Waker tidied the stack of Ministry-headed parchment she’d been going over, and, before she could change her mind, set her quill atop it and magicked it to next room, where it neatly organized itself upon the table along with her purse and work folios. She was anxious about putting it down, though she was equally agitated with herself to bringing her work to bed. Already. She was hardly in the door at the Ministry, her pay was a starting salary, and she was not clocked in for overtime, not here, not now. Maybe that was exactly why she was working in bed, at home, at this hour. It was the way to get ahead! And it was also a very Waker thing to do.

She pointed her wand at the lamp overhead, so that it dimmed to a inviting glow that reminded her of the hearths at Hogwarts. (Ravenclaw, of course, had always seemed a little brighter, with its large windows, high ceilings, and general airy quality. Feeble flames and dark, cozy corners were hardly conducive to studying.) The lamp on her bedside table remained bright, casting its light over her shoulders as turned away from the view of wall, door, and furniture, and toward the center of the bed-- and George. She looked at him for a moment, analyzing, silently surveying, one babyish cheek resting in a palm supported by a determined elbow. She was a little worried, not unlike he’d been when she’d been ill for weeks. He seemed tired or...

No. No. He wasn’t uninterested in her. They were both tired. Working hard. Exhausted.

She smiled, a small, abashed smile. “It’s not even eleven,” she said, with a certain sense of pride. She might have been doing work in bed, but she wasn’t desperate enough to work until midnight. Yet. She dropped her and moved closer, curling down beside him, smiling as her face met his cheek. She kissed him gently through her grin, just there on the cheek, and his neck, and under his ear. Arm moving over his chest, which was much more solid than her own, and always felt like the warmest place on earth, she hugged him with a mixture of fondness, want of security,  and an almost childish, muted sort of gauging. Her head resting beneath his jaw as it often did when they were laying around, she looked over his muscles. “I think you need a very, very good night’s sleep,” she said imperiously, though more playful than when she was being instructive. Her hand moved down his side, resting at his waist. She tilted her face up and kissed him again in the crook his neck.

George chewed on the end of his quick-ink quill, concentrated on the contents of his ‘homework assignment.’ He’d made little marks and written in little questions here and there, flagging a page to remind himself. There were always more and more questions to ask the healer when they went for their visits. Plus, he was trying to distract himself from the leggy companion in the bed next to him, all aflutter with her own parchment and quill.

Not that he didn’t get a nice look now and again. His concentration was terrible at the best of times. George just had to appear busy.  Nine days was a long time for George; he caught himself staring for a few moments too long and had to blink his way back to the page. When she sent her things off, George looked over at her as if he was really vested in what he was doing. He had passed up the pregnancy chapters and the boring spit up talk for that of when to expect the kid to play with blocks and start walking.

He’d go back at some point… with all the questions he had all ready, he couldn’t get too ahead of himself. Yawning and stretching, he gave her a smile back and closed the book, his quill stuck in it, before setting it aside on his side of the bed (that was still an odd concept to understand). He had been able to feign sleepiness for a while, and there had even been times where he had just passed out after dinner.

With all his extra energy and newly found frustration, George had taken practice to the next level. He had even done a very grown up thing and decided to be civil with Edmund. One might even go so far to say that George had taken some constructive criticism without shoving his broomstick up Edmund’s- well.

He liked the winning streak, and George wanted it to go for as long as he could keep it up.

“It’s not even eleven.”

His mind reeled with possible excuses, making way as she settled against him, ankles crossed at the end of the bed. His lounge trousers were terrible at hiding his intentions, but he was hoping his body wouldn’t betray him. An arm wrapped around her and he smiled back, jaw tightening as her lips pressed to uncontrollable spots. George was trying to… to… to something. He was losing his ability to focus now. This wasn’t good for his resolve.

She made his stomach flutter with her next statement, and all he could do was groan in agreement, staring up at the ceiling as he focused on each pit of inperfection. How about that double eight loop he had nearly perfected? Or the triple twist hatch-over-your-back.

Feeling her hair move against his chin, he blinked and looked down at her, giving her forehead a kiss and smiling. “It’s been a long week. Dinner was delicious.” With his free hand, he patted his stomach appreciatively. And then he reached over and gently rubbed hers. “You know, the book said you should get a good nights rest too. Shouldn’t stay up so late, Miss Ministry worker.” Grinning, he kissed her nose before settling back into his pillow and groaning appreciatively. “I think I’m going to sleep like a rock.” Chocolate chip cookies. Books. Phillip, yuk. Klint’s attempt at playing Quidditch. That mental image caused him to chuckle as his eyes closed. Anything but focusing on Waker’s… No!

