Flour littered the countertop like snow sprinkling over a garden - lightly in the beginning, and covering unmoving objects in the end.

Not to mention the brown sugar, speckles of salt and sugar, and remnants of egg shells. George didn’t seem to understand cleaning up as he went. The most important thing was that he was trying. ‘O’ for effort, right? It didn't dawn on him that perhaps the meticulous young perfectionist that he'd moved in with might see the kitchen in a different light.

He bit his lower lip while beating the mixture, listening absentmindedly to the wireless. The afternoon game had been going on for a while-it was early evening now; the dessert was almost done baking, and he had the shepherd's pie to put in now. Or would, once he’d finished.

A collective cheer rose as the commentator remarked about the latest score. George shook his head in disbelief. From all the sounds, it was an easy deflect.

A few minutes later, the cookies were cooling on top of the oven while dinner baked. Flour was smeared across his forehead and into his hairline, while his wand was speckled with dots along the wood. After a few practice sweeps, George had cleaned the kitchen (in his own way).

It might not have been perfect, but it wasn’t as bad as it had been. He rewarded himself with a cookie before setting the table. A groan escaped him, hearing the poor defense that was set up, placing forks next to plates hastily. Waker would be home soon, if she left work on time, and he was going to be more than a bit of a surprise (since he’d been floating from couch to hotel room).

Still... it was less of a surprise than finding both his mum and him there. She’d left shortly after getting him in the right direction. Last Waker and he had communicated (if you could call it that) was at the dinner with his parents. To say he wasn't nervous would be a flat out lie. George was much more likely to skim the truth; he wasn't one to blatantly lie straight out. He didn't see any point in it. His mum had made it clear that he had to take the stinging charm and suck it up. Bite the doxy, or something.

George quickly washed his hands, drying them on the apron he had on before hurriedly pulling it off. It was bundled up in a ball, left on the counter as he peeked into the oven, admiring the dinner he'd made. The shirt he had underneath was saved, thankfully, and he glanced down at it once again. It wasn’t his fault Ravenclaw was such an awkward name.

outfit

Waker had been working on a project for weeks now, one that needed to be finished before the winter holidays. While it was a daunting task, and one that many wouldn't wish for just before a promised break, Waker was thankful for it. It kept her busy. It kept her mind on work and not the mountain of other things she had to think about. Even now, as she walked away from the street-level, muggle-friendly entrance of the Ministry (which sprawled quite impressively below), she carried stacks and binders and papers she could pour over, revise, double check with others on. Her parents had given her the money for an owl as a graduation gift, and Waker had been putting the bird to hard work after regular working outs. Luckily, she was a nocturnal creature and enjoyed her job. She had recently been looking into setting up a Floo connection in the flat, but that take quite a bit of work. Certainly it could-- and should-- be done before the Big Life-Changing Event arrived.

But it had already arrived, in a way. It was why she had made George go, wasn't it? He didn't seem to understand that they were already living it. And now here was Waker, flustered and planning for the big arrival, and still more than a little nervous about calling it what it was. It was easier to tack on some vague title, like the name of one of so many impending but sure to be hurried morning meetings. Her expression soured at her own nervousness, her fear, even, before she sighed and turned on her heal, Apparating to one end of the little, sweet neighborhood-y block where the flat was nestled. She walked up road past three neatly-kept buildings and a pair of attached houses with little front gardens, and pulled out her keys when she reached their building. She checked the muggle mail as she bumped into a neighbor making their way out, even though it was a silly habit and even her parents had come to expect receiving and sending mail through an owl. (In fact, she suspected her father was fond of the owl Waker had chosen, and even preferred the magical system to the muggle one. Her mother was fine with it, but always needlessly cautioned everyone to wash their hands. They were a family of hand washers, the pair of doctors and their precocious child, now-young-adult.) Checking the mail the muggle way was an easy cover, a safe way to fit in with the other world in which they lived. She had taught George to look for rent statements and electric bills that way... Waker switched to the building key and moved inside. The stairs were easy, enjoyable even now. She felt like she was getting something done as she climbed them.

If she hadn't put sound barrier charms up when they'd moved in, she might have been tipped off by the quidditch announcer. But their neighbors hearing such things was not an option, and so Waker did not suspect that George was home until she unlocked the door and stepped into the apartment.

Even then, her heart jumped a little and for a moment she thought maybe someone had broken in... to cook an entire meal, by the scent of it. Her eyes swept to the dining room table (her hand had already drawn her wand). It was set for two. And then she saw him.

"You," she began, but not in the accusatory way. Rather, she stumbled over her words (and was annoyed with herself for it). "... scared me."

