heather11483 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
heathershaped) wrote2008-07-25 04:48 pm
heathershaped) wrote2008-07-25 04:48 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Damsel (Hermione/Roger, pg13)
Title: Damsel
Pairing: Roger/Hermione
Rating: Teen
Summary: Roger gets it wrong. At first.
Warnings: None
Word Count: 1287
For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
inell, because I miss these two sometimes. Technically an SHH future fic, but could just as easily not be.
This month, it seemed, was all about peanut butter.
As he walked up the stone path towards their house, Roger plucked a jar out of the paper bag he carried, tossing it in the air and catching it before he examined the label. He'd got two jars because it simply wouldn't sit on the shelf lately. After closing up the workshop, he'd gone to the grocery to restock, making sure to pick up plenty of apples and celery and carrots and, oddly, potato crisps, to dip into it. He'd also, because he was somewhat late leaving work today, picked up a bunch of daisies.
When he reached the door, he shifted the bag and opened it, looking around the foyer as he stepped across the threshold. Home, he thought, feeling the same tiny thrill he always did, even after three years of living in this house at the end of the lane with its thatched roof and creaky attic.
As the door closed behind him, the slight smile fell from his face. Hermione was standing (rather precariously, he thought) on a stool, reaching for something on a high shelf. Moving quickly, he dropped the bag, rushing forward to place a hand on her waist to steady her even though she wasn't exactly falling or anything.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"What the hell are you talking about?" she mutters crossly. "I needed a book; it's just there." She pointed. "There's no need to manhandle me."
Roger blinks, but does not move his hand even as she swats at it. "You're in no shape to be balancing on tiny stools -- what could possibly be so important about that book?"
"That's immaterial; the point is that I'm perfectly fine. I can get my own books, especially when you're late getting home," she lifted a brow.
He shook his head at her even as he felt a twinge of guilt. "You could have summoned it."
"My wand is upstairs, and again -- you're missing the point. I'm. Fine. I'm not some damsel in --"
Roger blew out a breath before gripping her hips and plucking her off the stool. He could admit to feeling a slight satisfaction when she squeaked. He set her carefully on her feet, mindful of her swollen belly. "No," he said, tersely, "you're just my pregnant wife. You scared me for a moment."
Clearly, Hermione wasn't in the most charitable of moods, and her face only softened a little before she rolled her eyes and made her way to the couch. Roger reached up and snatched the book down from the topmost shelf. He followed her to the couch and handed it to her. "I'm lowering the shelves this weekend."
"Oh, that's ridiculous." Hermione tutted. "In two months I'll have had this baby and then what? Childproofing is supposed to be for the baby, not the mother."
Roger didn't have anything to say to that, so he made his way back out to the foyer to collect the bag he'd dropped. Hermione was often cranky lately, especially when he got overprotective -- and considering their dynamic when she wasn't roundly pregnant and he got protective, that was saying something. Naturally, this presented a problem. He wasn't about to stop trying to protect her, from everything and anything he could -- heavy things, loud noises, germs, storms; occasionally the stairs. She'd thought it was cute at first, but that hadn't lasted long.
He could understand it, of course. She had to carry around the actual weight of the baby (apparently its favorite spot was right against her bladder, and her feet were sore more often recently), and she had to deal with all the hormonal ... things that he'd read about but couldn't go through with her. He could imagine there were times when it started to get old for her. It wasn't getting old for him, though. He still got the same thrill out of watching Hermione's belly grow with their child, and could never contain his smile when he felt the motion against his hand that meant the baby was kicking. He was loving it, even those times -- like now -- when she looked at him as if she wanted to hex him for putting her in this predicament.
He ducked his head as she leveled the Look at him and shifted on the sofa, apparently finding it difficult to get into a position that was comfortable for her. "I got the peanut butter. Two jars." He pulled one out on his way over to her and her eyes lit up slightly; she had developed the craving pretty recently, but it was deep and real. She took the jar from him, and he felt himself smile as he poked through the bag for the potato crisps.
"It's crunchy."
A pause. "It's peanut butter."
"I hate crunchy."
How had he missed this? "You never said anything."
"I shouldn't have to say anything, Roger. I always eat it smooth; you must have noticed."