Waker knew, at least, that she had his attention. It brought comfort. But... also annoyance and suspicion. George was contradicting himself, making excuses when (she thought) he didn’t seem to want to make them. Except he did... He was like a Rubix Cube lately, which was decidedly far too complicated. Waker was supposed to cover that territory, even if she found herself highly logical and George constantly had new ways to surprise. Maybe a Rubix Cube was a bad comparison. Still, Waker hated not being able to solve the puzzle. Asking for help was always a little frustrating, too.

“I know you don’t have morning sickness, but... are you ill? Does something hurt?” She asked quietly, with cautious concern, studying him for a moment.

Maybe a quidditch injury. She hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary bruising. Maybe it was internal? Should they consult a healer? But George seemed in otherwise perfect health. The last time they had... tired each other out had been particularly intense. In fact, though she was not the newly recruited professional quidditch player, Waker had been sore for a day or two. Winning was apparently energizing for George. Adrenaline rushes, testosterone, that sort of stuff. She looked at his hand on her belly and wondered, just for a moment, if he wasn’t right. How could George make anything but a miniature version of himself? Maybe they were having a boy.

At this thought, she was torn between rolling her eyes (lovingly!) and smiling. She proceeded to kiss him a little more intensely, pushing further into his side, as he settled into his pillow. Smiling  again against his jaw, deciding she would just have to coax him out of his strange energy, she slid the hand at his waist down toward his trousers. Her fingers moved gingerly over the over the material, groping slowly while she kissed him, her face half hidden against his warmth. After a minute of this, she dragged her fingers up a little, just enough so that she could slide them below his waistband. She found his mouth for a proper kiss as skin touched skin.

Was he ill? Making a face, his eyes lazily opened as he glanced down at her dubiously. George hesitated in his response, however, knowing if he said no, he’d have nothing to explain his lack of interest. “No...” His voice was cautionary. “We’ve just been working hard at practice.”

If he’d feigned exhaustion for days now, even after their second win, well... It had been working! Then again, it had been three days since their second win for the season (second ever for George’s professional career). His excitement had been self contained, and after stumbling home from the bar with the team, he’d belched a greeting and passed out half off the end of the bed.

So exhaustion and drunken stupors. “I think it’s all just catching up with me.” Good job, mate! If his conscious wasn't trying to hit him with a quaffle, George felt he deserved a pat on the back for that rather deep excuse.

His breathing hitched a bit as her lips continued their search. He couldn’t just pretend he was asleep, start snoring and tossing and turning all about. Not yet, anyway. His arm tightened around her slightly, a calming breath attempted before opening his eyes to stare at the ceiling harder. Make those speckles move!

They quickly closed as her hand started to show support for the current Junior in the room. A moan softly escaped his closed lips, pressing back against her lips and gasping in slight surprise when her hand made contact.

George could only deny his urge for so long. That was when his hands came up very suddenly, unexpectedly, and pressed her away, one moving to stop her hand from its amazing healing powers. “Love...” Taking a slow breath, he finally opened his eyes and looked at her, a pained look on his face. “Babe. I’m tired.” That took more effort than those two words really should have.

And obviously some other part of George was in disagreement with his mouth and silly, silly brain. It was even attempting to get attention from the professor. George never was good at waving for an answer, though. "Do you want me to... You know." Was she just in that sort of mood? Maybe if he got her jollies off, she'd leave his alone for a little bit.

Practice. Right. She’d known that.

But it was wearing thin, the believability of it. Did that Waker a not particularly great person? That she was suspicious? But this was George. His stamina was... well, George.

Catching up with him?

The face Waker made, nestled there so sweetly on his chest was not one most boyfriends wanted to see. It warned of trouble, disbelief, disillusionment. Unfortunately, George couldn’t see it.

Waker had made her decision. She did not procrastinate. Ever. She wanted things to be how they were a few weeks ago (between their row about bills or groceries or the inevitable sex of the baby, and George trying to hide his parents book.)

