Part of the Draco Hermione AU and directly following Three Hot Teas and a Biscuit
La! 'Tis the Parkinson Express!
(1/1)
Some days, Ron Weasley wondered if he were going to murder his wife. He'd be driven to it, of course, and the judge and jury, upon hearing his justification, would mumble and murmur and nod and agree with his absolutely understandable reason for smothering his delightfully wonderful really-sounding-like-a-steamtrain-going-by wife in the dead of night with a pillow full of down and fluff and smelling like they'd just had sex. Because they had. Multiple times. Which may explain the snoring like the Hogwarts express as she fell asleep with her head tilted back from where the pillow supported her shoulders and not her head which afforded him a glorious view up her nostrils and her the award for most likely to set off the house wards from the shaking of the window panes. He pulled the pillow over his head for more coverage and briefly contemplating stuffing a sock in her mouth that was hanging slightly ajar in a way that might have been fetching were it not for the atrocious sound coming from it, before throwing the covers off and wandering into his kitchen, pausing only to pull his boxers on and slide his feet into some warm bunny slippers with floppy ears and terrifyingly huge eyes to keep the chill off the soles of his feet.
Ron didn't think there was any truth to the rumors that Pansy, still-Parkinson even though they'd married rather extravagantly and ridiculously, only wanted to marry him in order to pave the way for the next dark Lord. Rumors that he knew she propagated and perpetuated through sheer force of her big mouth, even though he did hear her planning "The next phase" as she liked to call it where she paired their future ruffians with the Potter pride, but sometimes he did have his doubts that all of this wasn't just a carefully calculated ploy in order to make him too tired to ever come to Harry's aid should the end of the world ever come nigh. Again.
Ron poured himself a glass of firewhisky and wistfully glanced at the clock, noting that if he did manage to smother his wife within the next ten minutes, he would have enough time to get a solid eight hours of lovely, sugarplum and fairy centered sleep before there was a hullabaloo in the morning when she went missing. God forbid the woman miss one day of work at the dress shop she had started, as he was quite certain, or at least everyone at the shop was, that if Pansy Parkinson were not to show up for work, the entire store and the contents therein would spontaneously combust in a flaming ball of sequins and taffeta, accelerated by the lingering hair spray from the employees and customers. He had briefly contemplated burning down the ruddy thing himself.
But still, Pansy was happy. That made him take a long, slow pull from the tumbler. Happy Pansy was almost as terrifying as angry Pansy but in a more 'I'm going to surprise you at your office without my knickers on an shag your brains out while you're in the middle of a huge project and require being focused, not thinking about the way that your wife laid just so, and your hand was just here when she gave out that particularly sexy moan" sort of way. Happy Pansy was therefore to be avoided as much as one could, and he consistently, though with the best of intentions, hoped that at least one thing a day would go wrong as an ecstatic Pansy just might kill him.
He briefly contemplated Flooing Draco and asking him if he had any remedies for a snoring Pansy as he knew that they had grown up together and would likely have the same sort of thing that Ron had with Hermione where, if you touched the tip of her nose just so and pushed her head back and to the right, she wouldn't wake up and, better yet, she would immediately stop snoring. Then again, this was Draco and Pansy. He wasn't sure he could contain his jealousy if Draco decided to share how he'd figured that tidbit of knowledge out.
He had let the tumbler fall from his fingers to land with a soft thunk on the floor, cushioned on the plush carpet that they had decided on as the most appropriate safety measure for surprisingly happy Pansy, after they had discovered that the hardwood floors induced bruises when neither of them were too keen to cease their biblical activities in order to perform the necessary softening charm. The carpet had been expensive, but considering that it was always his knees and elbows that were black and blue the next day, he conceded easily.
"If the whiskey soaks into the rug, I shall murder you in your sleep." Pansy's voice, velvet soft and smug with humor, startled him out of his maudlin thoughts. She was standing at the door with the sheet that she'd quite clearly ripped off their bed and wrapped around herself for some semblance of warmth in the vague chill of the early morning hours in a house that was too big to adequately hold in the warmth of the day. She plumped herself down in his lap before unwrapping a delicate leg to toe the glass to an upright position. The leg then vanished into the amorphous shape that was Pansy below her fabulous breasts that held the tie of the sheets like a war shield. Pansy merely tucked her head into his shoulder and pretended to simper.
"Good, because I was going to murder you if you snored any louder." Ron said, relieved that the will of homicide was mutual. He brought a hand up behind her head to support it so that she could simper with more ease and tangled his fingers in her hair. Pansy gave a light scoff, as if she couldn't even believe that he uttered the words you and snore in the sentence and there was not a third person nor were he referencing an inanimate object. She would have been more offended, if she believed that she had any leg to stand on. Ron nodded to the tumbler. "It's empty by the way. Not a drop in it."
"I wasn't worried. The pillows are very breathable. Not to say that we wouldn't both give it a good solid English try." She said, her lips stretching into a contented smile as she curled up like a cat on his legs, the outer curve of her nose sliding delicately into the hollow of where his neck met his shoulder. "But in the end I suppose that we are just stuck with each other."
"Too true." Ron said, squeezing her tightly before relaxing into the overstuffed armchair.
"What? No witty remark? No cleverly veiled insult or insinuation?" She pulled her head up to stare at him. "Were you distracted by my décolletage or are you, dare I say it, getting complacent? Because this will not do!"
"Of course not, dear," Ron said, patronizingly. "As distracting as the cut of your, erm, dress may be, I merely learned at a very early age not to argue with freight trains or women, especially when they sound remarkably simi-"
Ron was cut off as Pansy determinedly tried to stuff his mouth with bits of sheet that wasn't wrapped around her while her cheeks blushed apple red.
AN: I feed off of reviews. No seriously, leave one and see how much sooner a new chapter of your favorite story comes out.