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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"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."

"'S why I try not to lie down in the afternoons too much. Dinner'd never got done." He yawns, his mouth opening wide. "Just sleep the day away. Week. Month. Season. Wake me when it's April."

"I'd let you, but I'd miss you too much." A pause. "Oh dear. That was horribly mushy. No, go on then, hibernate to your heart's content."

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."

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.

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.