It was maybe a little ridiculous to jump to the worst possible conclusion, and so she contented herself with the familiarity of the Gryffindor alum beside her. She was getting into it, really, and it seemed he was, too. She was pleased with herself-- and with him. Her temperature had climbed, her skin felt rosy like it had when she had sipped too much wine in Barcelona in the gentle heat of early summer. It was a comfort-- and a private or not-so-private thrill-- that she could be comfortable with him, that their attraction was eternal, whatever their differences and the life hurtles they were trying to jump (too many at once). Whatever her experiences with others, George was the only person with whom intimacy felt entirely intimate in the right way. If she felt she was doing something wrong, or was embarrassed about trying something new or different, at least he was there with her, championing her along.

But this wasn’t new, only sweet and fun. It seemed that way for both of them, except...

Tired?!

Waker knitted her brows, and pulled her neck back a little, tilting her head up. It was a matter of seconds before she was propped up on her elbow. “Do I what?” She knew what he was asking, but that wasn’t the point. She had been enjoying ‘you know’-ing him. And had fully expected them to ‘you know’ together. and what a romantic way of phrasing it. “What’s your problem?” She demanded, sitting up now, drawing herself in. “Is this a chore to you?”

The bossiness followed the worry. And was followed with more worry. George complimented dinner and suggested he was ready for bed (as in sleep), but she hadn’t thought he was serious. She hadn’t thought that he couldn’t be coaxed. She had been all prepared to play the game, too. “You didn’t-- you aren’t--” She couldn’t frame it as a question, ask the words. She knew he wasn’t doing anything with anyone else, wouldn’t. He was the loyal one. “How tired can you be? And just because I was doing work in bed doesn’t mean I don’t have time for it.” But now they had a baby on the way, and Waker was not the same as she had been months ago. This wasn’t about George interpreting her work as a rain check; he had offered to do other things, things which didn’t involve getting all the way (for him). She was a highly logical person, and deductive reasoning was both a gift and a cause for thinking the worst. She looked down at her stomach again, and then to George. She pressed her palm to it reflexively, her thumb twitching a little. She swallowed, as new (or not so new) questions and doubts raced through her mind. It was only going to get worse if her now-obviously-pregnant body was putting him off. It wasn’t just her abdomen, it wasn’t that simple, but the entire idea-- all of it. The state of things, a baby inside. She was still getting used to it, the change, and it was her body. Waker’s paranoia that her face was becoming puffier didn’t help. “Do you not want to? Because I’m?” This. She gestured to herself, eyes widening, head moving a fraction, as if nudging him to say the wrong thing. There was worry, but there was also an implication in her tone. A non-spoken, but very much there, with your child attached to the end of the question.

George did not like the look on Waker’s face. It was not very understanding at all. She could have at least tried to be sympathetic! He was tired. Mostly. Kind of. Maybe a little.

He winced at her response, taking in a slow breath to try and explain it a bit better. He had thought it was clear enough, and that Waker’s ability to interpret innuendos would have solved what he meant by ‘you know. “Do you want-” Then he frowned and gave her a confused look. Hadn't she just asked him to clarify himself?

What was his problem? “Chore? No, I think I just offered to get you off. Without any request for something in return.” Yet. Perhaps she would take one for the team and test her mouth out on something other than lashing back at him. George would be ok with that! “That can be real work sometimes.” He mumbled as he pushed himself up a bit, fixing his trousers in the process.

Now he felt exasperated. “I what?” Now it was a question of how to gauge how tired he was?! “You should zip around a pitch a few days a week, drill after drill, and we’ll see how tired you can be.” George was getting a little flustered. “I didn’t say there wasn’t time, just that you need more rest.” He was being sweet and enduring, trying to take the health of their baby seriously. Why could Waker not see that?

George saw her hold her stomach and incorrectly assumed it was because of his last statement. “For the baby.” His voice was soft as he wrapped up his explanation.

“Do you not want to?”

“No, that’s not-”

“-Because I’m?”

“Well, kind of, yeah.” Wait. “No, I mean it’s not that!” Right? His hands came up to try and explain by moving around dramatically, one reaching for hers as he considered the proper response. Where was a time-turner when you needed one?

George might have been great at flying, but he was currently digging fast into the pitch, as far as Waker was concerned. She did not dignify his initial half-question with a verbal response, but instead continued to look mightily angry in her Waker-y way: narrowed, suspicious gaze, scandalized pout, arms and hands doing any number of things, like crossing themselves, subconsciously touching her stomach, avoiding fixing her hair, and tightening her grip on her wand.

