#fogmade

Q had the telephone receiver clamped between his shoulder and his ear as he mindlessly jotted down measurements on the design drawn on the large paper covering his desk. It was nearly midnight, only a handful of people were still in the workshop, Q could hear soft night-mumbles outside his office every now and then.

         “ I’m fine, ”  he said shortly, his voice raw from coughing all day.           “ Just a common cold. ”

For a few seconds he squeezed his eyes shut, letting his pencil fall on the paper so he could rub the space between his eyes when a sharp pain flashed through his forehead. The truth was that he was feeling a bit under the weather. Probably a mixture between his diet and working-hours. Perhaps the fact that the weather was still ugly and cold wasn’t helping either.

        The thought of going home for a good night rest wasn’t allowed to exist long in his head. As he listened to Morse’s soft breathing on the other end of the line the short image of an empty bed, an empty couch, a quiet apartment filled his mind for a moment. He squeezed harder and then took up his pencil again, tapping it to the desk a couple of times.

             Damn his lungs to cough up a storm right there and then.

a REAPING. a GAME PLAN. a SURVIVORS REUNION. a HELPING HAND. and finally, AT PEACE.

the story of the VICTORS of the 74th Hunger Games:

         ‘ don’t feel right , does it ? ’ the beer in their hand’s gone warm , not even half gone as they sat in an uncomfortable silence beside remus. they thought that maybe , after everything that had happened , this little tradition would bring back something lost. instead , all it did was highlight exactly how much was gone. it was more than sirius’ absence , though the empty place where he should be was enough to tear tonks’ heart apart. but there was more. unspoken. agonizing. ‘ i’m sorry , i shouldn’t have-- ’ their voice breaks and hastily they take a chug from the can. then another. not stopping til the room temperature liquid’s all gone. setting the can on the table , they stand and avoid the other’s gaze at all cost. ‘ i’m going. it was right dumb of me to come in the first place. ’

NO, SHE DOESN’T. At least that what her obstinacy will keep insisting while her mien is clearly one of an ill person ;  her back slightly arched as her arms hug her abdomen as an attempt to hold as much WARMTH as possible , and a livid complexion is present on Fleur’s usually bright facial features. Perhaps it’s the inclement English WEATHER that’s caught the française in its snare ,  but it’ll require a lot for her to admit such a thing to him ( ESPECIALLY when she finally has become fond of the country  ).

    ‘‘ I am FINE. It eez juste a cold. ’’   A somewhat ARTIFICIAL & forced cough follows ,  meaning to serve as evidence for the claim, but a shiver of her limbs attenuates its credibility instantly.

It took all he had not to crack a smile at his sickly feeling wife. He knew she wouldn’t appreciate his amusement. ( She was just so cute. ) Lowering his hand from her forehead he sighed. When she shivers, he is done. ❝ Alright. That’s it, ❞ he says, walking over to the couch and pulling off the throw. It was Molly-made and warm. Pulling it around her shoulders he wrapped it around her. ❝ You are staying home. In bed. Under a mountain of blankets. ❞ 

❝ Are you going to make me Floo mum? ❞