissing the back. "Smells good."

"It is good, but these are mine," he teases. "You'll have to get your own."

Nymphadora knows why Mike's here, of course. But it feels nice not to think on it for a moment. "What've you got there?"

Softly, "Arse."

He snickers, and picks the plate up again. "Go on. They're hot."

Almost too hot. 'Dora hisses a little as the hot cookie burns her fingers, and then hums appreciatively as she eats it a bit at a time.

Oh that's a conspiratorial grin if ever there was one.

"Tasty treats?"

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