First mornings were always awkward.
Morning was the time for regrets and embarrassment, sometimes hidden under the offer of coffee or toast. Or morning was the time for clinging, desperate declarations of eternal devotion and talk of love and marriage. Bond had yet to determine a correlation between the quality of the previous night and the morning-after reactions, or he might have actually tried to be a bit worse in bed. If nothing else, awkward coffee and toast was better than stopping for a takeaway muffin on the way back to his flat.
Awkward first mornings were the reason he preferred to spend them in someone else's flat. Comfortable as his bed was, at least spending a first night in their bed made for an easy escape the following morning. The somewhat dramatic steps required to throw out a clingy bed partner tended to upset the neighbours.
As he quickly rinsed his mouth with some convenient mouthwash, he wondered what it would be this time. The 'I like you, but I'm really not gay' line, perhaps. Or maybe 'I hope we can be professional about this and continue to work together'. He didn't think Q was the emotional type, so it probably wouldn't be a strategic mention of civil partnership laws, but Bond had learned not to predict too closely. Flattering as marriage proposals were, his last had been at gunpoint (he still had no idea where she'd been hiding the .25), and he'd had to kill her.
He buttoned up yesterday's shirt, tucked it in, and walked out of the bathroom, expecting to find Q still looking drowsy, rumpled, and adorable in the bed they'd shared last night. The blankets were on the floor, though, in a fabric trail that pointed out the door and down the hall. Bond followed the logical conclusion and found what might have been Q in the kitchen, if not for the fact that he seemed to be... well, partially undead.
Maybe not even partially. Maybe wholly undead. Then again, it could have been the flour.
"I..." Q said in a tone that Bond hadn't heard from his Quartermaster yet. It wasn't defeated, or annoyed — it was dazed, perhaps even confused, and Bond was a bit put out that such a tone could be inspired not by what they'd done last night (which was admittedly fantastic) but by... this. "I saw in a movie once where the guy brought the chick brioche in bed."
So that was what this was supposed to be. Bond was no baker, but he was fairly certain that bread-making involved less of a floury puddle and more of an actual dough. As he stepped into the kitchen, a bit of the puddle slipped free of the countertop and dripped onto the floor, drawing Bond's eye down.
"You're naked," he observed after a moment's debate. The flour, he decided, didn't count. "Perhaps this would be better accomplished if you had your glasses?"
Q reached up to touch the corner of his eye, smudging a bit of flour there. "Oh. Well, they're here somewhere, I'm sure. They became fairly useless fairly quickly." He turned and squinted in the direction of the microwave. "It just seemed so doable. Thirty-eight steps isn't that complicated when you're working with circuitry. And I'm pretty smart."
"This —" Bond stopped, uncertain of exactly how to address the situation. Did Q try to cook for all of his lovers? (Did this even count as cooking? It looked more like extreme household chemistry.) Or was this a special occasion?
Finally deciding that his clothes needed to go to the dry cleaner's anyway, he put a hand on one bony, flour-covered shoulder. "I have a better idea. Why don't —" He considered Q's current condition and decided that showering alone would be unsafe. Instead of his original proposition, he offered, "Why don't we shower, and then I'll take you for proper brioche?"
Q looked — rather, squinted — at Bond, expression somewhat lost. "Proper brioche is the kind someone makes for you as thanks for being exceptional. With strawberries. And cream cheese. And I don't sleep much, so I thought I could..." He sighed, this time definitely in defeat, and waved his hand. Flour came away from his skin in a gentle cloud, sprinkling down over the destroyed floor.
Jaded as Bond was, there was something touching about the look on Q's floury face, and he felt an unusual sort of affection as he brushed flour out of Q's eyelashes. "If you'd rather, we can pick up brioche and strawberries and cream cheese, and I can feed them to you in bed," he offered, suddenly very glad it was Sunday morning, and neither of them needed to be at the office.
Q sighed and leaned into Bond's hand on his face. "Points for effort, and for it not being your kitchen I've so thoroughly destroyed?" he asked somewhat hopefully. "And I can make tea after the shower. Or coffee if you prefer."
Privately thinking that Q was entirely unsafe to be allowed near either a coffee pot or a tea kettle, Bond leaned down for a somewhat dry, dusty kiss. "Sounds lovely," he lied smoothly, and reached for his sleepy Quartermaster's hand to head back to the shower.
