InsaneJournal

Too Many Ankles - R/Hr - PG-13
Title: Too Many Ankles
Author: shocfix
Artist : cork
Pairing: Ron/Hermione
Words: 1133
Rating: PG-13

Happy, happy Valentine’s Day Dearest Fandom, love shocolate and cork.

We have decided that this is an annual tradition.

Do not forget to tell cork she rules the world.


Too Many Ankles
****
You’d really think I’d be an old hand at it, by now, wouldn’t you?

How hard is it to not insult Hermione? Harry manages it for months at a time.

I don’t insult other women.

Ginny doesn’t count.

It’s kind of flattering, really, and I have tried to explain this to her. The thing is, take… Hannah, f’rinstance. Nice girl; Neville’s mad about her. I saw her the other day, when we were at the Leaky Cauldron. I have absolutely no idea what she was wearing. Couldn’t tell you. Her hair is longish, I think. How was she wearing it? No idea.

Am I capable of insulting Hannah? I don’t think I could make any remark about Hannah that she could take personally – unless she is very sensitive about me not looking at her legs.

Anymore.

OK, I notice legs. I’m only human. But nothing personal, personal.

My Hermione?

When I left for work, this morning, she was wearing odd socks and one of my shirts. Her hair was twirled up and speared in place with a chopstick.

I am always completely aware of my Hermione.

Which means I have all these personal, intimate opinions of her floating right at the surface of my brain, which means that they often pop out, unexpectedly.

Like, whenever I open my mouth.

But the only times I really talk without thinking are about the Cannons, chocolate and Hermione, so she should be thrilled.

Sometimes she is.

She does love it when my mouth runs away from me in bed. Loves knowing what I’m thinking.

Not so much when I say she’s so big she’s blocking my view of the telly vision. Good thing we were at Harry’s, last night, because she usually manages to take a deep breath and just huff at me, when we’re at Harry’s.

Not as deep as she’d like, what with having squashed lungs.

And she was so tired by the time we got home, that she just waddled off to bed. Yeah, she kept her distance in bed all night, but she wasn’t angry, just so huge I can’t get near her, anymore. And I brought her a cup of tea this morning and she snuffled at me and burrowed under the covers and looked all sleepy and adorable. By the time I left for work she’d managed to lever herself out of bed and wander downstairs with her socks in her hand and I knelt and put them on for her, because she can’t reach, and I kissed her bump and then her ear and made her promise to take it easy.

Because she’s too big to do anything for herself.

So I spent the day being smug, because I was taking good care of her, and she spent the day cleaning the net curtains, because she could bloody well still do things for herself, thank you very much.

And she was beached on the couch when I got home, in a blizzard of nets, looking close to tears.

“What have you been doing, you daft mare?” I demanded, digging her out. “Your ankles look dreadful.”

She burst noisily into tears.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, handing her a mostly clean handkerchief. “What did I say?”

“That’s the first thing you say?” she asked, snottily. “You insulted me as you left the house, and as soon as you get back.”

I frowned at her. “I did not insult you. I’ve been extra careful not to insult you, ever since you got this big.”

She gaped at me.

“So, is that supposed to be a compliment?” she snapped, trying to struggle upright..

“Hey, hey, stop it,” I said, helping her and propping her up with a couple of cushions. “That was not an insult.”

“Since I got this big?” she echoed, her voice following me into the kitchen, where I got her a bowl of vanilla ice cream, her usual treat.

“What?” I asked, trying not to smile at her mutinous, gorgeous face, as I came back into the lounge and she glared at the ice cream.

“You do not tell a pregnant woman she is ‘this big’, Ron,” she said flatly. “No one else tells me I’m huge, or my ankles are dreadful.”

“So?” I said, putting down the bowl and calmly manoeuvring her and cushions so she was lying on the couch and I could sit down, her feet in my lap.

“Why are you being mean to me?” she asked pitifully, balancing her bowl on her bump and taking a mouthful of her ice cream.

Her t-shirt rode up and her jeans used to be sexy, hipster jeans and were now barely clearing her knickers as her tummy loomed over them, and they were sexier than ever and I wanted to lick her stretch marks, but she was still angry with me.

"I am not being mean," I said, trying to massage her swollen ankles and wincing each time she did. "I love you being this big."

She snorted.

"Is that what Ginny told you to say?" she asked, licking her spoon and making me twitch inappropriately. "Always pretend you find your hugely pregnant wife attractive."

"Don't be ridiculous," I said and her lip trembled. "I'm not pretending. Hermione, you know I'm not pretending."

"Oh, Ron, you can't find this attractive," she said.

"This is ice cream on top of my child," I said solemnly and she giggled snottily. "Two of my favourite things in the world. And seeing as you're my other favourite thing…"

“You still called me huge,” she complained.

“No one else is allowed to tell you you look huge,” I said seriously, picking up the other foot and massaging it with two careful thumbs. “Only me.”

She snorted. “Very protective,” she muttered. “Only the big, strong Auror is allowed to pick on his wife.”

“Only the big, strong Auror thinks you are the sexiest woman in the world,” I said.

She raised a very sceptical eyebrow. “Continue,” she said generously.

“Only the big, strong Auror knows how you got this big,” I said.

“Really?” she asked, smirking into her ice cream. “So, your mum has no idea how I got pregnant?”

“Please,” I said, pulling a face. “Don’t mention my mum when I’m building up to an elaborate story of how the big, brave, handsome Auror braved the darkest jungle to make you this big.”

“Ron!”

“It’s like that Omaha Jones film you like,” I explained, enjoying her shocked, yet smiling face. “Where the big, brave, handsome Auror is the only one to enter the mysterious tunnel and find the treasure.”

“Except that this big, brave, handsome Auror pretty much waits outside, and sends his… manservant in,” she giggled.

“Only because it’s very dark and scary,” I said. “And my manservant is braver than me.”