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The first sign something's wrong is when Hanzo finds his coffee in the bedroom.
The Keurig is in the kitchen. Down the hall, to the right, straight across and slightly to the left of the Craigslist fridge, exactly eighteen steps (and a half, in slippers). It was by no means a marathon journey. The distance was so paltry, in fact, that Jesse often told him, in no uncertain terms, to "make it" his "damn self, 'cause" the cowboy "can't be assed to remember half the shit you put in it, honeybun". So most days would begin with the two of them rising together and making two entirely different brews.
Not today.
Today, Hanzo could only assume that Jesse rose first, and that, in and of itself, was concerning.
Sweet. But still incredibly concerning.
Hanzo rises. Satin sheets fall from his shoulders, pooling in his lap. Lines of dawn beam inside the tightly-shut blinds. From the novelty mug on the nightstand drifts the decadent caramel blend Jesse got him hooked on, and from beneath the sealed bedroom door, the glow of the hallway light.
He takes a sip. Too much cream. He needs another sip to make sure.
"Heeeey, hun?"
A black line that can only be described as the bolded and italicized version of an eyebrow rises as Hanzo presses the mug rim to his lips. He takes a hearty drink before answering. "Yes?"
The voice on the other side of the door hesitates. "I already checked the closet 'n the one cabinet, so, uh. Where'd you move the first aid kit to?" A bell jingles. Jesse hisses in pain, causing another, quieter jingle. "No reason."
Hanzo sets his coffee aside, and gets out of bed.