clumsy_auror | (no subject)

(no subject)

When you're not terribly old, even the littlest things can get you down.

Take, for example, the whole talking thing. You've got lots of words down! You do! But the whole concept of the letter D seems to largely elude you, and you can tell it's really bumming Dad out. So you're working on it.

Slowly.

But even worse is the walking. You're crawling like a pro, and taking steps with help, even pulling yourself up without help!

And yet.

And yet.

Not so much.

So it's best to practice this sort of thing when everybody's busy. Looking the other way.

No pressure.

Nooooooooo pressure.

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"I am," Bernard replies, backing away with an innocent, wide-eyed look.

"Brave? No, no. Stupid."

Grinning, Nymphadora takes Anthony from Bernard and walks into the kitchen to start putting away the dry dishes.

Raph chuckles.

"Got that right, Kahlo."

Very slowly Raph begins to wheel himself towards the kitchen. This is like watching April and Casey go at it, and it's just as entertaining now as it was way back in the day.

It's not so easy to wheel a chair with only one good arm.

Yeah, but it's better than having your partner in a perpetual pissing contest wheel you around like a granny.

Bernard picks up a few more plates. "You want dessert? I made ice cream the other day."

Ice cream? Even cranky people like ice cream.

"What flavor?"

"Chocolate pumpkin swirl," replies 'Dora promptly, shifting Anthony to her other hip. "With chocolate fudge sauce to go with."

Raph blinks.

"Ain't tokin' up bad for like, little kids?"

Drugs are the only reason anyone would ever make Pumpkin ice cream.

Bernard shoots him a fond look from the fridge. "Asshole. You know we only give our kids home grown organic LSD cooked right here in my study."

"And uppers only at breakfast," she chimes in, plunking Anthony down on the kitchen floor beside Ellie. "Be right back."

She darts down the hallway.

"An' they say that real families ain't like the one's on tv."

You can learn a lot about human behavior from Jerry Springer.

Bernard scoops some ice cream into a bowl and adds a liberal dose of fudge and hands it to Raph with a spoon. "Try it. I'm interested to see if you like it."

"Do I got a choice?"

It...it's orangeish.

"I mean, no offense but it kinda looks like Halloween threw up inna bowl."

"That's the idea. It's the sort of thing that woman likes when she's pregnant."

Pregnant.
Tonks is pregnant.

AGAIN.

Raph is beginning to think that Bernard is doing something wrong. Isn't the whole point of...well, that to keep from ending up...there.

Of course that line of thought makes him think of Tonks like...that and there. Thoughts like that only lead to blushing.

There's no where for him to go. He has only one recourse.
EAT AS MUCH ICE CREAM AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE.
Thankfully being raised in a sewer is helpful in this regard.

Bernard is busy getting himself some ice cream and perching on the adjacent counter. He sees Raph shovelling and pauses, mid bite. "...Wha?"

Somewhere in between his tongue going numb and the onset of one doozy of a brain-freeze, Raph begins to consider the actual flavor of what he's eating.

It's certainly not the best ice cream he's ever eaten, but it's by no means anywhere near as bad as the Durian garbage Don brought home that one time as an experiment.

He's just about to remark on the taste and texture...when his brain crystallizes in one giant shard of pain.

"GAH!"

"Shit." He throws a damp dishtowel at Raph's head. "You fucking evolutionary throwback. How old are you and you don't know how to avoid a fuckin' brain freeze?"

"Aaargh."

Says the Raph, who once again forgot that he can't move his left arm to block the oncoming soggy assault. The right hand was too busy pinching the bridge of his nose to do anything even remotely helpful.

"God damnit."

His words are slightly muffled by the towel that now draped across his face.

Bernard sighs, wincing, and walks over, pulling the towel off him.

"Coffee?"

He doesn't look up. Looking up and making eyecontact would only serve as some sort of a reminder that he's rather helpless and in pain.

No instead he keeps his eyes fixed on a corner of the kitchen, grits through the pain, and then asks for his coffee Irish.

Not one drop of alcohol this entire time. Mike's strictly enforced orders.
Stupid Mike.

A nod, and Bernard's measuring out a careful half-shot of Bushmill's into a tall mug, then pouring coffee over it. He ignores Mike's awareness sharpening on him instantly.

He hesitates, then opens the fridge and adds a little leftover whipped cream on top.

Might as well go whole hog.

"Here."

Anthony crawls over and fiddles with Raph's shoe, watching his daddy's progress with interest. "Yum?"

Raph's eyes drift from the corner to the small child.

"Don't even think 'bout it, Strawberry. Ain't no way even your sister could chew through these. They got steel toes in 'em."

He then turns to address the large child.

"Here what?"

Raph eyes the mug...and then eyes the bottle of Bushmills sitting just over yonder on the counter.

Bernard can't be serious.

Bernard gives him a Look, holding the Irish coffee out. "You asked for it. I took you at your word. There's a half shot in there."

"No fuckin' way. For real?"

It's not that he doesn't trust Bernard, it's just that...well, he's surprised is all.

Bernard rolls his eyes and puts it in Raph's hand.

"Start drinking. Your brother is stewing in my head. You might as well get something out of it."

Anthony's small hands grasp Raph's pant leg as he pulls himself up.

He just wants to see.