Work Text:
It was a process, a ritual if you will.
Choosing from his collection the tea pot and the cup for this evening.
He runs the water for a few moments and sets the kettle to boil.
Opening jars and satchels, sniffing the contents to decide what to add to the strainer.
He has chosen his books, his tea, and his own company over the other option; to sleep and the dreams that come from it.
When the kettle whistles, he quickly takes it off the heat adding a splash of water into the cup and the pot. He swirls the water before emptying them into the sink.
Placing the strainer with a newly created blend into the now prewarmed pot he pours the boiling water over it. Smiling as the fragrant steam swirls around him, he pops the lid on.
He takes the creamer filled with milk out of the fridge and gathers everything on a tray. Setting his gathered items beside his chair by the window.
He opens the window just enough to let the fresh air and the smell of the preserve flow into the room.
He settles, sitting comfortable in the large high backed chair, gently picking up the leather bound book set beside the tea tray. Easily finding the spot he had left off reading he leans back into the comfort of the chair.
A sadness in his eyes, taking a deep breath as the warm night air seeps through the window mingling with the smell of the tea steeping.
All is quiet, he will never admit to anyone how much he hates that.