"Apparently not," he muttered before he shrugged. "You know I don't really eat that stuff."
"Oh, because you don't eat it, it doesn't matter? Oh, that's just lovely."
"Hermione ..." Roger's eyes went flinty and he looked at her. "You know damned well that's not what I meant."
"That's what it sounded like. But don't worry, I won't trouble you again. No need to keep indulging the crazy pregnant woman and her hormones and her silly quirks. Surely I don't need anything else to eat anyway, seeing as I'm fast outgrowing this bloody house." Hermione's eyes had misted; the beginnings of frustrated tears making them shine. She shifted again, pressing back against the cushions and dropping her book to rub at the small of her back. She squirmed and flexed her bare feet. "Damn it."
Irritation gone, Roger reached over, taking the jar of peanut butter and putting it on the coffee table. "Hey," he said, reaching for the pillows on his other side. He lifted her legs and pivoted her so that she could stretch out lengthwise and then tucked the pillows behind her. "Alright?" he asked quietly.
"Slightly better," she allowed, making his lips curve. "It's just --" She motioned vaguely around her, behind her, down towards her belly before she lifted her gaze to his.
"I know." Facing her, he scooted forward, into the space between her legs, so that she draped one of hers over his and slumped back against the pillows. He leaned toward her and brushed his lips against hers, his hands resting lightly on her thighs just below where the hem of her thin dress had gathered. "I know."
His hands had begun to make slow circles on her legs when she spoke again. "That feels good."
"Better than peanut butter?" He dropped a kiss on her collarbone and moved his thumbs back and forth against the inside of her thighs.
She took long enough to answer that to make him chuckle. "I suppose."
"I'll have to do better than that, then," he murmured. "Not that I'm not up to the task, of course."
"I'll be the judge of that," she said, her tone lofty even though she sounded tired. "This still doesn't mean you get to baby me."
"Mmm-hmm." He smiled slowly at her as he eased back and kissed the inside of her knee.
"I mean it." She sounded more and more relaxed, though, as he moved his hands higher up her leg.
"I love you."
"Hmmph." She gripped his arms when he moved up to kiss her lips again, softening completely. "I'm glad you're home."
He grinned against her lips. "Me too."
Pairing: Roger/Hermione
Rating: Teen
Summary: Roger gets it wrong. At first.
Warnings: None
Word Count: 1287
For
inell, because I miss these two sometimes. Technically an SHH future fic, but could just as easily not be.This month, it seemed, was all about peanut butter.
As he walked up the stone path towards their house, Roger plucked a jar out of the paper bag he carried, tossing it in the air and catching it before he examined the label. He'd got two jars because it simply wouldn't sit on the shelf lately. After closing up the workshop, he'd gone to the grocery to restock, making sure to pick up plenty of apples and celery and carrots and, oddly, potato crisps, to dip into it. He'd also, because he was somewhat late leaving work today, picked up a bunch of daisies.
When he reached the door, he shifted the bag and opened it, looking around the foyer as he stepped across the threshold. Home, he thought, feeling the same tiny thrill he always did, even after three years of living in this house at the end of the lane with its thatched roof and creaky attic.
As the door closed behind him, the slight smile fell from his face. Hermione was standing (rather precariously, he thought) on a stool, reaching for something on a high shelf. Moving quickly, he dropped the bag, rushing forward to place a hand on her waist to steady her even though she wasn't exactly falling or anything.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"What the hell are you talking about?" she mutters crossly. "I needed a book; it's just there." She pointed. "There's no need to manhandle me."
Roger blinks, but does not move his hand even as she swats at it. "You're in no shape to be balancing on tiny stools -- what could possibly be so important about that book?"
"That's immaterial; the point is that I'm perfectly fine. I can get my own books, especially when you're late getting home," she lifted a brow.
He shook his head at her even as he felt a twinge of guilt. "You could have summoned it."
"My wand is upstairs, and again -- you're missing the point. I'm. Fine. I'm not some damsel in --"
Roger blew out a breath before gripping her hips and plucking her off the stool. He could admit to feeling a slight satisfaction when she squeaked. He set her carefully on her feet, mindful of her swollen belly. "No," he said, tersely, "you're just my pregnant wife. You scared me for a moment."
