Just a small vignette whereinJames takes the time to appreciate the little things that matter. This may become a series while I'm working on Quiet Summer, so keep an eye out on both! I hope you enjoy.
As always,
Mina :)
It's dark when he wakes up and realizes that he really, really has to piss. Even while sleeping, she isn't so easily swayed, and he struggles with trying to be gentle in extricating himself from her arms. When she lets go, he nearly falls over as he trips over one of her shoes that's lying by his side of the bed.
He stumbles into the hallway. There are still boxes everywhere and he's stubbed his toes on the pile near the bathroom door who knows how many times since they moved in, but the soft snoring coming from down the hall catches his shout and hides it away. It even covers his irritated grumble as the light above the mirror glares into his eyes, and when he turns his head and sees her razor sitting next to his on the edge of the tub, he has to lean back against the counter and stare. He can't hide his grin.
It's the smallest thing to be happy about. Her razor is a small, pink muggle one she bought when they went to the grocery store last week; his is an old, hefty thing his parents gave him when he turned thirteen, even though he hardly uses it because, well, facial hair refuses to grow on his face. But they're sitting there, together, right next to his shampoo and her citrus body wash, and he wants to cry because it's so right.
Sometimes he can't believe how easy it came to them, this being together thing. Their bathrobes are hanging on the same hook on the door. Sometimes he'll hide them just so that she'll have to walk the hallway naked and glare at him as she goes by. (Sometimes, though, she'll wink, and he just has to take that chance.) Next to the sink, her toothbrush is leaning against his and she's put a potpourri thing on the back of the toilet, something Sirius made fun of him about when he visited, but he can't complain: his bathroom actually smells good. And there are little towels on a rack that he's not allowed to touch because apparently they're only "for show." The last time he tried to use one she hexed his hands together and refused to counter it until the next day. But there were flowers on her nightstand by that night and she gave him a little extra dessert in appreciation, so he couldn't complain.
He steps into the hallway – "Bloody troll testicle!" – and hops the rest of the way to their bedroom. It occurs to him as he's slipping back between the sheets that he never used the toilet like he meant to, but she's got her arm slung around his hips before his head even hits the pillow and he prefers not to go anywhere, bladder be damned.
It could be the way her hair somehow crawls into his mouth or the way she jams her icicle feet onto his calves for warmth, but he would rather be choking and cold than be anywhere else. He holds her tighter because he can, because she's here, because their stuff is mingling in the bathroom. It's the smallest thing to be happy about. But when she smiles in her sleep and, somehow, all arrogance aside, he guesses that she's dreaming of him, he knows that he can deal with her hexing and Sirius' teasing and stubbed toes, because it's all so right.