His next pronouncement made her angrier, somehow. "Oh! Isn't that romantic?" She looked as if she wanted to use the nearest pillow as a weapon. That he thought he was a martyr was... Waker did not have words for it, and her vocabulary was not small.

And, then,

“That can be real work sometimes.”

She felt a prickle at the back of her neck, cold despite the heat of agitation and humiliation and the ghost of a sweeter moment. She stared: at him and somehow past him, her jaw shut tight in a dangerous way. Waker watched him fix his trousers as if she had mussed them up somehow. If he hadn't meant for her to hear it, he shouldn't have said it. "I’ll remember that for the next time you offer."

“I what? .... You should zip around a pitch a few days a week, drill after drill, and we’ll see how tired you can be.”

"You should try to get clearance to the Department of Mysteries or write memos to the Minister's office-- you know, the people who run the country.” Her brows lifted. “And the Department of Magical Games and Sports.” She spoke it exasperatedly. “While carrying around your DNA for months.” She didn't mean it, was too angry to get into the logistics-- George had carried his DNA around every day of his life. Nevertheless, she meant it in a you don’t know what tired is way, as if daring him to trade places. (Which she would not do-- Waker on a broom was a nightmare.) “And I am not too tired for this. I get plenty of rest-- and so do you!” Ten straight days of blissful sleep.

Now he wanted to bring the baby into it. Again, she supposed that was what this was about-- but Waker was projecting it onto herself, assuming it was the state of pregnancy and not the actual, literal baby that was making him wary.

She didn't answer.

“No, that’s not-”

...

“Well, kind of, yeah.”

It was the pregnancy. He tried to backtrack, but it was too late. If the idea that it was work for George getting her hot and bothered made Waker prickly, the idea that he didn’t want to do the sorts of things young couples did because she was pregnant (and thus, somehow unattractive or uninteresting or wearisome) was salt in the wound. “Do you know how I got this way?” She demanded, almost icily, unsure whether she wanted to hex him, or cry, or both. Crying wasn’t an option-- she didn’t like to cry, especially not in front of other people, but had seemed to do it her fair share in the past few years, and the hormones weren’t helping-- but Waker felt the annoying sting. She pushed it back. Holding her wand with almost painful tightness now, she suddenly pulled at the sheet over which George lay: a warning that he should, perhaps, rethink sleeping so close tonight or for the near future. Waker was chronically aware of how she presented herself, and very rarely lost control, but tugging the sheet was a flimsy stand in for what she wanted to do with her wand. Her eyes shot back to his, and she waited for him to make his move-- to speak, to leave. She couldn’t decide which would make her want to hex him more.

George frowned. He thought it was kind of romantic, in its own way. The act, perhaps, more than explaining it in details. In certain ways, he had a way with words. Sometimes, however, he fell flat on his face. George was only human, after all, and an immature, egotistical, nineteen year old male at that. So if he spewed words that he didn’t really mean, well… Could someone (like Waker) really hold it against him?

An exasperated growl escaped his throat. He often didn’t have to offer. Did she ever offer? He was so concentrated on the moment at hand that he couldn’t think of long term repercussions from the few stray words that slipped from his mouth so carelessly. Another hump to get over, another day.

Eyes might have rolled (once or twice), and he had to resist the urge to mimic her with a puppet hand. It was almost too much to take. George knew his job was of different importance to whomever Waker catered to. What was she doing exactly, again? “Right, because you-”

“While carrying around your DNA for months.”

Now his teeth grit and he narrowed his eyes, taking in a sudden breath at her words. He wasn’t completely certain what DNA was, but he knew it had to do with the baby. And clearly his half of it. “Yeah, well!” Well what? His head shook suddenly before both hands went into the air in disbelief. “I carry a lot of things around!”

And then it was about rest. “You don’t know me! Maybe I am tired. Maybe I’m not resting.” Not that he meant she didn’t know him, because she obviously did. And if it wasn’t for his thought process, they wouldn’t be in this (possibly) sexually frustrated argument, heated by angry words and nasty jabs.

What was it about hurting the ones you love?

“Do you know how I got this way?”

She had a wand in her hand. George was going to need to think before he spoke… “I’m not a complete idiot.” Even if he felt like one around her a lot of the time. That look on her face spelled looming doom, but George continued to push his luck. A few more months of this? He didn’t think he could quite handle it. What bullocks.

