@suitedblue
Teddy is asleep when she leaves, heading home only long enough to take a shower and get a change of clothes before she comes back. He doesn’t admit vulnerabilities; he hasn’t for a long, long time, and Astoria worries every time she considers it. ( There’s a trauma written into that boy’s genes, she thinks, a grief that comes as naturally as breathing, as his heart pumping blood through his body. ) It’s why she wasted no time in going to get him when he’d gotten in touch with her, and it’s why she spent the night on his couch, trying to read herself to sleep, too anxious to focus on the page.
And he’s still asleep when she returns, jackets and boots traded for a soft jumper that falls mid-thigh and a pair of jeans, investigator traded for Aunt Astoria, for mum. God knows the boy could use someone taking care of him. ( Even if he is a grown man. How strange, she thinks. He’s a grown man. She remembers when he was a clumsy five-year-old at her wedding. )
It’s only after the coffee is made and she’s on her second cup, flipping idly through a newspaper, that he emerges, and she wonders if he drank the water and ate the banana she’d left by his bedside when she told him to settle in and take care of himself. She looks up, concern evident in her expression, and when she speaks, her voice is soft.
“Morning, sunshine,” she says, and she nods towards the French press. ( A gift from her and Draco, delivered with laughter — so you can always entertain us, Draco had teased. ) “Coffee’s fresh. Still hot, I think. Do you want me to make you breakfast, or do you want to talk about what happened last night?”
