*Arthur's morning had been utterly unlike that of the three approaching the house. The Burrow is as (relatively) quiet; the children are all still asleep, and therefore the only sound is the occasional mad gnome giggle outside and the rustling of the pages of whatever Molly is reading. Arthur, who isn't due in the office until nine, stands at the kitchen window watching one of the giggling gnomes chasing a bird who is dive-bombing another gnome, a cup of tea in hand, still in striped pyjamas.
The gnome-bird-gnome chase is just getting interesting (there are now acorns involved) when there's a crack crack just past the gate, and the garden antics are altogether forgotten. Arthur is too used to seeing his brothers-in-law bloody and battered, but it's still always alarming, and at this distance he can't tell if this is from an attack, or from Fabian being Fabian. (He can tell Fabian's the one hurt by the clothes; no one else with such ginger hair would dare to wear that shade of purple.)
Starkly serious where a moment ago he'd been giving a running commentary on the gnome battle, he straightens and sets down his teacup, already striding for the back door.*
*That crack crack crack has her dropping the copy of Witch Weekly and the sardines-on-toast, and Molly's eyes automatically snap to the clock on the wall. But her brothers' hands are at 'the Burrow' and not 'Mortal Peril' and not--well, she shouldn't even think such things, where the hands would point if. She beats her husband out the door, somehow, despite his head start and her seven-months-bulk; her waddle is rapid and undignified, her face so ashen each freckle stands out like an inkspot.*
*And there she is, closing in fast: their heavily pregnant sister in a blur of brightly-colored housedress and dressing gown and slippers and red hair, Arthur trailing behind her, and she sounds like a bloody trainwhistle, and Gideon's answer is quick and apologetic.*
- Eeegh, on second thought it's not so bad, let's just, come on -
*Half-heartedly, cowed by the sight of Molly and the tirade he knows he's about to get, Fabian lets go of Gideon and tries to back-track past the wards to Apparate home. He doesn't get far, though, maybe half a step, before he's reflexively grasping onto Hestia (who's marginally closer) as his leg gives out. He's well and truly fucked, he thinks, as he sits on the ground clutching his brother's girlfriend by the arm, leg stuck out awkwardly, with his back to their sister. Having one's back to an angry, frightened Molly is never a good thing, ever. And she's somehow more maternally terrifying when pregnant; it never, never fails. Fucked. Very fucked.*
Idiot? What sort of idiot? What sort of idiot, Fabian?
*She's reached Fabian now, ignoring Hestia completely as she turns him 'round and starts looking him over in a flurry of fury and fear and concern, patting him down swiftly and efficiently, checking for injuries, for missing limbs--
But then, a little pile of splinters falls out of the pocket of his jacket, and fury and fear and concern are nothing compared to the blank lividity of her face, as she picks up a long and crooked one and raises it to eye level. The moment of recognition is unmistakable.*
*He doesn't answer. It's safer, he knows from childhood instinct, not to say anything at all, because anything at all will be devastatingly wrong. Instead he just sits there splayed on the grass like a rag doll, bleeding and cradling his dislocated arm, and looks at Gideon (as always) for help.*
*Hestia awkwardly drops down to the ground with Fabian, fully incapable of escaping his fierce grip on her arm to steady himself. She glances up at Gideon first before alternating her gaze between Molly and the twins. She can feel her heartbeat increasing, stirred on by Molly's outrage. This wasn't exactly how she imagined meeting her potential sister-in-law.*
*No one's talking, and the longer that goes on, Arthur fears, the more time Molly has to build up a head of steam. He stands over the three on the ground, side by side with Gideon, and puts on his best sensible voice.*
Now, Molly, I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation -
Don't you Now Molly me, Arthur Weasley--it was the Tunnel, wasn't it, or whatever-its-called, and I'm supposed to patch you up now Fabian am I and heaven knows the war and the Auror office and the werewolves aren't enough to be getting on with why don't you just wrestle dragons and cliff dive and oh---and you could have died and you could have been seen and--and--
*The tears are always close, these days (the other day she found herself weeping over an omelet that wouldn't fold properly) but Molly produces a handkerchief and blows her nose loudly, and it seems to keep them at bay. She peers, then, over the handkerchief and up at Hestia, as if really seeing her for the first time. When she speaks her voice is considerably smaller.*
And you must be Hestia, hello, it's lovely to meet you--I hope you'll stay for breakfast?
*Hestia blinks a few times, taking in Molly's abrupt shift in tone.*
Y-yes. Breakfast would be brilliant.
