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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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.

"Oh crap, you're kiddin' me. Geez, you'd think he was my frickin' mother."

Raph takes the mug, holds it for a minute just letting the idea of it sink in, before taking a really large gulp.

Shhh, don't tell him he's got whipped cream on his nose.

"Oh yeah, that's the stuff."

Bernard grins and pours himself one to match. "I figure it can't really hurt you."

Anthony pulls on Raph's pant leg. "Yum?" he says, insistent.

"Ain't killed me yet."

Raph says with a smirk. He's just about to take another drink, when his attention is directed down towards Anthony.

"Yeah, yum."

There's a hint of warmth in his tone, as he half smiles back at the boy. Raph transfers the cup from his right to his left hand, now he's free to ruffle the kid's hair.

Tiny humans.
What will they think of next?

Bernard grins into his mug, his eyes twinkling, and watches as Anthony turns, balances on his own for a split second, then crashes and burns, a surprised look on his face.

He doesn't cry, though.

Bernard smiles at Raph, proud, and sees something of that reflected in Raph's face.

Anthony may be tiny, but even now he's not exactly weak.

It's a good thing to see.

'Dora's out in the living room, straightening up in the event that the boys decide to be civilized and bring their dessert out here. Just in case.

She trips over a squeaky dog toy, and the dog herself, in quick succession. Ellie, who is used to this, nips playfully at Nymphadora's heel and then goes back to her middle-of-the-floor sprawl.

The commotion startles the boys, and they alternately dash, crawl, and wheel one-handedly and backwards out of the kitchen to see what's up.

"...You okay, baby?" Bernard asks, maybe a little more concerned than he needs to be.

"Oh, I'm fine," she replies, waving them off and levering herself out of the armchair in which she landed. "Canine obstacle course."

"Now I understand why Aurors are the elite warriors of the wizarding world," agrees a voice from the hallway. It turns out to be - well, a scarf, but once that's out of the way and hanging by the door, Crowley is revealed to be as smirky as he sounds.

(Knocking is for the same kind of people who make dinner reservations.)

Raph backs into the kitchen jerkily at the sound of Crowley's voice; he'll be back.

Bernard snorts and steps forward to relieve Crowley of the detritus of his outer layer having been shed. "You're a bit late for dinner, but we have leftovers. Hungry?"

"Elite, that's me," is her cheerful reply. Anthony crawls rapidly scoots across the living room towards Crowley, watching interestedly as he hangs up his coat.

"Evening," Crowley replies to the cheerful, floor-level greeting of Coh! "Not starving, but I wouldn't mind a cuppa."

He doesn't move to make himself comfortable on the couch just yet, but that's because his movement is rather restricted by Anthony (so seemingly overjoyed to see the demon that he can only express his affection by pulling himself to his feet and enthusiastically hugging Crowley's knee).

Bernard bends down and picks Anthony up by the back of his romper, holding him at eye level.

"Hey. Let your uncle's knee breathe. It likes its personal space." To Crowley, "I'll get your tea."

Anthony flails and laughs as Bernard flies him over to his mother, making airplane sounds all the way.

"Hi, monkey," she says, catching Anthony and then setting him back down on his feet. "C'mon, let's show Crowley what you can do."

Anthony gamely clutches his mother's index fingers and takes a few sumo-wrestler steps toward the demon.