The room had long since fallen silent. At some point, while Niccola's breathing had settled into the slow, even rhythm of deep sleep, his own eyes had finally closed as well.
When dawn eventually crept through the gap in the curtains, it found them exactly where they had been hours before. The first birds began their morning chorus beyond the open window, their gentle chatter coaxing Kilgrave awake before the rising sun had fully claimed the sky.
He didn't move immediately. Instead, he lay perfectly still, listening. The birds. The steady heartbeat beneath his cheek. His gaze drifted downward to Niccola, still fast asleep against him, her face softened by dreams. A loose strand of raven hair had escaped across her forehead, stirring faintly with each slow breath. A smile found him before he realised it.
"No," he whispered to the empty room. "You've earned this." The world could wait.
Carefully, painfully carefully, he began the delicate operation of freeing himself from beneath her. Every movement was measured. He eased his arm away a fraction at a time. Paused when she murmured softly in her sleep. Waited...
Only when she settled again did he continue, slowly slipping from the bed without waking her. The absence of his warmth gave him another idea. Reaching down, he lifted his pillow and gently eased it into the crook of her arm, guiding her almost imperceptibly towards it.
"There," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "That should do."
Satisfied she remained comfortably asleep, he stole one last fond glance before quietly disappearing into the hallway.
The kitchen greeted him with cool morning air. Only then did he become aware of one rather obvious oversight. He glanced down at himself. After a moment's consideration, he opened a cupboard, retrieved an apron, and tied it around his waist with complete seriousness.
Marginally more respectable.
He surveyed the kitchen. His first instinct was to make something elaborate. He dismissed it almost immediately. Too theatrical. Too much. He opened the refrigerator, closed it again, then opened it once more, as though the answer might have appeared in the intervening seconds.
Months ago, entirely in passing, Niccola had smiled as she'd spoken about potato farls. Not because they were extraordinary. Because they reminded her of home. He realised that smile had stayed with him.
He rested both hands on the kitchen counter. How difficult can a potato farl be? Five minutes later, he had revised that assessment considerably.
The potatoes were boiled, peeled and still pleasantly warm beneath his fingertips as he worked them through a ricer, watching the soft clouds of potato collect in the waiting bowl. He paused to inspect the texture.
A measured sprinkle of flour followed. Then salt. Then a small knob of butter. He folded everything together with almost scientific precision, stopping every few turns to reassess the consistency.
Another dusting of flour... He frowned. There must be a point at which this ceases to resemble chemistry. Eventually the dough held together beneath his palms. He rolled it carefully into a neat circle before reaching for a knife. His first cut was fractionally off-centre. He stopped and looked at it. He turned the board and looked again.
He gathered the dough back together and started over. The second attempt produced four almost perfectly even quarters. He laid the first farl into the hot frying pan with surprising delicacy. The gentle hiss of butter against cast iron was immediately satisfying.
He folded his arms and waited... Counted silently...
Then, with complete confidence, he slid the spatula beneath it. The farl promptly tore itself into three uneven pieces. Kilgrave stared at the pan. The pan, predictably, offered no explanation.
He tried rescuing the remaining pieces and they crumbled with admirable enthusiasm. After a long silence, he tipped the entire affair into the food waste bin.
An educational experience...
The second batch looked far more promising. They held together beautifully. He permitted himself the smallest smile. Perhaps buoyed by premature optimism, he left them in the pan a little longer while reaching for the butter. A faint smell reached him.
His head turned slowly. "Oh." By the time he returned, they had crossed the fine line between beautifully golden and enthusiastically overdone. "Bastard!"
He washed the bowl and started again. The third batch received none of his confidence. Only his complete attention. He rolled the dough more gently this time, resisting the urge to make every edge mathematically perfect. He let the pan come properly to temperature before lowering the farls into the butter one by one, never taking his eyes off them. He crouched slightly, peering at the edges as they slowly firmed.
The spatula slipped beneath the first farl. It lifted cleanly. He turned it over with all the concentration of a bomb disposal technician. A rich, even golden crust greeted him.
The remaining farls followed without protest. As they finished cooking, the kitchen filled with the warm scent of butter and potato, comforting in its simplicity. He transferred them onto a cooling rack rather than directly onto the plate. They'll stay crisp.
Only then did he allow himself the faintest smile. He looked at the neatly stacked farls. He arranged them carefully on a warmed plate. Crispy-fried eggs and bacon to accompany the farls and some finely sliced spring onions scattered all over to finish it off.
His gaze drifted towards the tea caddy. He settled on english breakfast tea. The kettle hissed softly as he brewed it, waiting with surprising patience before pouring the rich amber tea into a waiting mug. Everything was positioned with meticulous precision upon the tray. Cup handle angled towards her dominant hand, cutlery aligned, napkin perfectly square.
Balancing the tray with both hands, he made his way back upstairs, his footsteps almost inaudible against the wooden floor.
He nudged the bedroom door open with his shoulder.
The morning light had spread gently across the room, illuminating Niccola exactly where he had left her.
For a long moment, he simply stood there, watching. The corners of his mouth lifted into the smallest, most unguarded smile.
"Director," he murmured softly. "Breakfast."
