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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Mike knocks softly on the front door, not wanting to disturb. But then it occurs to him that if Bernard is out of knock-hearing range, that Tonks will have to answer the door. Should she be answering doors in her condition? Should she be on her feet at all? He has no idea, his only experience with miscarriage came from that first season of Melrose Place.

Not taking any chances, Mike carefully cracks open the door.

"Hello?"

'Dora cranes her neck over the back of the couch, and half-smiles at Mike. "Hey there. Still green, huh?"

"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.

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."

"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.

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?"

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

"Tasty treats?"

A laugh. "You and Bernard are trying to make me fat, huh?" As soon as it leaves her lips Nymphadora pales, slightly, but smiles gamely all the same.

If she can keep the smile up, than so can Mike.

"Is that bastard stealing my shtick? Ooooh, we'll have none of that soul toast."

"'Soul toast'?" she quotes, arching an eyebrow. "Does that come with jam, or syrup?"

"Depends on the soul, and depends on how toasted."

A considering nod. "Fair enough."

"He didn't happen to make Hermits...did he?"

"...Hermits?"

She doesn't think Bernard made Hermits. Whatever they are.

"Oh now see, that's just music to my ears right there."

Mike flips open the top of the basket and retrieves one of the numerous zip-top bags. Just before he offers her the opened bag, he pulls it back momentarily.

"You're not allergic to raisins, are you?"

'Dora peers with interest, and shakes her head. "Not a bit. Love 'em, actually."

"Oh well, then you'll love these. Think....fluffy gingerbread, but with raisins."

He offers her a cookie from the bag. There is the distinct smell of molasses.

Tentatively, Nymphadora takes a bite, and then grins around the cookie. "Blimey."

He beams.

"Wow I sure hope the novelty of making pretty smile like that never wears off."

She cuffs him on the shoulder, still smiling. "Thank you."

"For you, Kahlo, anything."

He looks at the cookies, and then looks back over at the kitchen.

"Do me a favor?"

An eyebrow gets a questioning raise.

"If your ball and chain ever makes you cookies like these can you scream out my name during sex?"