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You never sleep well when Percival’s not in bed with you; there’s something about his familiar warmth and the weight of his arm over your stomach that reminds you of safety and love and home. He’s working late at MACUSA tonight, and you were preparing dinner when his panther Patronus pounces in through the window, and Percival’s tired voice informed you that he’ll not be home any time soon and that you needn’t wait up for him. The spacious apartment is glaringly quiet and empty, and you try your best to occupy yourself in the lonely hours that follow. You try meditating, but the sound of the rain beating on the windows are too distracting, so you try reading a book Percival recommended to you last month. You’ve read all of ten pages when the loud chiming of the clock stirs you out of your haze so you decide to bake. Percival loves apple pie, and you’re immensely satisfied when you slip the apple pie into the oven to be baked, and your home is filled with the smell of apple and cinnamon. But Percival still isn’t home, and you’re not quite sure what else there is to occupy you from boredom. You make a note to suggest getting a pet to Percival, because at least you’ll have something to cuddle when he’s not around.
You decide to try and get some sleep and the king sized bed is so drearily empty, so you pile all of Percival’s on his side of his bed, and you try pretending that it’s him in bed, but the pillows are cold and don’t snore. Your blankets are stifling you and the rain is loud, and it’s too hot and it’s too cold and you just can’t sleep. You try putting some soft jazz on the gramophone, and you manage to snatch short bursts of sleep that leave you more tired than ever. You must have fallen asleep at some point though, because the next thing you know, there’s a vague feeling of gentle fingers threading through your messy hair, and someone is tugging on your blankets so that they reach your chin. You blink lazily, and there’s a smile on your face when you lay your eyes on Percival’s back towards you, as he’s removing his coat and preparing for a quick shower before bed.
Quietly, you slip out of the covers and you wrap your arms around him, and his hands reach up to clasp your hands in his. For a moment, you just stand there like that together and he turns around to embrace you. You think this is your favourite look of Percival, when he’s out of that ridiculously long coat, and that strand of hair’s escape the insane amount of hair product he sculpts his hair with. The sleeves of his white shirt are folded and pushed up against his elbows, and he’s smiling the crooked smile that you love. He’s tired and worn but you’re in his arms and you’re his life’s breath. Brushing a stray lock from your face, he kisses your nose, softly, gently. “Couldn’t sleep?” You glance back at the messy pile of blankets and the pillows on the floor, and you chuckle as you wind your arms around his neck, “Gee, what gave it away?”
He laughs, a throaty sound that sings of joy, and he takes your hand, twirling you around. He bows and you drop a curtsey, and you’re dancing to the soft crooning of the jazz singer. You make quite a pair, Percival still in his shirt and vests, and you in one of his shirts hanging off of your smaller frame. The dance is slow burning and intimate, his hand that’s on your waist is firm, caressing your hips through the material of the clothing, and his other hand that’s grasping yours is warm and strong and he’s gazing at you with such tenderness and love that you can’t help but bury your face in his chest bashfully. There’s a rumbling purr deep within his chest that tells you he’s laughing at you, not unkindly, but you don’t raise your head from his chest.
His heart is beating loudly, soothingly by your ear, and it’s a reminder that he’s alive and real and that no one is taking him away from you. There’s a flash of Grindelwald’s smirking face when he’s exposed as impersonating Percival, and there are tears in your eyes as you reach up to kiss him, hard and yearning and wanting to feel him. Percival, bless him, says nothing about the fears he sees in your eyes and his lips are cracked from dehydration but it’s his lips you’re kissing and it’s his life force you’re feeling in his arms. When you part, there are wet tracks on his lips from your tears, and you chuckle tearily as you wipe the little droplets away. He catches your hand and presses little kisses onto your fingertips, and you laugh and bat at him because you’re ticklish and he knows it.
You let out a yawn before you can stop it, and he’s scooped you up in his arms before you know it, and you’re gently deposited onto the bed. Your eyes slightly lose focus from fatigue as you blearily watch Percival shrug out of his clothes and disappear into the bathroom. He appears a moment later, black hair wet and soft and floppy, and he’s dressed in only his boxers before he climbs into bed with you. You immediately latch onto him and rub your head against his bare chest like a cat, and he obliges by rubbing your head affectionately. His is a warm weight that surrounds you, and his heartbeat is the song that calls out to your soul, and you fall asleep to his even breathing as he hums a quiet lullaby his mother sang to him as a child. All is good, and all is well.