It was like when Mary lived with him all over again. It even took him a few minutes to realize that it probably wasn't his daughter that was cooking breakfast in the kitchen.
After about ten minutes of rubbing his face and stepping into sleep pants, and other things to wake himself up, he shuffled into the kitchen. A soft groan rumbling in his chest as he went over to the cabinet with the mugs, snagged one, and poured a cup. He was better, early, after having a cup. Before a cup it was best not to speak.