Bobby woke up at precisely six oh seven AM.

He knew this because his alarm started ringing at six AM exactly, but by the time he'd woken up enough to realize that it WAS the alarm, then knocked it off the bedside table, then picked it back up off the ground, seven minutes had elapsed.

Bobby said, "urgghhh."

"Cher," said a sleepy voice beside him, "do y' have t' go into work?"

There was a body nestled in his duvet, curled around a pillow.  Long hair, bare shoulder.  Built shoulder.  Bobby leaned over, putting his forehead on said shoulder, and briefly wishing for a short, merciful death.  "My head hurts."

"y' didn' sleep enough."

"Not *my* fault*."  He sat up, resolutely, and looked around.  "And yeah, I think I have to work today."

"Merde."

Remy stretched, the sheet falling off him in a long, languous wave.  Bobby openly stared, leaning back to get a better view, and promptly hit the ground.  "Goddamned futon," Bobby muttered, standing and nursing his bruised pride.

Remy opened his eyes, laying peacefully in bed still.  "When do y' have t' leave?"

"uh, half hour? Hour if the traffic's good."  Bobby snorted, rubbing his face.  "Which it never is.  Um."

Remy stared at him, looked Bobby up and down.  Bobby tried to stifle a yawn.  He'd hooked up with someone that was way out of his league, obviously, but hey, the guy hadn't known it last night, so it wasn't his problem now.  When Remy didn't say anything after a few minutes Bobby started getting uncomfortable.  

"I can make you some breakfast, and coffee and whatever," Bobby said, finally stumbling into his kitchenette.  "And I can drop you off.  It's shitty that we gotta get up so early. Sorry."

"Is breakfast typical?" Remy asked, still laying in bed with the blankets tucked firmly around himself.

Bobby answered automatically, since it was early enough that his brain was in no way connected with his mouth.  "Mostly just coffee, but you were nice enough to take me home last night. I'll attempt waffles instead of the usual Captain Crunch."  He blinked.  "I mean."

Remy was grinning when Bobby looked over.  "I jus' don' take men home often, cher."

"Technically, it's not your house--"

"Well, when y'said 'take me drunk, I'm home!' how could I not?" Remy answered glibly, with a lazy grin.  He even dropped the accent, mimicking Bobby's flat speech patterns.

Bobby filled his coffee pot with grounds, refusing to answer. Whether Remy wanted some or not, he was going to need it. They'd been up until nearly three last night.  "Oh," he said finally, "that's right.  The BMW.  I guess you don't need me to drive you."

Remy was looking thoughtful.  "Y' can make waffles?"  Bobby nodded.  He looked even more thoughtful.  "But do y' have strawberries for th' top?"  Bobby shook his head.  The coffee perked noisily.  Remy nodded to himself, as if he'd decided something.  "Right, y' ain' going in t' work today."

Bobby watched the coffee.  "I'm not?"

"Non."  Remy wiped sleep out of his eyes, and finally began to stir.  "Y' have the sick days, yeah? Take'em."

"But I--"

"Non."

"Why?" Bobby asked stupidly, because it really *was* too early for his brain to be connected to anything.  But especially his mouth.  You don't ask why when someone says "take sick time," you just take it.

Remy stood, glancing around for his pants.  "We're goin' shoppin'."

Bobby just sighed. "Okay."

And Remy nodded.

~