The tug of the sheet made him shift a little, and finally he scrambled out of bed, pushing himself up to his full (short) height. At least with her on the bed he was taller. “I didn’t mean it like that. Of course I want to... you.” George was so frustrated that he let out a loud noise with movement of his arms before crossing them over his chest. Now he was guarding himself, watching her carefully. His wand was close, but dueling Waker was not going to win him any sound sleep. “I just…” His head shook. His worries were there, overwhelming him, and it was easy for someone on the outside to be reminded that he was still very much a child, no matter the ‘adult’ card he had been dealt.

From the expression on his face to the noise that left his throat, Waker quickly realized that this would be more than her arguing at George-- she would be arguing with George. His initial response was cut off, and perhaps it was a good thing, because the tension in the air was already enough for Waker to want to grab her wand.

He carried a lot of things? The momentary hitch would have made her try to suppress laughter on any other night. Right now, it wasn’t funny. It made her realize how young they were, how unplanned all of this was, and how different the adult world was from what she had imagined. What was more, despite her longing to make her niche in Wizarding Society, there was a nagging reminder that everything she knew about domestic life, family life, babies and raising them, was from the muggle world, and for George (though at the moment, Waker wasn’t sure he knew anything), it was the opposite. Waker, of course, had been doing her homework. But she was still worried. And now she was angry.

She shook her head, brows furrowed, breathing out loudly.

She didn’t know him? She didn’t know him?!

Waker raised her wand. “If I don’t know you, why are we living together?” She asked, sounding a little bit dangerous. There was a static-y feeling on the back of her neck. And if she knew the answer, if it was a reflex in her mind, the same one she’d give, she also knew he’d better not say it, not now, not that one reason. If there was such a thing as too much logic, even for Waker Nolan, those words would be it.

“I’m not a complete idiot.”

“You’re doing a great job convincing me.” Her brows raised finally with matched sarcasm.

A strange mixture of victory and impending illness hit her as he left the bed. Waker held fast to the sheet in one hand, wand in the other. Her was face was grumpy now: a frowning, slightly open mouth, cheeks bunched beneath her gaze with annoyance and a slight, wincing pain. Her eyebrows had returned to a furrowed state over an angry gaze. He talked, she listened, her face unchanged.

If the words were any comfort-- and they weren’t much, though George often had a way of sounding sincere, whatever the situation-- Waker did not let it show. “You just what?”

Waker was beautiful. George didn’t think he could find a way that she wasn’t. He did not, however, enjoy her angry face. It was still her, and therefore beautiful, but George was not about to snap a photo of it to keep around the loft. The longer their argument went on, though, the less George wanted to end it. He was naturally competitive. Growing up in his family, he’d felt the need to show that even the little guys could finish first.

Translating that to domestic life was a work in progress.

They traded noise for noise, irritation for frowns. The wand raising, however, kept George’s mouth shut long enough for him to realize it was not the smartest question to respond to. He merely let out his own breath and narrowed his eyes, speculating on numerous responses but not being brave enough (how odd a concept for the Gryffindor alumni) to voice any.

A disagreement in the bedroom made him wish he had taken more Defense Against the Dark Arts. Not whatever might meet him down some dark alleyway, not in case the next wizarding war came to be. It was being wandless next to the overachieving Head Girl.

“You’re doing a great job convincing me.”

George didn’t feel very inadequate in his life. When it came to intelligence, however, he often felt less than spectacular. Especially next to Miss Straight O. Her sarcasm was unnecessary and only proved to dig a little deeper. Standing up allowed him space; it gave much needed room to breathe. He attempted to not let it show how her comment stung.

Could he get an accio wand out of his mouth quick enough to surprise her? Long enough to hex her mouth closed? He was sure she knew enough spells that she didn’t need to state them all out loud.

“You just what?”

A head shake answered her question. He rocked back on his heels. George didn’t want to admit his concerns. It was, after all, the issue that started this whole thing. If he’d been up for a little roll in the bed, they would have never gotten this heated (at least over something so small). She nagged at him, as if she were pushing for a potion’s answer she knew he just had to know. There was no library stacks to get Waker lost in either. He could not distract her so easily.