Clearly, Hermione wasn't in the most charitable of moods, and her face only softened a little before she rolled her eyes and made her way to the couch. Roger reached up and snatched the book down from the topmost shelf. He followed her to the couch and handed it to her. "I'm lowering the shelves this weekend."
"Oh, that's ridiculous." Hermione tutted. "In two months I'll have had this baby and then what? Childproofing is supposed to be for the baby, not the mother."
Roger didn't have anything to say to that, so he made his way back out to the foyer to collect the bag he'd dropped. Hermione was often cranky lately, especially when he got overprotective -- and considering their dynamic when she wasn't roundly pregnant and he got protective, that was saying something. Naturally, this presented a problem. He wasn't about to stop trying to protect her, from everything and anything he could -- heavy things, loud noises, germs, storms; occasionally the stairs. She'd thought it was cute at first, but that hadn't lasted long.
He could understand it, of course. She had to carry around the actual weight of the baby (apparently its favorite spot was right against her bladder, and her feet were sore more often recently), and she had to deal with all the hormonal ... things that he'd read about but couldn't go through with her. He could imagine there were times when it started to get old for her. It wasn't getting old for him, though. He still got the same thrill out of watching Hermione's belly grow with their child, and could never contain his smile when he felt the motion against his hand that meant the baby was kicking. He was loving it, even those times -- like now -- when she looked at him as if she wanted to hex him for putting her in this predicament.
He ducked his head as she leveled the Look at him and shifted on the sofa, apparently finding it difficult to get into a position that was comfortable for her. "I got the peanut butter. Two jars." He pulled one out on his way over to her and her eyes lit up slightly; she had developed the craving pretty recently, but it was deep and real. She took the jar from him, and he felt himself smile as he poked through the bag for the potato crisps.
"It's crunchy."
A pause. "It's peanut butter."
"I hate crunchy."
How had he missed this? "You never said anything."
"I shouldn't have to say anything, Roger. I always eat it smooth; you must have noticed."
"Apparently not," he muttered before he shrugged. "You know I don't really eat that stuff."
"Oh, because you don't eat it, it doesn't matter? Oh, that's just lovely."
"Hermione ..." Roger's eyes went flinty and he looked at her. "You know damned well that's not what I meant."
"That's what it sounded like. But don't worry, I won't trouble you again. No need to keep indulging the crazy pregnant woman and her hormones and her silly quirks. Surely I don't need anything else to eat anyway, seeing as I'm fast outgrowing this bloody house." Hermione's eyes had misted; the beginnings of frustrated tears making them shine. She shifted again, pressing back against the cushions and dropping her book to rub at the small of her back. She squirmed and flexed her bare feet. "Damn it."
Irritation gone, Roger reached over, taking the jar of peanut butter and putting it on the coffee table. "Hey," he said, reaching for the pillows on his other side. He lifted her legs and pivoted her so that she could stretch out lengthwise and then tucked the pillows behind her. "Alright?" he asked quietly.
"Slightly better," she allowed, making his lips curve. "It's just --" She motioned vaguely around her, behind her, down towards her belly before she lifted her gaze to his.
"I know." Facing her, he scooted forward, into the space between her legs, so that she draped one of hers over his and slumped back against the pillows. He leaned toward her and brushed his lips against hers, his hands resting lightly on her thighs just below where the hem of her thin dress had gathered. "I know."
His hands had begun to make slow circles on her legs when she spoke again. "That feels good."
"Better than peanut butter?" He dropped a kiss on her collarbone and moved his thumbs back and forth against the inside of her thighs.
She took long enough to answer that to make him chuckle. "I suppose."
"I'll have to do better than that, then," he murmured. "Not that I'm not up to the task, of course."
"I'll be the judge of that," she said, her tone lofty even though she sounded tired. "This still doesn't mean you get to baby me."
"Mmm-hmm." He smiled slowly at her as he eased back and kissed the inside of her knee.
"I mean it." She sounded more and more relaxed, though, as he moved his hands higher up her leg.
"I love you."
"Hmmph." She gripped his arms when he moved up to kiss her lips again, softening completely. "I'm glad you're home."
He grinned against her lips. "Me too."
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