*She nudges Fabian's already softening hand off her arm and stands herself up, dusting her clothes off absentmindedly. She couldn't help but empathize with Molly, knowing all too well how often Fabian has found himself in similar predicaments.*
*It's only as she stands up that Fabian even realizes he was hanging onto Hestia, and feels slightly guilty about it, but he's more than happy to let her take some of Molly's attention. He tries awkwardly to get to his feet with a hip that just isn't working, gesturing for Gideon to help him up.*
Well for heaven's sake, don't make the poor girl wait, she's company, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself Fabian getting everybody out of bed this early with your nonsense--come on then, get a move on--and yes I will fix your miserable arm and put your teeth back in your teeth Fabian honestly--I must say you're very pretty, Hestia, for eight in the morning--
*It's a steady stream of scoldings and affectionate blather that are not only overlapping but, at times, utterly indistinguishable from one another. She keeps it up well until they're settled around the kitchen table of the Burrow, and it's a wonder she can manage it and maneuver her very pregnant self and still breathe all at once.*
--and fetch the Skele-Gro, would you, Arthur, while I put on the sausage?
*He's already gone to got it, and on the way back is nearly knocked over by Charlie, looking far too wide-awake for this hour. So either he's smelled breakfast, or -
"UNCLEGIDEONUNCLEFABIAN!"
Or, he's realized who's here. Arthur can only hope for Fabian's sake that someone gets between him and a bundle of over-enthusiastic eight-year-old. And also that Fabian has the good sense not to tell Charlie why exactly he's in the kitchen with dislocated shoulder and missing teeth and a bloody face, because the boy is enough a dare-devil as it is.
Following him back into the kitchen, he unscrews the lid on the Skele-Gro and pours a dose, kissing Molly on the temple and lowering his voice a bit.*
He's fine, Molly, probably just blowing off a bit of steam.
The gnome-bird-gnome chase is just getting interesting (there are now acorns involved) when there's a crack crack just past the gate, and the garden antics are altogether forgotten. Arthur is too used to seeing his brothers-in-law bloody and battered, but it's still always alarming, and at this distance he can't tell if this is from an attack, or from Fabian being Fabian. (He can tell Fabian's the one hurt by the clothes; no one else with such ginger hair would dare to wear that shade of purple.)
Starkly serious where a moment ago he'd been giving a running commentary on the gnome battle, he straightens and sets down his teacup, already striding for the back door.*
Molly -
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--what is it, what's happened--
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--no Molly it's fine, Fabian's only an idiot--
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*Half-heartedly, cowed by the sight of Molly and the tirade he knows he's about to get, Fabian lets go of Gideon and tries to back-track past the wards to Apparate home. He doesn't get far, though, maybe half a step, before he's reflexively grasping onto Hestia (who's marginally closer) as his leg gives out. He's well and truly fucked, he thinks, as he sits on the ground clutching his brother's girlfriend by the arm, leg stuck out awkwardly, with his back to their sister. Having one's back to an angry, frightened Molly is never a good thing, ever. And she's somehow more maternally terrifying when pregnant; it never, never fails. Fucked. Very fucked.*
Oh, bollocks.
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*She's reached Fabian now, ignoring Hestia completely as she turns him 'round and starts looking him over in a flurry of fury and fear and concern, patting him down swiftly and efficiently, checking for injuries, for missing limbs--
But then, a little pile of splinters falls out of the pocket of his jacket, and fury and fear and concern are nothing compared to the blank lividity of her face, as she picks up a long and crooked one and raises it to eye level. The moment of recognition is unmistakable.*
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Now, Molly, I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation -
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*The tears are always close, these days (the other day she found herself weeping over an omelet that wouldn't fold properly) but Molly produces a handkerchief and blows her nose loudly, and it seems to keep them at bay. She peers, then, over the handkerchief and up at Hestia, as if really seeing her for the first time. When she speaks her voice is considerably smaller.*
And you must be Hestia, hello, it's lovely to meet you--I hope you'll stay for breakfast?
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Y-yes. Breakfast would be brilliant.
*She nudges Fabian's already softening hand off her arm and stands herself up, dusting her clothes off absentmindedly. She couldn't help but empathize with Molly, knowing all too well how often Fabian has found himself in similar predicaments.*
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Weren't you just saying how starving you were, old man--
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*It's a steady stream of scoldings and affectionate blather that are not only overlapping but, at times, utterly indistinguishable from one another. She keeps it up well until they're settled around the kitchen table of the Burrow, and it's a wonder she can manage it and maneuver her very pregnant self and still breathe all at once.*
--and fetch the Skele-Gro, would you, Arthur, while I put on the sausage?
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"UNCLEGIDEONUNCLEFABIAN!"
Or, he's realized who's here. Arthur can only hope for Fabian's sake that someone gets between him and a bundle of over-enthusiastic eight-year-old. And also that Fabian has the good sense not to tell Charlie why exactly he's in the kitchen with dislocated shoulder and missing teeth and a bloody face, because the boy is enough a dare-devil as it is.
Following him back into the kitchen, he unscrews the lid on the Skele-Gro and pours a dose, kissing Molly on the temple and lowering his voice a bit.*
He's fine, Molly, probably just blowing off a bit of steam.
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