(no subject)
It's a good week.
To be frank, it's a fantastic week. The weather's nice, after Sunday many of the tourists are gone, and Bernard and Nymphadora slowly set up house, looking over the furniture that came with the place and thinking of ways to get the kids' rooms ready for their arrival this weekend. Lists are made. Groceries are bought, one sunny afternoon, along with a crib and bedding.
One of the bedrooms, painted a soft robin's-egg blue with dark wood trim, has funny nooks and drawers built into the walls, perfect for a sneaky child to hide secret treasures and art supplies. Sunny's room, Nymphadora decides, and makes the bed up with bright, rainbow sheets, spelling tiny dust bunnies out of the corners and moving the small cache of children's books they found in the living room into the low shelves by the door. Astérix et Obélix hold court alongside Le pétit prince, and she figures that maybe since Sunny seems to have magically learned to read in English, she might well magically learn to read French, too.
Why not?
Bernard busies himself in Anthony's room, a smallish, mossy green space with a window seat set conveniently next to their bedroom. The other bedrooms, they don't really bother with aside from a few dusting spells. They don't plan on having any guests this time around, and there are beaches to be walked and there is time to be spent lying on the couch together, cooking together, being silent together.
They don't have a TV, and they've been steadfastly ignoring the pull of the outside world, so when Bernard, his free arm full of leeks and potatoes, happens to glance towards the tabac on the way out of the small market at the corner of their block, the groceries fall to the stone floor.
Londres déjoue un projet d'attentats terroristes
Attentats déjoués à Londres : le profil des suspects se précise
Les terroristes voulaient faire exploser plusieurs avions en vol entre Londres et les États-Unis. Vingt-quatre arrestations ont eu lieu.
He grabs a copy each of Ouest France and Le monde, and just remembers to pick up the Times for Nymphadora before snatching his bruised stew-makings off the ground and heading home as quickly as he can manage.
***
Look, I know you're off doing some kind of hyper-penitent, self-immolating bullshit, but do you have to be so obvious about getting our atten--
***
Were you involved? The papers said Pakistan, but--
***
I don't care if it was you or not. Come home. We're in France now, on vacation, and surely you can--
***
Eleven letters started, none finished. Dinner passes, somber, and he can feel her fretting -- not over Crowley, but over him.
He lets it go. The letters, the news, everything. Just lets it go.
You can't make someone do what they don't want to do. And Bernard has a marriage to attend to, and a house to set up, and kids to prepare for. With this in mind, he can push the ache away. Not forever, of course. But for tonight.
To be frank, it's a fantastic week. The weather's nice, after Sunday many of the tourists are gone, and Bernard and Nymphadora slowly set up house, looking over the furniture that came with the place and thinking of ways to get the kids' rooms ready for their arrival this weekend. Lists are made. Groceries are bought, one sunny afternoon, along with a crib and bedding.
One of the bedrooms, painted a soft robin's-egg blue with dark wood trim, has funny nooks and drawers built into the walls, perfect for a sneaky child to hide secret treasures and art supplies. Sunny's room, Nymphadora decides, and makes the bed up with bright, rainbow sheets, spelling tiny dust bunnies out of the corners and moving the small cache of children's books they found in the living room into the low shelves by the door. Astérix et Obélix hold court alongside Le pétit prince, and she figures that maybe since Sunny seems to have magically learned to read in English, she might well magically learn to read French, too.
Why not?
Bernard busies himself in Anthony's room, a smallish, mossy green space with a window seat set conveniently next to their bedroom. The other bedrooms, they don't really bother with aside from a few dusting spells. They don't plan on having any guests this time around, and there are beaches to be walked and there is time to be spent lying on the couch together, cooking together, being silent together.
They don't have a TV, and they've been steadfastly ignoring the pull of the outside world, so when Bernard, his free arm full of leeks and potatoes, happens to glance towards the tabac on the way out of the small market at the corner of their block, the groceries fall to the stone floor.
Londres déjoue un projet d'attentats terroristes
Attentats déjoués à Londres : le profil des suspects se précise
Les terroristes voulaient faire exploser plusieurs avions en vol entre Londres et les États-Unis. Vingt-quatre arrestations ont eu lieu.
He grabs a copy each of Ouest France and Le monde, and just remembers to pick up the Times for Nymphadora before snatching his bruised stew-makings off the ground and heading home as quickly as he can manage.
***
Look, I know you're off doing some kind of hyper-penitent, self-immolating bullshit, but do you have to be so obvious about getting our atten--
***
Were you involved? The papers said Pakistan, but--
***
I don't care if it was you or not. Come home. We're in France now, on vacation, and surely you can--
***
Eleven letters started, none finished. Dinner passes, somber, and he can feel her fretting -- not over Crowley, but over him.
He lets it go. The letters, the news, everything. Just lets it go.
You can't make someone do what they don't want to do. And Bernard has a marriage to attend to, and a house to set up, and kids to prepare for. With this in mind, he can push the ache away. Not forever, of course. But for tonight.