She lowered her wand, looked over her shoulder to be sure no neighbors had seen the I opportune moment, turned, poked her head into the corridor, and withdrew quietly, closing the door. She set her briefcase and purse down, but did not remove her coat. She crossed her arms and stared at him, feeling awkward, like they were in school again. She felt like a little girl, like the teenager she was-- the panic was building and the need to escape was also strong. It wasn't as if those moments were very long ago. She didn't want George to know that she felt so young and awkward, though. Still, seeing him hurt. Waker was good at hiding emotion when she wanted to, but she was less comfortable with emotional situations than some people were. They couldn't be predicted.

"What are you doing here?" She asked after a moment. Her eyes were drawn to his shirt. It was that familiar shade of red, after all. When she read the word, she had to fight back a blush. It wasn't what she had expected him to show up wearing. She hadn't expected him to show up at all! Her intuition told her this wasn't a case of George having no one else's couch to borrow. She could feel some of the ice melting, that instinct to tell him to go away again softening. And then: "Did you cook?" She might have sounded more disbelieving than she could have.

George was enjoying a beer as he leaned against the counter, listening absentmindedly to the game. Well, at least he’d started to enjoy it, taking a gulp when the door opened. He blinked back into focus and turned his head to Waker as she walked in, standing up suddenly. Dinner only had a few more minutes to bake...

Hands went up to shoulder height, one holding the beer, the other a half eaten cookie, as he tried to look as non-threatening as possible. The wand wasn’t very friendly. He blinked at her words; they were the first he’d heard from her since dinner at his parents house. George couldn’t help but grin, albeit a bit sheepishly. While she took to scanning the hallway, George took another quick sip, before he sat his things down on the counter. He pushed away from the kitchen, standing by the dining room table with his hands in his trousers. “Sorry.”

Realizing quickly that the wireless was perhaps too loud for a conversation, he started and quickly jumped to the task of turning it down, hunched over slightly as he did. Finally he stood back and looked at her, smiling.

“What are you doing here?”

His smile faltered. George bit his lower lip and gave a half shrug, suddenly short for words. Hands were back in his pockets as he tried to think of how to tell her everything he’d thought about in the time apart. Tongue darted over his lips; how she could make him sweat where a stadium of people couldn’t, he’d never figure out.

“Did you cook?”

Part of his smile came back, lifting up one side of his mouth as he glanced over his shoulder, nodding. “Yeah, nothing too big...” He scratched absentmindedly at the back of his head, finally looking back at her. “It’s almost ready.” George almost offered to get her a beer before swallowing that idea. “Butterbeer?” His stomach was in knots. He sprung to life, hands coming out of his pockets as he made his way into the kitchen, pulling one out of the fridge.

Walking back towards the dining room, he popped off the top before handing it to her, grinning as he glanced over her outfit. “You look stunning. How was work?"

George like he was surrendering in the middle of a beer and biscuit heist. It made Waker feel a little less jumpy, somehow, but the smile made her insides dance. Somehow, checking for eavesdroppers and accidental witnesses to the wand she now held was calming. When she returned her attention to inside the flat— with the door closed safely between the neighbors and the young currently-not-cohabitating couple— some of the jittery feeling nevertheless seemed more pronounced. She had certainly not expected him. There hadn’t been an owl or word from his cousin— or whomever George was staying with. Was, in the past tense, apparently.

Her first question went unanswered, but the confirmation that he had cooked made her open her mouth and close it again. George had shown up out of nowhere and had… cooked dinner. For them? “I… sure.” Her voice felt small, but she moved into the kitchen after him, pausing only a moment to further consider what was happening, try to put it together in her head. It was obvious, though, even if he hadn’t answered question: this was some sort of truce, an attempt at making peace, complete with a homemade meal. She wondered, for a moment, what he had made; the biscuits smelled good. He must have been paying attention to his mother’s recipes or reading from one of the books in their small kitchen.

Their kitchen… Waker stood between the kitchen and the dining room, looked around, noting the many signs of life. It was not the way she had left it this morning, with only a rinsed out glass in the sink and the counters wiped into shiny obedience. He was the bit of it that didn’t look slightly out of place.

She accepted the butterbeer before she could further inspect it, get anxious about it, and instead retreated a few steps back into the dining room. She only glanced back once before focusing her attention on George. Getting anxious about the kitchen might have been the easy thing to do, but it also wouldn’t solve anything. Try as she might to be the most adult of adults a nineteen-year-old could be, there was some things that made her jealous of childhood. She was never good at these sorts of conversations— revealing her feelings, her insecurities. George seemed determined to ease into it, had started with the basics and not the Big Questions.

