(no subject)

[clumsy_auror]

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.

Comments

[aj_crawley]

Crowley's wretched at this, and he knows it, but - well, it's odd. How hugging someone will never come so easy as hugging someone back.

"Hey," he mumbles, even as his arms fasten securely about her. "Should you be...?"

[clumsy_auror]

"Been sitting all bloody day," she replies, her words muffled by Crowley's coat. "Need to stretch m'legs anyway."

After a few long moments she pulls back just enough to look up into the demon's face.

"Thanks. For coming."

[aj_crawley]

"Well," he says, taking a step back himself in order to start unwinding his scarf.

He still hasn't finished his sentence by the time he's done; twisting the wool slightly in his hands, he substitutes a shrug for the words he can't quite think of.

[clumsy_auror]

'Dora nods. She knows.

"Want tea, or something?" she asks, catching his hand and gently tugging him towards the sofa. "You look a bit-- windblown."

[aj_crawley]

Making a face, Crowley reaches his free hand up and attempts, with moderate to reasonable success, to smooth his hair down.

"Tea'd be - nice, yeah," he says, allowing himself to be shepherded into a corner of the wide couch.

[clumsy_auror]

With a half-smile, the witch walks into the kitchen. It doesn't take long; the kettle's been warm all day.

She returns with a mug and hands it to him before settling back onto the couch. "'S gingerbread," 'Dora adds, and takes a sip from her own mug. "My tea preferences are apparently highly susceptible to the power of holiday suggestion."

[aj_crawley]

"Hey, I'm not complaining," Crowley replies, holding the mug underneath his nose and breathing in deeply as the steam rises and curls around his sunglasses. "Ginger's warming."

[clumsy_auror]

"Mm."

Not quite sure what to say, now that they're both here, and sitting, Nymphadora looks down into her mug.

"What did Bernard tell you?"

[aj_crawley]

"Not much," he says, glancing up from his tea and then back down in turn. "That you'd - miscarried, but that it'd been, you know. Early."

[clumsy_auror]

Slowly, she nods, and swirls the tea around the bottom of the cup. "I didn't know I was pregnant."

[aj_crawley]

He snorts quietly, giving her a half-smile.

"You've never been the quickest on the uptake, there."

[clumsy_auror]

A rueful laugh. "In my defense, I was only four or five weeks on, this time."

[aj_crawley]

"Fair enough," he concedes, before looking down again.

His fingers tighten a little around his mug, one finger picking at a chip in the enamel with small, tight movements.

"Bernard'd told me you were - you know. Going off birth control."

[clumsy_auror]

"Wasn't ever really on it," 'Dora replies quietly. "When you're nursing, you've got a sort of natural defense for a while. We just decided... not to pick it back up. Leave it up to fate." She rubs one eye, and takes a breath. "But yeah. That's right."

[aj_crawley]

And Crowley'd been - well, he'd not been, that was the point - if he's honest with himself and lets himself dwell on it, he'd not been... best pleased.

Because.

Just because.

But he shakes his head once, sharp and private, to himself.

Because it's not the same.

"And it won't - cause any problems in the future, will it?"

[clumsy_auror]

She shakes her head, finally looking at him sidelong. "Healer said we shouldn't have any trouble."

[aj_crawley]

"Yeah," he says. "I mean - good. That's something, at least."

After a few moments, he leans forward and sets his mug down on the coffee-table with a quiet thunk. Sitting back, he turns sideways a little, pulling one knee up onto the cushions.


"Look," he says, and slips his sunglasses off, tucking them into a pocket. His hands twist together, as though he's on the verge of reaching out. "I - suppose you're not, but. Are you alright?"

[clumsy_auror]

Nymphadora takes a sip of tea, before replying, and then shakes her head. "Not really," she murmurs, and a rueful smile twists her features. "Will be, though."

[aj_crawley]

"It - "

He wants to say it gets better. And perhaps it does, eventually, with the passage of time, but this isn't -

This isn't the same.

Crowley's frame of reference is different.

"I... will have to take your word on that," he says instead, returning her rueful grin.

And then, because he can do nothing else, and because there's nothing he can really say, Crowley does reach out, scooting over far enough on the couch to fit one warm arm around her shoulders.

[clumsy_auror]

The demon's outright gestures of affection are rare enough, but they're familiar to Nymphadora all the same. A tiny smile pulls at her mouth, a genuine one, and she curls closer, her hand reaching up to briefly catch hold of his where it rests at her shoulder.

"So tell me something cheerful."

[aj_crawley]

"Cheerful," he muses. "Cheerful..."



"Damn, no, okay, I'll think of something in a second..."

[clumsy_auror]

For a moment Crowley might think that she's crying, from the way her shoulders shake. But then 'Dora looks up at him, and she's laughing too hard to make much of a sound. "We're pathetic," she finally wheezes, thumping her fist affectionately into Crowley's thigh.

[aj_crawley]

"It's the season," he insists, his own mouth twitching at the corners as his bemused (but pleased) grin fights a losing battle against 'Dora's infectious laughter. "I can't be expected to be a harbinger of joy and fucking good cheer at the best of times, but especially not when it's cold and pissing rain all the time."

[clumsy_auror]

"Now how can you resist the good cheer wrought by this fine cup of holiday gingerbread tea?" demands Nymphadora with mock indignity, pointing at Crowley's mug.