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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'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.

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.

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.

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

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 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.

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

"I don't." The overflow'll end up out on Bar.

This is all a consequence of the link with Mike. God knows Bernard blames him for all the damn baking.

He casts an eye at her needlework. "How's it going?"

"Um. All right." 'Dora hands over the fabric swatch, which features a slightly uneven but presentable row of stitches. "I'm getting better."

A smile hovers over Bernard's mouth as his fingertip traces the stuttering line of stitches. "Good." He hands it back to her, eyeing the space between her side and the back of the couch. "Mind if I lie down next to you?"

A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "'Course not. Just don't let your cookies burn."

"Got the timer set." He smiles and crawls down the couch, settling his head on the bit of pillow sticking out by her ribs, his arm snaking around her. He lets out a long sigh.

"Know what the best time of the day besides bedtime is?"

Her arm automatically wraps around him, and she kisses the top of his head. "What?"

"Nnnnnnnnnnnaptime," he declares emphatically, nuzzling his nose into her side. "So quiet."

"I swear, you're actually a bear, or a-- a hedgehog, or some other thing that spends the whole winter sleeping."

There is muffled grumbling.

"'M not."

"You are. Given any opportunity at all, you'll curl up into a ball and start snoring." Gently she tugs on his ear.

"'S winter. I feel sleepy," he replies batting at her hand and catching it in his. "Don't you feel sleepy? It's cold out. Sleepmaking."

She makes a soft noise; in another existence, it would've been a laugh.

"Guess so. Just not so much 's you."