“Thanks. It was good. Well, busy. Chaos, really,” she elaborated, thinking on the stacks upon stacks of paperwork. But bureaucratic chaos was exactly what she had needed, was the sort of thing she could tackle easily. Or, well, persistently. “But good. You? I mean— did you have practice today? Why are you here?” She repeated. “You didn’t owl. If I had known I would have…” Cooked dinner? He’d covered that. She gestured to the kitchen, which had been nearly pristine this morning. “Cleaned.” It wasn’t exactly the confrontational argument she had envisioned their reunion to be, though she had spent a fair amount of time avoiding envisioning it (and maybe a few moments in the bathroom mirror each morning practicing a sort of glare). She set down the butterbeer and stared at him. It wasn’t that she hadn’t missed him, that a part of her didn’t ache for his company, for that smile, for the silly, adventurous ideas in his head, but she needed to know. “You know you can’t just make dinner.” She did appreciate it, though. If the biscuits tasted as good as they smelled, she could get used to George baking more often. “If you’re not ready for this George, biscuits aren’t going to be enough.” She looked down toward her stomach and back up at him.

It wasn’t often that George could surprise Waker, or cause her to stumble over her words. More often, he felt as if he was the blundering one. He stole glances her way, glancing her over as he tried to drink her in, as if he could fill himself up of her in case she sent him away. George had to look away before running into the fridge, and while fumbling for the bottle, and then he could focus on her as he walked back.

If there was anything undeniable, it was how easily pulled in to her he felt. She had a magnetism to her, something that drew him in for another breath. She had hold of his heart, among other things, and the baby bump only seemed to dram him closer. George should be there to protect her, both of... hers.

George was jealous of how easily growing up came to Waker. There were days where he wished he still had another year in Hogwarts. He had enjoyed being a star Quidditch player; now, he was a name on a jersey that die hard fans learned the name of. He wasn’t a household name, and he hadn’t been promised a renewed contract yet. The reality of adulthood didn’t live up to what he had boasted about.

As she talked, he listened, leaning on the counter as he narrowed his eyes, assessing her as he lightly bit on his thumb. He gave his hand a distraction, grabbing the beer he had been sipping and taking a drink. Chaos described it all well.

“But good. You? I mean--”

George gave a half shrug again, nodding his head at her question of practice. His mouth opened to tell her about the ridiculous drills the coach had them run, but her next question held his tongue.

He didn’t owl? Confusion slipped over his face; just because he’d been crashing on couches didn’t mean he hadn’t planned on coming home. At least, that was what he thought. Suddenly he felt foolish for showing up. A hand found its way into the pocket of his trousers as he glanced down at the bottle, turning it over slowly in his hand as if it was the most interesting thing in the room.

“You know you can’t just make dinner.”

He almost asked why not, but instead gave another half shrug and mumble of “I know.” Even if he didn’t understand why he knew, or why he couldn’t just make dinner. She’d only just told him to check out Emmylou’s pad for an unspoken amount of time.

“If you’re not ready for this George, biscuits aren’t going to be enough.”

Finally he looked up, rolling his shoulders back as he stood a little straighter. He took another sip of beer before setting the bottle down on the counter. She hadn’t tasted them yet, how did she know?

He almost wished he had a bottle of Felix Felicis. “You know... why I’m here.” His arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the counter, frowning at her as he considered her statements. She had to know at least the simplest reason. “It’s just a way to say I’m sorry. For how I reacted.” He cleared his throat before glancing down to her belly. “And for not being... supportive and excited every step of the way.”

“And I am sorry.” Hands once again found their way to his pocket as he pushed off the counter, stepping slowly towards her. Once he was in front of her, his voice quieted as he stared at the space between them, eyes taking in the top of her belly. One hand slipped out as he carefully laid it on her belly, his thumb caressing the side cautiously. “I’m not ready to have a daughter.” He almost couldn’t say the words, but he forced them out, feeling his cheeks burn.

“You can screw up with a son, and you can say you’re just letting him figure things out, you know?” He hadn’t explained it well enough, he knew that. Still, he was trying. George wet his lips before glancing up towards her. “What do I know about girls besides trying to get- to flirt? Even Emily, I have never really seen her as a girl. She’s just always been... there.” His voice got quieter as he finally let his fear out. “I’m afraid I’m going to muck it up. This isn't some essay I can skip over, or a book I can shove down the bin."

