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scents of morning

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He wakes now to the scent of coffee, to clean linen and the steam of a shower, and the soft chatter of Stiles talking to Leia in the kitchen, to the cat’s quiet meow. He wakes up far to early and Han noses at him, impatiently.

Sometimes he wonders what the hell he did, that mornings come so damn early. He doesn’t work outside the house, there’s no real need to drag himself up before the sun rises.

But there is the scent of coffee and clean linen and a dog staring at him reproachfully, and he groans as he drags himself up, and Han gives a happy little shimmy before he pads ahead of him down the hall.

He pauses in the doorway to the kitchen, and watches, a familiar tightness in his throat. Stiles, in his boots and brown deputy uniform that should not be attractive but that cups his ass in the most delicious manner, summoning delightful memories of shoving those pants down and licking up his hard, leaking cock while Stiles panted and groaned.

Leia is on the counter, sniffing at Stiles’ coffee. There’s a cup waiting for him and Derek glances at him, a smile lighting up his pale eyes, his lips red and Peter wonders what they got up into the shower he slept through.

“You’re eggs are almost done,” he says and Stiles leans in to brush a kiss over his cheek.

They’ll leave soon, head to a shift at the station and a day of teaching at the high school, and Peter--Peter will crawl back in bed until Han and Leia fighting for bedspace forces him to face the day. He’ll clean the dishes in the sink and answer some emails, occupy himself with hunting down a bestiary from a Russian clan, between texts from Stiles. He’ll do the grocery shopping and check his stock portfolio and take a nap before Derek comes home and wakes him with a kiss and drags him to bed for slow frottage that will make him shake and gasp and spill across Derek’s belly.

He blinks sleepily, now, and smiles into his coffee at the thought of the day, as Stiles leans against him, a long line of familiar heat that he misses in bed, when he wakes alone.

There were years, when he thought he wouldn’t get this--years that he knew nothing but fire and pain and insanity, and years when he knew that he didn’t deserve their forgiveness. Years when he woke to the scent of ash and bitterness and burnt wolfsbane.

He takes the eggs that Derek presses into his hands, and lets himself be led, sleep pliant and content, to the table, where he’s drawn into Derek’s lap while he eats and listens absently to Derek and Stiles’ talk. They know he isn’t a morning person, that he’ll never be a morning person, and don’t try to draw him into their conversation. Derek’s told him, often, that he doesn’t need to get up with them.

Peter always rolls his eyes and walks away, and the next morning, stumbles bleary eyed and silent, from their giant bed, and into the warmth of their company.

It’s early and he has no reason to wake, no reason to drag himself from their bed, but he wakes now, to the scent of coffee and clean linen and Stiles’ familiar chatter and after endless years of nothing but ash, he still has not stopped being surprised by this.

It’s been his now for four years, and he is still surprised every morning.

By coffee and clean linen and his nephew’s hand, steady and possessive on his hip as he watches Peter eat.

They leave, in a flurry of kisses and dishes and Stiles’ running back inside three times, before he leaves for good with a happy wave. Peter locks the door behind them and stumbles back to bed, and curls up there, in the scent of coffee and clean linen and familiar, grounding love.