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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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.

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."

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.

It doesn't really matter if she's eating the cookie because she wants to or because he wants her to.

It's good to watch her eat it.

"Thought I'd roast a chicken for dinner, maybe. It's easy."

"All right. That sounds good." He wants her to smile and so she does.

He pillows his head on her hip, smiling back with an effort. They're both silent for a moment Then, "You know--" he begins, then stops, hesitant. "You know I'm here if you want to talk. Right?"

A brief nod. "Yeah. I do know. I just don't know-- I don't know how to say it. At all."

He nods. "I know." Another hesitation, and he flushes, feeling guilty for feeling bad. "Me neither."

"I know--"

Nymphadora stops, and takes a breath, her brow furrowing as she tries to verbalize it.

"I know everyone keeps saying that it doesn't matter that I wasn't far along, that it's still all right to grieve, I just... I feel like it isn't."

Another nod. "I know. But if you feel--bereaved, then it's probably best to admit it, right?"

Her eyes flicker back to the fire. "S'pose so."

Perhaps she doesn't realize how unnaturally tight her grip on his hand is.

Maybe the best thing to do is distract her. Maybe talking about how he feels would help.

Bernard has no idea how to even approach this. So, he waits, letting her squeeze his hand too hard, feeling the bones in his knuckles grind just a little bit.

Finally 'Dora catches on, and releases his hand abruptly, flushing. "Sorry 'bout that," she murmurs, tucking her hands awkwardly up under her arms.

But she's looking him in the eye, for once, and there's something a bit pleading in her gaze.

He smiles reluctantly and flexes his hand. "It's all right. I've had worse." Eyeing the way she's got herself pulled back, as if afraid, he sighs slowly.

"Allbright scared me about half to death."

"...Yeah," Nymphadora says quietly. "I'll bet he did."

"All I could think was that you'd gone on an unexpected raid." His hand smooths over her hip, fingertips picking at the seam of her jeans. "And then of course he gave me the real bad news."

"Not what you were expecting, huh? Me neither."

"Um. When did you realize?"

A sigh, and she rubs one of her eyes. "Started cramping up after lunch. It got... oddly painful."

He can't hide the flinch. "Must have been scary."