While there were plenty of people who couldn’t imagine tackling stacks of paperwork and making sense of the flurry of schedules for the Ministry’s higher-ups, Waker knew that it took a certain kind of person to train on an icy quidditch pitch in the middle of December. (Though she had seen, a couple of times, the drills the coach made George and Edmund do; she supposed they got warm enough fast enough, and the cold was only another element testing their physical endurance). She liked to jog and count her vitamins, but weaving in and out of goal posts ten days before Christmas sounded much harder than trying to work out the specifics of inter-Department red tape. “Oh,” was all she could say, blinking. She nodded. And then: “I hope you stayed warm.”

He looked good now; she thought he must had a warm shower and a change of clothes before all of this… That he had let himself into the apartment and cooked dinner and baked biscuits was still catching her off guard. Waker was not accustomed to surprises, but George was full of them. It was part of why she loved him: he brought an element of unknown, unexpected to the acutely measured days of young adulthood. But she also loved the familiarity, his warmth, his voice, his pretty lips. Though she was angry with him, and did not mean to give in easily without coming to a very serious understanding, a part of her was relieved to see him, too, to know that he was the one taking the first steps toward fixing things.

As she interrogated him, she hadn’t necessarily meant to make him feel terrible for attempting to do just that, or to confuse matters more, but as good as George was at surprises, Waker’s initial reactions almost always ranged from flustered to panicky. Maybe asking why he hadn’t owled before coming over to his own flat was a little harsh… but she had been resolute when she suggested he leave, and she had thought their reunion would be more… planned.

“I know.”

Her face relaxed a little, lips parted a bit, and she almost nodded. She wanted to sigh with relief. At least they were one step ahead of where they had been. It almost made her wince, to think on the disastrous end to their trip to the doctor’s office.

“You know... why I’m here.”

She did know. She waited for him to continue, to say it, to say what needed to be said, but she knew. A part of her had known he’d come back before she asked him to; that was George, who he was. He made mistakes. Waker made mistakes. But he was good, an innately good person, and she knew if they’d both made mistakes, big mistakes, she had not made one in choosing him. Still, like George, Waker could be stubborn. They were stubborn in different ways, to be sure, but it was there, it was part of their dynamic. She waited, did not say anything until he was finished. Her own arms were crossed as he approached, but her eyes looked down at his hands when he reached out. She stiffened for a moment, and then softened.

“And I am sorry… I’m not ready to have a daughter.”

“You think I am?” She asked in a loud whisper, a breathy confession. She usually tried to hide the fact that she was scared. "But we don’t have a choice now. We have to be.” That was the truth. “Girls aren’t made of glass, George. Children are children.” Nerve-wracking and unpredictable, even when they were asking you for a book instead of a quaffle. "You can’t mess up with boys or girls without consequences.” There was no inherent mold for either. The unknown was part of why so nervous. That, and that she hadn’t expected any of this.

“You know plenty about girls, though,” she said, more seriously, earnest. "You think your flirting skills are the only reason I’m with you?” She eyed him with the moody indignation she might have given him back at Hogwarts, when he was trying to move decades-old trophies from the safety of their shelves, or trade cauldrons for kisses.

"She’s half you, isn’t she?” She asked, in a way that suggested that it worried her as much as it endeared her. She could only imagine a child who preferred flying to reading, and diving to counting, and using her wand to create mischief instead of practicing and studying from the word go to follow Waker to the Ministry. But there were just as many girls like that as there were boys, and there was a charm to George that made her wonder if his genes weren’t all dominant. “Luckily she’ll have Phillip for an uncle, if she has to have Emily for a cousin.” She smiled a little, but then her face became more serious and she took his hand gingerly from her stomach. “You won’t screw up if you try. You’re brave and you’re good and you have a big heart. You’ve probably been around more babies than I have.” She looked down, a little nervous for a moment, losing her voice, and then looked back up, caught his eyes. "You’re a lot smarter than you think you are. Like this place— when you found it without telling me, I thought it would be a disaster, but I like it a lot now.”

“You have to promise me that you’ll try,” she said finally, more seriously, an ultimatum as she squeezed his hand. If he thought she wouldn’t send him away again, he didn’t know her. But he did know her, and that was why she was making him promise, why she held his hand.

Considering everything else they should talk about, whether George stayed warm or not during his practice seemed... insignificant. Regardless, he gave her a small smile in response. Layers aided the chill, and an anti-icing spell on key clothing assisted with sight and feel. His nose could stay red for hours after a long match (or practice), however, and he much preferred to warm up next to a fire or under a few blankets.

At the very least, a nearly scalding hot shower had helped bring life back into his fingers and toes. That had been hours ago, though, and he had other things to focus on.