Finally, tired of evading it and worrying about it and done with pacing around her inquisition, George threw his hands up and his voice raised in exasperation. “I don’t want to hurt the baby!” Arms quickly retreated to across his chest, shielding himself and his concern. Eyes were moody as George glared at the night stand, unable to look at her. “You know. With…” A hand untucked from his arm and waggled towards his trousers. “And, yeah. Bloody hell.”

It seemed like they were getting nowhere. George answered with a shake of his head. Really? Waker was on the verge of asking him how old he was. Or throwing a pillow. She didn’t mean to sling around words that might hurt him, but when they arguing, it was hard to keep that in mind, even with Waker’s mind.

“I don’t want to hurt the baby! [...] You know. With…”

Waker blinked. His concerns were about the baby, she knew, but they were... actually, literally about the baby. Not the pregnancy, or Waker’s changing body accommodating the baby, but the baby, and the possibility of hurting it... with his...

Her face had became less harsh and pouty as she blinked, stared, processed. She was a quick, but this was a situation in which not many people found themselves. Surely. There had been no Hogwarts class, no internship, no extracurricular to prepare Waker Nolan for this moment. Suddenly, accusing, comforting, laughing, crying, melting into the bed all seemed overwhelming. Her face became some semblance of normal, or uncomfortable verging on normal, as she said, “George, you can’t hurt the baby with your--” She gestured with a hand and intentional widening of her eyes, straightening of her mouth.

She didn’t think so, anyway.

She lowered her wand, turned to look down at her lap, and willed her face to further compose itself as she continued to ponder his confession. Staring at the back of her wand hand and her small belly, she shook off laughter. “It’s not,” she began, and then grew slightly wary, slightly more... affectionate, as the little room and their very big issues were put into a new focus, under the lens of Waker’s logic. She looked up at him. “Possible,” she finished, trying for a nice, neutral word.

She was an expert when it came to composure. In public, anyway. Around George, those walls were harder to uphold, and hours upon hours of debate practice did not make it easy to stop herself from smiling at his expense. She was fighting it, clearly.

He’d laid it all out, let her know his inner concerns, and had basically taken away his perceived ability to not let anything bother him as a growing adult male. If she laughed… George might have taken the couch. If that was her initial response, it would only further cause him to feel out of his depth. George knew he wasn’t the smartest kid around.

George let his breath out as her face changed. Maybe she saw his logic.

“George, you can’t hurt the baby with your—”

Eyes narrowed momentarily as he stood up straighter, arms crossing over his chest. Was she a healer now? Did she have to know every answer? Could she not see how he saw it? It wasn’t as if there was that far to go to get to the baby! Somehow her gesture felt more violating. “How do you know?”

George glanced away for a moment, staring at the window as he tried to think of how it couldn’t be possible, to somehow make it ok in his head. “It’s just in there. You know this isn’t…” Glancing down, as if staring at his trousers was going to make the offending appendage suddenly less than it was, George frowned. “It’s not that far in, and you were so sore, and what if it can? I don’t want to poke his head!” His words came out in a rush and suddenly he felt too tired to stand.

Shoulders slumped forward a little and a hand ran through his hair. George held on to the back of his head as he contemplated his confession.

“How do you know?”

George looked thoroughly unconvinced.

“You--” Waker faltered. It wasn’t one of her finer debating moments. How did she know? Her mind’s eyes raced over pages and pages of baby book trivia. For some reason, it was almost strange that Waker wasn’t the one worrying over this-- only it was so ridiculous, she couldn’t bring herself to. Except now she definitely was. It was illogical, it was silly, wasn’t it? She was right! Right?! “You just can’t,” she finished weakly. “That’s not how the human body is designed. If you could hurt a baby that way, people probably would have no desire during gestation. It would be instinctive.” Was she really going with that answer? “My parents are doctors,” she added, straightening up a little.

The argument was calmer now, less of an accidental magic hazard. But it was quickly crescendoing in absurdity, that particular teenage brand.

“I was sore because you were very excited about your win,” Waker said in a rush, blushing a little despite her current, possibly imaginary one-up in the debate. “We both were!” She corrected. Poke his head. Poke his head. She let out an exasperated breath, shook her head a little. It might have been the interlude of a sob or a laugh. “George, it’s not that big! You can’t reach that far!” And then, realizing she’d said what she’d been holding herself back from saying, because she didn’t mean it like that, she quickly clarified. “It’s not anatomically possible. For anyone. The baby grows farther up from where you... we...” She made another gesture with her head. Waker was mature. She had a way with words. But some words were still hard to say out loud, however very adult-like she happened to think herself or tried to be. “It actually helps near the end, to induce labor.” Maybe that would comfort him. Or worry him. Waker was sure that if that bit was true, then it stood to reason that anything they did before it would not cause head injuries. “I’ll go to the library tomorrow and look it up, alright? I’ll make sure he or she is not in danger of being poked.” As much for her sake as his, but she didn’t add that.

