Chapter Text

Brian’s head felt like someone had tried, and succeeded in ramming the Hubble telescope inside it. He screwed his eyes shut against the impeding daylight, and pulled the duvet back over his head, tried to trap in the dark. The Sun is a cock, he though, definitely not for the first time. Slowly, Brian tried to take stock of as much of the situation as he could with his eyes closed. His legs were still attached, which was certainly a plus, but they also felt like they had been run over with the Mars rover. He stretched out an arm, to his left. These are not my sheets, he thought. He rolled his head to the side, rubbing his face into the pillow. There was a definite smell of… Tory. Or jasmine. It’s surprisingly hard to tell.

Very suddenly, he became aware of another body, lying asleep next to him, when the body snored. Brian froze; bollocks. He listened carefully. That was not normal snoring. There was a soft intake of breath, and then, instead of an exhale… no. No, that couldn’t be right. But, oh God, it was. Instead of a nice, normal exhale, there was a gentle murmur of “Wiffwaff wiffwaff wiffwaff...”

Brian rolled over, cracking his eyes over, and peeked over the top of the duvet. Next to him, the tell-tale mop of Boris Johnson’s hair seemed to flutter, as the man sighed, before settling again. Well, as much as that hair could settle. Brian shoved his face back into the pillow. If there was ever a time for a convenient black hole, this would be it. From some deep crevice of his memory, he could remember a few sketchy details about the awards ceremony the night before. He was 80% sure Ed Milliband had been there as well, why couldn’t he have gone home with him? At least he was Labour. Next to him, Boris rolled over and snaked one arm over Brian’s waist in his sleep, pinning him down. It was pathetically endearing. In his sleep, Boris muttered something about a bendy bus.

Well, Brian though, I’ve probably picked the best of the Conservative party. After all, it could have been George Osborne. Brian shuddered. Boris’s hair tickled Brian’s chin, and on instinct, he lifted one hand to smooth it back down. It was surprisingly soft; he let his hand linger for a while, before pulling himself together – it was a harmless fling, stop being daft. The situation was, perhaps surprisingly, quite comfortable, despite some of Brian’s circulation being cut off. He wiggled into a sitting position, trying to avoid waking Boris, who simple shoved his head inside Brian’s armpit, and snored once more.

Brian made an attempt to piece together his surroundings; which was rather difficult with his eyes half closed against the light. The white cotton curtains did nothing to stop the sun streaming through, and bouncing off the walls. They lifted silently in the breeze from the open window, and from outside the sounds of London provided a comforting background noise; he missed Manchester. On the opposite wall there was a rather abstract painting of what appeared to be cows, and a vintage Union Flag hung over the bed, behind his head. Opposite the window, there was heavy, dark wood desk, which matched the wardrobe and headboard of the bed. It was simple, while calling out posh. Much like Boris himself, really.

As carefully as he could, he edged out from under Boris’s arm, wincing as he attempted to stand upright on the thick carpet. He swayed slightly, tried and failed to regain any balance he had possessed previously, and went in search of his pants in the array of clothes which were rather artfully scattered about the room.

He found the award he had won last night – for Contributions To Science – underneath the desk. From a corner of his memory, an image surfaced of Boris and himself, sitting under a table with a horrible bottle of wine, which they had passed between them like teenagers. They had both been bored, and the table cloth provided a very handy hiding space for… well. Brian hummed to himself. He found his pants (on top of the wardrobe, no less), and slipped out of the room, as quietly as possible, to go and investigate the kettle situation.

He stopped momentarily by the hall mirror, to examine the necklace of bruises on his chest. Well. Of course the Mayor of London was into biting. He shook his head at his reflection. What the hell is wrong with you, Cox? Stop enjoying this.

The kitchen was not all that different to the bedroom; same white walls and dark wood cabinets, but with blue marble countertop (very Tory) and chessboard floor. There was a portrait of King Charles II, and a string of rather fetching TARDIS shaped fairy lights strung around the window. Brian gave a snort of laughter, and promptly regretted it, when his head throbbed. It felt not unlike a very tiny man, sitting in his head, and kicking his eyeballs with little regard for aim.

He filled up the kettle on the hob, and dug through the cupboards until he found a large collection of mugs. He selected a Scrabble style ‘Q 10’ mug for himself, and on second thoughts, a London underground one for Boris. After all, it was only polite. And he had a niggling feeling that there was probably some damage he should repair. For one of the most British men in the world, he was sure a good cup of tea would heal most wounds. This was good. This was familiar, this was normal. The kettle boiled. He added tea bags, water, did Boris take sugar? No idea. He added one anyway, it was safe middle ground. Tea bags out, milk, good. He carried the mugs back upstairs, and nudged the bedroom door open with is hip.

Boris was sat up in the bed, rubbing his hand over his eyes – Brian froze, and mentally kicked himself. For some reason he’d been counting on Boris still being asleep. He had a sudden thought that Boris might kick him out – one night stands tend not to sit too well with politicians. Boris looked up, and levelled his gaze at Brian for a moment. Then – “You’re not the messiah; you’re a very naughty boy.”

Brian snorted. He probably should have expected that. “Ah, ha. Yes. Sorry, I suppose?”

“Life Of Brian. Balderdash, nothing to be sorry about. Is that tea?” Boris made grabby hands at the mug, as Brian tried to kick his brain into gear.

“Oh, ah, yes. I thought it would help with the hangover.” Brian handed the mug over, and carefully clambered back into bed. Boris nodded, slumped back against the pillows, and sighed into his mug.

“You’re wearing pants designed for teenagers, you know.”

Brian did know, but he didn’t care. He was very fond of these pants. They had an over-stylized image of a galaxy printed across them.

“I actually quite like these pants,” And then, after a brief spark of what may have been actual brain power; “I think I remember you rather enjoyed them too…” Then he managed to cut himself off by giggling. Smooth. He had a feeling that flirty did not suit him. “I ah, I should probably be heading off soon, then. I didn’t mean to invade your house like this.”

“Ah, not at all my boy, not at all. Anyone who makes tea without prompt is welcome in here.” Boris patted Brian on the knee. Do not shift over to him, do not shift over, it can only make this situation worse. Brian shifted closer to him.

“I’m four years older than you, you know, you can’t call me ‘boy’.”

“Detail, details. Now be quiet. You talk too much.” And then Boris bit Brian’s earlobe, which was in no way unpleasant. A moment later, the mugs had been set aside, and Brian remembered just exactly why this had seemed like so much of a good idea the night before.