Preferably not Waker’s face, however. She could convey a number of emotions with her eyes, and though he enjoyed watching it usually, George was afraid it might make him back down. Perhaps that was one reason he focused on her belly. He wondered if he would feel movement, if the little girl inside would give him some sort of sign. Or reprimand.

“You think I am?”

George blinked in confusion as he glanced up towards her. Of course he did. She was always ready for anything. Where he didn’t plan or figure things out, George knew Waker was there to make sure it all went to plan. He nearly rolled his eyes at her statement; the way his mum had raised him, she would have wanted him to think girls were made of glass. “I know-” How many times did that have to slip off his tongue? A frustrating response mired with the simple fact that he didn’t really know.

And if he disagreed with her next statement, then he kept his mouth closed about it. Boys were nearly indestructible. You threw them out in the elements to figure themselves out, and that was it. Sure, there had probably been a few rebukes here and there (or more than a few, if memory served), a reset in a course that would’ve led him astray, but... nothing like if he’d been a girl, definitely. Maybe.

“You think your flirting skills are the only reason I’m with you?”

George’s eyebrow rose as he glanced up at her, a small smile slipping on to his lips at the thought. He liked to think it was a fair reasoning behind it. The flirting, his easy going charm, it had been for a specific reason. At least in the last few years. He supposed, however, that he had a fair amount of friends who were girls that he hadn’t managed to talk into a bed, and that he hadn’t wanted to either. “That and maybe how well I can impersonate a trophy.” Which was probably not very well.

“She’s half you, isn’t she?”

He made a face, suddenly unsure of it all. His fingers spread out against her belly. “That terrifies me a little bit more.” His voice was a whisper, confiding to her in their empty apartment. As if the little thing in her stomach could hear and understand and decide to act on George’s worries. Where it worried him to pieces, though, it also made him stand a little taller. Plus it would be half Waker; surely some of her sense would come through.

If he made a face before, it was nothing compared to the reminder of Phillip. George couldn’t help the grin that slid across his face, holding her hand lightly as he looked up to her face once again.

And even if she was pumping him up, trying to puff his chest out (and it was working), he appreciated her words more than he could explain. That she might think he was smarter than he thought... well. He must’ve done that good of a job during their study sessions.

“You have to promise me that you’ll try.”

His free hand ran fingers through his hair as he looked at her. It wasn’t a question, but he made her wait nonetheless. Finally he grinned and let his hand move around her waist as far as he could reach, squeezing her hand back. “Of course. On one condition.” He leaned forward and let his lips rest near her ear, whispering a personal circumstance. Before she could respond, he winked at her as he pulled back and lightly guided her with the arm around her back towards the dining room table. George’s tea was going to burn if he didn’t get it out of the oven.

Waker had done her best to be prepared, and outwardly, she knew she looked it. Obviously George thought so. But she wasn’t ready, either. They were young and had had little experience with this sort of thing; one had to start somewhere, but neither had probably envisioned it being so soon. She was doing what she had to to catch up, to have the best chance, to give the best chance to their new little family. She had also done everything she could to convince everyone around her that she knew exactly what she was doing, but she hadn’t thought she’d fooled George so thoroughly. At least he didn’t argue her point. She might have become panicky having to elaborate that she might be less than good, less than prepared.

“That and maybe how well I can impersonate a trophy.”

Seeing his smile as opposed to his disappointment— that expression that had infuriated her, broken her heart just a little, temporarily, a couple of weeks ago— was a healthy change of pace. She felt herself warming to him, even though there were still things they has to set straight and agree upon before she was ready to go back to normal. The new normal. “That’s part of it, too,” she agreed. But there were other things, underneath the cool-as-a-rebelious-movie-star exterior, that had drawn her to him.

 “That terrifies me a little bit more.”

“Mixed with my half,” she added. A reminder, a little cheeky. And a dash of the Carter family— Phillip, his mother. One never knew exactly what sort of personality their families combined might produce. Maybe she would have a little bit of Phillip’s character, certainly at least his influence, nevermind George’s expression at his brother’s name. She looked down at his fingers, hands that were used to quaffles and the thrill of new experiences. This was not the same sort of adventure or puzzle that George Carter usually found himself tangled in, she knew. But this was half his doing. Though she had promised that children were not made of glass, there was a delicateness there under his hands; she knew why it frightened him, but she needed him to be the same daring spirit he had been since they’d met. Waker’s quick-thinking and hyper-preparedness would be even stronger when paired with George’s boldness and energy.

