Fletcher stared out of Peter's kitchen window, taking in the sound of birds arguing with dominance over the wind, and the first pitter-patters of rain on the roof. One of those mornings where leaving the house felt more like a method of torture than regular routine. Still, it was the crack of dawn. Peter could sleep in, but he had a shop to open. But first... breakfast.
Even though Pete had been utterly exhausted when he’d fallen into bed in the wee hours of the morning, he subconsciously began to stir the tiniest bit when he felt Fletcher’s absence. Not fully, not enough to fully wake, but enough to ascend from the ocean of deep sleep and float just beneath the surface of the water.
He shifted to Fletcher’s side of the bed and burrowed his face into the pillow. Somewhere in his dreams he was aware that Fletcher was up and moving around, and that was enough to soothe him into staying asleep. For now.