It's not every morning that they get to wake up by their own means, to the warm rays of sunlight seeping through the window curtains, and not by phone call from Fringe Division, but every now and then it happens. Peter always looks forward to those brief respites from their chaotic line of work.
He wraps his arms around his partner's waist and places a light kiss on the back of his neck.
"Good morning, sunshine," he mutters sleepily. Lincoln responds by snuggling closer to Peter and mumbling incoherently. Peter smiles.
"No call from Broyles," he says, closing his eyes and taking in Lincoln's warmth, "the morning's ours."
"You don't say?" Lincoln stretches lazily and turns around to face Peter, smiling groggily, "What's your plan?"
"Oh, I thought maybe we could just stay in bed all day," Peter suggests, pulling Lincoln closer by the waist, his fingers wandering freely over his skin under the sheets, "catch up on some necessary business..."
"Would that be a productive use of our time?" Lincoln asks, raising his eyebrows teasingly.
"I guess we could leave the bedroom," Peter sighs in mock disappointment, "there's plenty other rooms in this house we can try out."
"You're ridiculous," Lincoln laughs, shoving Peter lightly, but nestling closer to him anyway until their noses are pressed comfortably against one another's. They both close their eyes, enjoying each other's warmth and the feeling of each other's skin brushing against their own under the sheets. Peter could fall asleep again, right here, in Lincoln's arms. He could stay here forever, forget about the rest of the world, let them all fend for themselves because he's got everything he needs, right here.
It feels like they've spent hours like this, but when Peter opens his eyes again, it's only been ten minutes.
"Guess I should go make us some breakfast," Lincoln says, glancing at the clock and reluctantly breaking away from Peter's arms.
"Why?" Peter asks, pulling Lincoln back again.
"Well, it sounds like the activities you want to engage in today require a lot of energy," Lincoln smirks, then starts to get out of bed again.
"Come on!" Peter pleads, grabbing Lincoln's hand, "Stay a few more minutes?"
"No," Lincoln says, placing a quick kiss on Peter's lips, which convinces him. Peter watches him stretch one more time before climbing out of the sheets without bothering to find his underwear.
Not that he's complaining.
"You think it's hygienic to cook naked?" He asks.
"Bite me, Bishop," Lincoln replies, snatching one of Peter's sweatpants from the bureau on his way out.
"Later!" Peter calls out, chuckling to himself.
It isn't long before he gets the impulse to get out of bed himself, and the delicious scent wafting from the kitchen is enough to convince him.
"Bacon?" He says hopefully, and is rewarded by the sight of the thin strips of bacon sizzling on the pan in Lincoln's hands.
"Figured it was time for a proper breakfast," Lincoln shrugs, "you know, something that can't be purchased at a gas station on the way to a grizzly crime scene."
"You are the best," Peter says, hugging Lincoln tightly from behind and resting his chin on his shoulder.
"I know," Lincoln says, smacking Peter's hand as he tries to take a strip of bacon out of the pan, "hey, hands off."
"That's not what you said last night," Peter mutters roguishly into Lincoln's ear, nearly making Lincoln drop the pan. Peter chuckles and proceeds to pour two glasses of orange juice, which he places on the table right as Lincoln serves him his overly generous meal of scrambled eggs and bacon.
"I missed this," Peter says, looking up at Lincoln, "us, breakfast, no care in the world."
"We've never had that last part," Lincoln says, sitting down to eat.
"Still," Peter says, reaching for Lincoln's hand and caressing it, "let's take a vacation."
"Broyles would kill us."
"Broyles can wait," Peter says, leaning closer to Lincoln, "the universes can wait. Just one weekend, just us two, in a cabin by the lake."
"Well, it sounds tempting," Lincoln says, squeezing Peter's hand lightly.
"Think of all the loud sex we can have out there, with no one to hear us," Peter smirks.
"You really are ridiculous," Lincoln says, closing the distance between them and kissing him, "but I have to admit, you're damn persuasive."
"I know," Peter mutters against Lincoln's lips, not wanting to break the kiss; it grows hungrier, more passionate by the second until Peter has practically dragged Lincoln onto his lap.
"Peter, breakfast," Lincoln mumbles, not showing any signs of caring about breakfast himself.
"Breakfast can wait," Peter says, running his fingers through Lincoln's hair. It is then that their phones ring simultaneously, piercing through their temporary cloud of bliss. They both groan, reaching for their phones and reading their respective messages.
"Broyles," they both say together, sighing. Something about a giant slug terrorizing a small apartment complex in Brookline.
The usual.
"You know what?" Peter says, taking Lincoln's phone out of his hand and setting it on the table along with his, "They can wait a little longer."
And if Lincoln has any objections, they are quickly silenced by Peter's lips.