She squeezed her hand a little harder, indignantly as he leaned in to whisper. As he pulled back, shared a wink, her expression said Don’t push it. “I think I’m the one who should be giving conditions,” she reasoned, joining him at the table. Again she glanced around for telltale signs of his presence, trying to figure out just how long he had been making their home his home again while Waker had been at work. “Like you cooking more often.”

Where Waker didn’t want to focus or talk about how unprepared she might be (or feel), George felt the same way talking about how scared he felt. That wasn’t his personality. Having to confess that he was afraid, even to Waker, had probably been what sparked her kicking him out in the first place. It had taken him a while to swallow the fear (and perhaps a mother’s kind kick to his arse).

He didn’t want to have to touch on it again, though. He all ready said he was afraid he was going to screw it up, and George had even gone as far to say having a kid with half him in it terrified him. Hopefully that would be enough for Waker. If he made jokes and focused on other things, it was to draw away from statements all ready put into words.

“Mixed with my half.”

George gave her a bigger grin. “Maybe she’ll use books to climb on.” That would be ingenuity from both sides. The sudden thought made his eyes widen as he glanced over her shoulder towards the neat stacks of books. Perhaps they would have to move them out of child reach. Though he wanted a boisterous mini-me, the thought of the kid having pig tails in a dress and doing some of the things he had... it started to cause a fluttering in his chest.

He had to focus on the here-and-now. And so he pulled his gaze quickly back to Waker’s face, eyes taking her in, focusing momentarily on her full lips. Too soon, maybe. His eyes flickered back to hers. Her threatening promise pulled his attention back in once more.

“I think I’m the one who should be giving conditions.”

George merely smirked at the look on her face, tilting his head slightly. “You think so?” He pulled a chair out for her before moving towards the kitchen; hopefully dinner hadn’t burned yet. “You haven’t tried it yet. It might taste like toad’s poo.” An idle hand picked up his beer on the way past, taking a swig. A few moments later (and perhaps a couple loud bangs as he jostled the meal out of the oven), George brought it in one-[oven mitt]-handed.

“You’re my personal taste tester.” Eyebrows wiggled at her before he sat the food down on the table, offering her a knife that he’d tucked in his back pocket. He had only so many hands, after all, and he wanted to hold on to his drink.

"To reach more books, you mean," Waker clarified for him, with an 'I agree' face. Their child could be dexterous and have good balance... But she would also be a reader, even if Waked had to turn the flat into a library. She knew as well as anyone that she couldn't control someone's personality, but she could teach.

She noticed George focusing on her lips, but made no indication that she had. There would be time for that, eventually. (It wasn’t as if she hadn’t noticed his, too.) They had a dinner to get through, and quit a bit of talking to do. Waker was determined to do things at a steady pace that would make the Hufflepuff founder weep with pride-- and neither of them were Hufflepuff alums.

She said 'think' but what she meant was, "I know so." she left little room for argument, but sank graciously into the chair had pulled out for her. "Hopefully it doesn't taste like that. I'm not sure you have time for professional cooking classes..." she trailed off casually enough. When he disappeared into the kitchen again, her eyes once more began to roam around for things out of place, signs that their flat was being lived in. In the past few weeks, neither had put in the time to enjoy it, but she hadn't lied, it was growing on her. Her ears tried to discern any unsettling (i.e. disorganized) sounds from the kitchen. She could (would) always look later, make sure the stove was still a stove.

When he returned, it was with an oven-mit instead of a keeper's glove. The sight was almost comical, but Waker kept a well-trained serious face; it was a skill that George tested, but she was beginning to remaster it around him. Maybe their little vacation had been good for more reasons than one. "If you send me to St. mungo's, you're covering the rent on your own for ten years," she promised. And then: "George! You can't hold a knife like that. You'll cut someone or yourself." she reached for it carefully but purposefully, holding it the way one should hold a knife-- not in a pocket. Her eyes were much less playful than that thing George always did with his eyebrows as she demonstrated to the twenty-year-old professional athlete how to hold a knife.

When she thought he'd seen enough to know better, she cut a small bite from the still-very-hot plate and tried it, tentatively. As she chewed, she glanced in his direction, then swallowed and smiled. “If you put this much effort into knife-handling and baby-raising, you might be on to something.” She would still need to peak at the kitchen, though. “It's really good,” she clarified, still smiling, and then waited for him to join her.

George squinted at her as he scratched his head, mouth pushed to the side as he considered her words. The slow response slipped out of his mouth. “Yeah.” Obviously. To reach more books. She would be half Waker; it wasn’t too far-fetched. A mellower DNA match to his rambunctious genes, even if she did help him with his jeans.

