Work Text:
You're soaked to your skin by the time you reach your flat, your clothes so sodden they feel as though they weigh twice what they did when you put them on hours earlier, your trousers twisted around your ankles and calves, dripping water into your boots, which means your socks are sodden, and where you'll never admit that Zeb was right about the whole walking-around-barefoot thing, you can certainly see the appeal now as you trudge to the front door, every step squelching a miserable quantity of water between your toes.
You manage to escape your boots and socks and outer shirt before Zeb comes out and sees you, the ears-up eyes-wide face he makes at the state of you turning quickly enough into a snort of laughter, muffled but unmistakable through the brush of your undershirt past your ears, your hair undoubtedly doing something ridiculous in response to the shirt fighting you pulling it up over your head. He isn't laughing when he comes back with a towel for you, but he is grinning, the bastard, looking you up and down as you towel yourself off well enough not to drip across the flat on your way to the 'fresher.
"Leave any'a the rain for your plants?" he says, following you and leaning against the doorframe.
"I didn't check," you tell him. "I was a bit preoccupied at the time."
"Yeah that's fair," he says. "Didn't think you'd be swimming home."
You snort despite yourself. "No," you say, "neither did I."
You don't linger in the shower -- too many years of Imperial efficiency bred into you for that to be a possibility, or an indulgence -- but you feel better from it all the same, the jumper and soft pants you put on after you've dried yourself worlds better than the sodden mess you don't have to pick up and throw in the cleaner because Zeb's quiet when he wants to be, sneakier than you expect even after all the years you've lived in each other's space, his grin gone self-satisified when you notice the absence of your socks and trousers and shirt, the cleaner humming happily in the corner, and say thank you.
"Didn't do anything, especially," he says.
And you would challenge that if you had even an ounce of energy for it, but you don't, the hours of the day and the hush of the storm giving you a melancholy sort of lassitude that compels you to your favorite spot near the warmer, your chest warming affection that spreads from your belly to the tips of your fingers when Zeb comes over and joins you, tucking up behind you like he was made to fit there. Made to fit you.
"Got a comm from Hera," he says, as you settle in with him, the two of you tangled together in a mutually agreeable mess of limbs. "Kid's been bugging her about flying lessons again. Tried t'break into the Ghost to look at the controls."
You chuckle. "He's just barely learnt to walk," you say.
"Yeah, well. Don't think that much matters, to him."
"I suppose it wouldn't." You tip your head back and over, considering your lover. "How long until his mother caves, do you suppose?"
"A week," Zeb says. "Standard."
"I'll see your bet and raise you five days," you say.
"Five on top of the week?"
"Five, not even making it to one week."
Zeb snorts. "I'm gonna lose this bet," he says, "aren't I."
"Mm-hmm."
A sigh, this one heavy enough that you lean into Zeb's chest in answer, tucking your forehead into the curve of his neck when he drapes his arms around you, heavy as the rain tapping impatience against the windowpanes beyond the heavy drapes blanketing quiet over the worlds beyond the handful of peace hoarded in your flat, Zeb's chest rumbling a quiet, contented purr when you shift your arms to answer his affection in kind, stillness trapping the moment between you. A perfect mirror to your night spent together on Bahryn, all of the cold and fear and pain of memory mellowed now into the plush of the settee, the quiet love of the man in your arms cradling comfort no longer edged brittle with impossibility.
"I love you," you don't mean to say, what hope that Zeb might not have heard you extinguished under the nuzzle he offers in answer, the silk of his beard catching a little where your hair is damp from the shower, still.
"Yeah," he says, sighs, maybe pulling you in a little more closely as he does. "Love you, too."