Who: John Dawlish & Rolf Scamander What: Just breakfast in bed. Move along. Where: Their flat When: This morning Warnings/Rating: Explicit/High
John's internal clock was off, as usual. A few weeks of not enough sleep had rendered him incapable of keeping his eyes shut past about seven (which wouldn't have been so bad if he hadn't known that one Sunday of sleeping til ten would make Monday's six A.M. wake-up torture all over again) and he couldn't help feeling that was a waste. He wasn't getting back to sleep, though, and there was only so long one could lie back enviously eying one's comfortably snoozing bedfellow, so when eight-thirty rolled around he detached himself from the lump in the bed and made his way to the kitchen.
Truth be told, he'd fallen asleep with a certain amount of dread that Saturday morning would see him carting off to the office again, another twelve hours' worth of that inexplicably urgent paperwork settled neatly on his desk. It was still strange to think of that as a bad thing, of course, to feel guilty for spending too little time at home. But the guilt was undeniably there (not unmixed with a certain amount of incredulous pleasure), and it was with a long-awaited relief that he settled to reading the paper, to cutting up fruit and toasting bread and frying up eggs and those strange not-sausages and making coffee. It was, he thought, a decent start on an apology, and rather easier than reading that book, which he'd slated for the afternoon.
He finished around ten and sent the tray hovering in ahead of him, climbing back into bed with the paper and his own coffee in hand. "Morning," he said, nudging Rolf gently with his knee.