Any other woman who could have been in Waker’s current predicament (in alternate universes and other circumstances); they all seemed wilder, crazier. Less likely to focus on plans and proper preparations for diaper changes and crib placement. For example, Laney. No-no. She should never be synonymous with child-rearing. And Quinn? The party girl herself... Probably not into the whole baby throw-up at three in the morning, unless it was herself. No use even thinking into how Eleanor would be. Annoying the kid with a camera in their face all the time.

Waker was just, how do you say, perfect. At least for him, and George knew that. Perhaps that was one reason he was here, having cooked dinner.

While she accepted the offered seat, George smirked and rolled his eyes. “They’ll ask me to teach classes after this dish.” His ego was always there to plow through and be heard, even if he wasn’t completely sure of his efforts. Cocksure was one way to describe the Gryffindor alum.

The thread of a St. Mungo’s trip lightened the mood-for George, anyway. “I’m sure I can afford-” a trip to St. Mungo’s was cut off with her admonishment of his name. Frowning as he looked at her, he shrugged as if he didn’t know what she was talking about. He leaned on the table and let out a slow breath as she showed him how to use a knife. Really?

He grinned with her compliment, dishing himself a good helping before sitting down next to her. He followed the first bite down with a sip of beer. “Thanks. Put some sweat and blood into it.” He winked at her to show he was teasing-there shouldn’t be any blood in there. With another bite in his mouth, he chewed as he thought, glancing around for a moment to gather his thoughts. “W’ere do ya think the crib’ll go?” He wiped his lips off with a napkin as he swallowed, raising eyebrows in question. If she had more she needed to get off her chest, this was the time. George wasn’t going to go looking for trouble, though.

“Don’t get too far ahead of yourself. If it tastes alright, you should try cooking for more people next time...” Like Waker and his parents. Then again, the idea of another family dinner so soon was a little nerve-inducing. The last one had been quite tense, given that it had followed the news that they were having a girl, and Waker had still not quite gotten used to the fact that his parents knew what they had done (because there was evidence).

Whether or not they could afford a trip to St. Mungo’s, Waker did not plan to spend her evening there. Least of all because George had cooked dinner. If it was that bad, she deserved not to have to have pay rent for a decade while he made amends (and took those cooking classes; they would find a place in his schedule). Keeping him from sending himself to St. Mungo’s seemed like it might also be a challenge. She realized wasn’t surprised that George was so careless with a a knife, but, well, she sort of was. There should be a limit to fearlessness. “Don’t look at me like that. You need your hands, don’t you?” She challenged. She was rather fond of them, too. “By the way, how did you get that out of the drawer?” She had baby-proof charmed all of the drawers and cabinets in the house while he was on his little holiday.

Of course, blood and sweat. That what she wanted to hear while her mouth was full. She scrunched her face  lightly in a sarcastic, close-mouthed smile (she was still eating, and etiquette was important). She considered his question as she chewed, then swallowed, and cast her gaze across the living room to the very small “study” adjacent their bedroom. It was more of a storage closet with a window. (In fact, she had been stacking the things she’d bought in there.) “I think we can fit in there if we’re really organized with the shelves.” A silver-lining. Waker could do that. But there was no way they would fit a crib and a changing table and a rocking chair. “I can shrink seasonal things,” she said. “Or maybe we should put it with us and keep everything else in there, like a big wardrobe...” It was the only way the room would ever be described as big. Having a crib in their room wasn’t ideal; the baby would have to stay with them for a while, anyway, but... she could already imagine trying to step around a bulky crib in the middle of the night or early morning, and the predicaments it might cause. And then when she got a bit older... “That makes more sense,” she reasoned, trying to convince herself. It was real now. She looked down at her plate, lifted her fork. They were doing well enough for young people, but the living situation would be cozy. There was no way around it. She took another bite and tried not to think about it too hard. It was the first time in a long time. Maybe it was good to relax a bit, breathe, enjoy the reunion and the fast-approaching holiday.

As if they’d have enough room in their apartment to host a large cooking party. “Invite your folks and I’ll invite mine. Where do you think they will all fit?” He gave her as innocent a grin as he could conjure up, full of sarcasm as he tilted his head. “We could have them over for Christmas.” George was assuming he was going to get to come back and stay. He promised, after all, to try. That was good enough to allow him back in to bed, yeah?

The apartment, at least. Their couch was rather comfortable, when he didn’t stuff books under the cushions.

“Don’t look at me like that. You need your hands, don’t you?”

