From Shell Cottage
"She makes me nervous," Remus murmured softly, holding his wine glass as a prop to make him less jumpy, and from which to take the occasional sip. "She does these things and gets... frustrated, when I remind her that she's six months pregnant." He was unsure whether he was growing protective of a baby that wasn't fully a baby, or just increasingly more worried that he would find himself alone again at the end of this all, with more loved ones lost than his sanity could bear. In the last year he had invented so many reasons why they didn't work, why it was a bad idea. It wasn't that he didn't still think they were valid points, because they were, but as much as he tried to convince himself otherwise - things were better when she was in the room. He was better.
It might have made him poor company then, to listen to such a broadcast with, but even if he was not a social butterfly, or someone with particularly adept graces, Remus preferred to be with someone than alone. "You could," he suggested, "just do something to make it deeper. Make you sound like a French man, rather than a French woman."