George felt some mild form of triumph. He’d actually made Waker Nolan, queen of debating and being Miss-know-it-all, stutter in an argument. An eyebrow rose as a smirk threatened to tug his lips higher. At the same time, however, it did have to do with something rather close to him.

“-It would be instinctive... My parents are doctors.”

A scoff escaped him as he kept his arms crossed over his chest. She had a way with words, it was true, but her ending argument was not the best. Just because her parents were doctors didn’t mean she instantly knew for certain that he wasn’t right to be cautious. Not that he wanted to be cautious! He wanted to push her hands up above her head while seeing how far into the bed he could get her.

But he had to be sensible as well! For the... baby.

If anything, his own cheeks heated up at her comment. He couldn’t deny that he had been rather excited over it. Merlin, he’d been just as excited during the second win! He’d just found a way to keep it down with alcohol. Drown the excitement out, so to speak.

BUT THEN she went on to tell him how he wasn’t that big! Mouth dropped open as he stared at her a moment. George might have even been a bit hurt over that comment, if for the fact that he knew he was just fine, thank you very much!

Or was she comparing him to... that other bloke? Suddenly feeling defensive, George stood up straighter, squaring out his shoulders. “Mmhm.” His disapproving face morphed into a slight grimace. The idea of labor made him a bit queasy, if he was honest.

“I’ll go to the library tomorrow and look it up, alright? I’ll make sure he or she is not in danger of being poked.”

Finally he rubbed the back of his head and glanced down at the floor. It wasn’t as if she could run to the library right then and find it; he would have to wait. Not that she had exactly gotten him in the mood anyway! George finally nodded his head, waiting a few more seconds before slowly dragging his feet on his way back to bed. Sitting on the edge, George pouted a bit and held his hands in his lap. “Straight away?”

It seemed neither one of them were buying her argument. Waker let it go, the unknowns, and focused on what seemed logical: how far George’s quidditch equipment could get him. “I didn’t mean it like that!” She said immediately, hopelessly, waiting for someone to pop out of the wardrobe and give her a hand. A boggart would have been a blessing right about now. The color in George’s cheeks, the indignant mouth, made Waker feel exceptionally guilty and misconstrued. She couldn’t sue herself for libel; that wouldn’t be logical. “I mean... it’s very big. Very.” She paused. She thought they needed it. “But it’s not, no one’s is...” She gestured again, eyes going to wide to emphasize any number of adjectives, words that were not ‘big.’ Maybe strong? No. Tractable, percipient, multifaceted. “Enough... to poke through the womb. There’s walls and barriers and things. It’s protective. It exists for that reason.” Among others. But that was the simple explanation, one they both seemed to need right now.

Again, with each in their corner and Waker attempting to argue these (unlike George’s stuff) minuscule points, she felt so young. Too young. She was having a baby with a baby, and she was a baby. It was more or less what father’s face had said when she’d finally told her parents. No, no. She was not a baby. She was an adult, a witch without the Trace, who could perform magic legally, who had a promising career ahead of her at the Ministry of Magic.

“George, yours is...” Waker tried to straighten up, to be candid, to look knowing and calm and not tomato-colored. She didn’t quite look him in the eye, but stared down at her hands, composing her face, speaking to them as if practicing for an interview. She hadn’t seen many of them. But she didn’t need to, to know. It was the sort of thing one could quickly conclude through various exercises. And reading charts and studies. “It’s overwhelming, I promise.” And she did. These things were just easier to say without clothes on, and in fewer syllables.

Between wanting to shout and cry, another laugh threatened, this time one of relief. It sounded as if-- if Waker wasn’t mistaken, and she thought her observatory skills were quite good, even in this situation-- George was anxious to get confirmation and get back to their usually (non-scheduled, certainly not planned) activities. She felt less of a desire to attack him with pillows than she had a moment ago, and did not raise her wand again when he returned to the bed. Straight away? She glanced at him quickly. “First thing in the morning.” She might even skip the queue.