“A few of my fingers, anyway.” He wiggled them at her with a not-so-innocent smirk, eyebrow cocked in silent knowledge. Then again, he was sure they didn’t make custom fingered keeper gloves cheaply. If he had to choose, he would keep his thumb, pointer, and middle finger. The pinky was unnecessary, unless he was at a fancy dinner party, and the ring finger... well. He wasn’t the biggest fan of jewelry.

“By the way, how did you get that out of the drawer?”

His tongue darted out quickly to wet his lips at the question, glancing back over his shoulder momentarily. George could fix part of the drawer... He had all ready hidden most of damage in the bin. He’d just take out the trash, obviously. The first drawer that refused to budge to his yank had been blasted open. It seemed perfectly logical that it was stuck with some sticking charm, and needed to be pried away from it. The knife that had stuck in the cabinet opposite had been worked out of the wood before he cleaned up.

That his mum had had to come over and show him the way around the kitchen (and all the lovely charms Waker had put in) made him less willing to explain himself. “I just... you know, used a counter charm to the... charm you’d put.” After Penelope had shown him a couple of times, but who needed to know that?

And who baby proofed before the baby could walk?!

Preoccupied with food in his mouth, George followed her gaze to the smallest room in the apartment (next to their bedroom ‘closet,’ anyway). “Oh, right, I can work on the shelves my next day off.” Perhaps this wasn’t the best question to ask the Type A in the relationship. Then it hit him; he had the perfect Christmas gift! Well, aside from a couple walnuts for her stocking...

“Whatever you think, love.” He talked around a bit of food before he swallowed, enjoying another gulp of beer after it. George didn’t have much sense with decorating, and Waker seemed to like her decorating more than his anyway.

The idea of having a dinner party was laughable. The idea of sitting at a dinner table with both of their parents felt more daunting than any job interview Waker could have dreamed up. It would take all sorts of preparation, though obviously she wouldn’t let her nerves show. “I think a nice, quiet Christmas sounds good,” she said, with a calm smile. Full of organizing, labeling, list-making… They could visit their parents on Christmas Eve or Christmas day for a few hours, and then not have to worry about hosting family while also preparing for… everything. “Unless your cousin wants to come over and help you cook.” That would happen.

She shook her head, though she wasn’t unamused. She liked his hands. But she’d meant that he needed them for work, the kind that came with a paycheck, not just a Waker slowly giving him points back. It would be slow— he’d have to earn it, she decided. This made her smile, though she covered it by looking down at her plate, taking another bite.

She looked back up again, however, to wonder exactly what charm he’d used to get the drawer open. “So you’ve been reading those baby and parenting books, then?” The one on Household Charms (2009 edition, and Waker had already pre-ordered the 2010 edition) had been helpful, though she was surprised George had had time to read it. Especially since she’d told him to stay elsewhere and had bought it while he was away. She had caught his glance to the kitchen, followed it for a moment, but she was trying to think optimistically, push forward with this little reunion. Or at least, humor him. “Did you see the page on the Edge-Softening Charm? That might help if you’re going to work on the shelves. I can do those after, though.” Team work.

George considered their families and holiday fun all wrapped up into one big christmas card. His mum would be ecstatic to have a get-together, but she’d probably be weary about having it at their apartment. She liked preparation and room to enjoy a family ‘reunion’ in. “She might... As long as it’s something simple and full of taste testing along the way, I’m sure.” Chocolate chip biscuits were George’s favorite, personally.

“Maybe just have them all together somewhere else for the holiday.” He returned her smile, though his head wasn’t full of possible lists and check boxes. George would probably set out some wine and appetizers and call it ready-for-company. Which was part of why he only joked about family coming over, knowing Waker’s affinity for perfection.

“So you’ve been reading those baby and parenting books, then?”

His only saving grace was that his mouth was full of food, and so he paused long enough to look at her, chew as he considered his options, and finished it with a tight smile (so as not to show her all his deliciously masticated food). “I’ve had a lot of time to myself.” It wasn’t a lie, per say, it just wasn’t the whole truth. She wouldn’t fault him that, right?

The anxiety that suddenly jumped up when she glanced towards the kitchen made his eyes widen considerably.

“Did you see the page on the Edge-Softening Charm?”

His tongue worked a piece of food out of his teeth, taking an extra long moment to consider his options. “I didn’t, no. I’ll have to look at it.” Another glance to the kitchen entrance and George sighed, rolling his eyes. “I didn’t really know about the charmed cabinets. Not at first. But it’s not that big of a deal! I’ll have it fixed in no time.” Feeling suddenly lighter from his admission, he gave her an enthusiastic grin before finishing his beer. Motioning to her with it, eyebrows rose. “Need another drink?”