[ They're captive to each other for a moment, stars reconfiguring their gravity pulls: adrift, Ronan rubs the hard warmth of his thumb over the cautious spread of Adam's palm in soothing, carefree circles. Digs his nail in. Closes his palm.

And he breathes, letting time course and the heat of the boiling pot exude in coalescing wafts. Breathes, and lets the first, unrecognized shock of the morning disperse from his body, lets himself feel alive and well and a survivor of the moment, of the fresh invasion in his home.

He releases Adam first, nodding for his grudging but notably present and curious boyfriend to mind the dutiful task of assembling his lunch. ]

I woke up to them. [ No. That's not what Adam wants to hear, a doctor never fully satisfied with the dissection of Ronan's most private truths. ] I don't remember how. I didn't hit the sack angry. There was no trauma.

[ And the shrug that leaves him dissolves the lines of his back, renders him a puddle of waiting, untrained muscle and sinew. ]

Shit just happened. And now they're squatting out back. Hungry. And loud. And kind of mean, man.

[ Cabeswater, taking this particular moment to dart into the kitchen through the nearest open passageway, gives an approving croak, before nuzzling her beak against Adam's back with what can only be styled Lynch sentimentality. ]