#this was also an excuse to share my macbeth sleeping headcanons - he's a menace!

[kendelias]

‘ yo, sleepyface. ’

Sunlight filters softly through the window, a late morning halo around everything it touches. The air smells of sticky sweet syrup, and the house is nice and quiet. Floorboards creek quietly as Kit creeps across them, and the door squeaks as he shoulders it open softly. He mutters a swear - he made it all this way, he can’t mess it up at the last minute.

Well, it really doesn’t matter. He could probably drop an anvil through the roof and Macbeth still wouldn’t wake up.

He gently places the platter down on the nightstand, and looks over at the bed. The only reason he can tell Macbeth is there is the lump wrapped under blankets and the gentle chainsaw snoring. He sighs and crosses to him, moving the blankets down just to find exactly what he expects: Macbeth, face down, arms above his head, snoring a mile a minute, mascara from the day before smudged on his pillow - well, his remaining pillow, anyway. The other one’s fallen to the floor, as if he’s wrestled it in the night and it lost horrendously. Kit sighs softly, but smiles all the same.

Kit reaches down and presses a kiss between his bare shoulder blades. “Yo, sleepyface,” he murmurs. Nothing; the revving continues. He kisses up, one each as he continues. “Time to wake up... Come on, baby, as much as I’d love to stay in bed all day...”

Eventually, by the time he’s reached his neck, the snoring’s gently dissipated. Macbeth grumbles and turns over, blinking in the sunlight and stretching like a cat; he feels his chest tighten, love warming him all the way through. “Whassah,” Macbeth mutters intelligently, shaking his head.

Kit smirks. “I made breakfast in bed for you, dummy,” he says.

Macbeth blinks. “Did I forget something?” he asks. That makes Kit laugh.

“No,” he assures. “Just a benefit of having the best boyfriend in the world whose hobby is making French toast from scratch.”

Finally, Macbeth smiles, a warm and bright one. “All true,” he murmurs, then leans up to kiss Kit sweetly. “Thank you.”

He grins against Macbeth’s mouth. “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he says, before standing and retrieving the breakfast platter and returning it. Macbeth’s always looks like he’s starving in a desert and Kit’s food is a feast fit for a king; a side effect of going hungry most of his life, Kit supposes. Still, he waits patiently as Kit sits down on his own side of the bed, then hands him a plate before ravenously digging into the other. Kit just holds back a laugh. Instead, he politely tucks in to his own plate, then says, “Oh, you remember we’re going to Weaver’s, right?”

Macbeth stops mid-shovel and looks at him from the corner of his eye. A man of few words, Kit can read the side-eye by now: Really? Lyon’s still pissed about last week when you and Toby took shots every time I revealed a new felony I’ve committed.

Kit rolls his eyes playfully. “You’ll be fine,” he says. “You gotta stop worrying. If they even get to see half the person I think you are they’ll fall in love with you, alright?” Kit leans over and presses a kiss to his bare shoulder. “You’re gonna be fine.”

When he pulls back, it’s to see Macbeth making a face. “Maple syrup,” he mutters, and Kit’s surprised into a laugh when he sees a smudge of maple syrup indeed left on Macbeth’s shoulder. Still, as Macbeth goes back to his food, he says, “Love you too.”

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