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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"Yeah." A breath. His fingertips creep up her side and back. "I'm afraid I scared Sunny and Anthony a little bit. I wasn't very good at explaining."

"We'll talk to them, love. But what did you-- what did you tell them?"

"That you were sick and we had to go meet you at the hospital." He shrugs, focusing on her hip. "True enough."

"Mm-hmm."

Her hand finds his again.

"Are you-- are you okay?"

"No." He looks up at her, his eyes red-rimmed. "Are you okay?"

Nymphadora shakes her head unsteadily.

"Didn't think so," he replies, then sits up, shifting on the couch so that he's lying down on the outside now, facing her.

"So here we are. Both not okay."

She laughs shakily. "Yeah. Better off both here than alone, I guess."

He nods, impulsively scooting forward to kiss the tip of her nose.

"But you're very quiet." He laughs, a little. "I feel pretty dumb, doing all the talking here."

"I just--"

Her voice is halting, like she's forcing the words out.

"I just feel... stuck. I don't know how I'm supposed to feel, except stuck. Like I can't go back, but I can't go forward, either."

"How do you mean, go forward?"

A sigh. "I don't know. I'm just talking."

"Okay," he says yet again, stuck. "Sorry, I. I'm just trying to suss you out."

"I know. You're being grand, love."

She falls silent and thinks, really thinks about it, even though it makes her throat constrict.

"I think," 'Dora finally says slowly. "I think it's just that I never expected-- I mean, the kids are supposed to be so stair-step, I never imagined we'd have any trouble with a pregnancy."

He laughs, despite himself, a little bitter. "You know. This is the trouble with prophecies. You don't know how and you don't know when, and you don't know if time split and this is the timeline where one of us dies in a freak gardening accident. You know?"

"...Oh yeah. That makes me feel a lot better."

"I always make you feel better," he asserts, grinning boyishly against her pant leg.

"You do tend to, yes." A pause, and then, tentatively, "I know I kept saying how we had to be wary of getting complacent, because you're right, prophecies aren't etched in stone, but... I wasn't careful enough. I thought it'd all be fine."

There is a lot of blinking in between her statement and his response.

"I don't understand how you could have been more careful. Maybe it was... some developmental defect. Maybe it was all the drugs I did making my genetics all funky." He shakes his head. "I just don't see how you can think that you did anything wrong."

Nymphadora shakes her head. "No, not careful physically. Careful emotionally."

"...Oh."

That's trickier.

"Well. For what it's worth. I'm not really too invested in being careful emotionally. Don't really see the drawbacks. Today is one thing." He shrugs, his hand smoothing up and down her hip. "But if we were ever careful do you think we'd be here now?"

"Probably not," she whispers, watching the progress of his hand.

"For instance," he murmurs, "what would have happened if, after we kissed on New Year's Day, you would have chickened out and said, 'Oh, I should really go back to Charlie, he's my boyfriend'?" The stroking ends in a firm pat. "Nothing good."

"Yeah. I know." Her hand catches his, and their fingers thread together. "Trouble is, all the stuff that makes sense when you say it doesn't help so much, inside my head."

"I know," he replies, crestfallen. "I just wish I knew how to help."