Bones stands by the window, watching the rain and pressing his fingers against the thick material separating him from the unbreathable foment of clouds and wind and liquid nitrogen outside; the cold light creeping in is just strong enough to highlight how little of him Jim can actually see.
”Not quite like Earth, eh, Bones?” Jim is surprised by the rasp of his own voice.
The grin he gets in return is visible even in the dark - and there's no mistaking the fondness there. ”Not like Earth - but it's close enough to home.”
There hasn't been an Xavier woman for generations who would have been willing to sully her fingers with actual handwork, so the origins of the quilt Charles has treasured since childhood are unknown; he suspects a household servant made it and received no acknowledgment for it. It's strange to see it in this bedroom, on this bed he shares now, not because he is unwilling to let anyone else use his blanket but because no one save himself has ever been so enamored of it before, not the way Erik is. Charles smooths the bedclothes up to Erik's chin, makes sure his lover is warm and safe as much as Charles can make anyone safe - for now, they have built themselves a home between them, under the comfort of a counterpane.
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(In honor of the huge storm that woke me up and scared my cat at 5 am)
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”Not quite like Earth, eh, Bones?” Jim is surprised by the rasp of his own voice.
The grin he gets in return is visible even in the dark - and there's no mistaking the fondness there. ”Not like Earth - but it's close enough to home.”
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