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Cersei woke up to the smells of things happening in her kitchen.
Things never happened in her kitchen.
Her head was still throbbing. She couldn't remember much past leaving the fundraiser with Margaery and some of the other girls from the office. They'd gotten a better than expected turnout and there was no reason not to celebrate, other than Cersei having already lost count of her martinis. But they piled into a cab and went to some expensive upstairs cigar bar mostly frequented by rich old men with white hair, and the last clear-ish memory she had was sitting around a dark wood table surrounded by lots of red leather, drinking Bushmills on the rocks while she, Margaery, and all the little kittens in the inner circle of her employment puffed away on pricey, strong-smelling cigars.
Well, the last clear-ish memory was specifically of Margaery with hers, and the thought, as they locked eyes across the table, that damnit, Margaery was the only girl at this table that didn't look completely absurd with a stogey between her teeth.
Back to the present. And her headache. And the things happening in the kitchen. The sky was dawn-grey outside the large windows in the living room, and she hauled herself out of bed knowing that it was probably too early to be getting up when she was this hung over. Halfway across the room, she noticed that she was wearing her slip from last night, and that was about it. Margaery had gotten her out of her clothes.
She walked over to the kitchen, where Margaery was setting what appeared to be an omelet onto a plate, next to a steaming cup of coffee. Cersei knew she owned all of the implements necessary to make these things, but could hardly remember the last time she'd done so. In truth, the ice box and the liquor cabinet were what saw the most activity.
"What the hell is that?" she asked, rubbing her temples.
"Breakfast," Margaery answered, placing it on the island in front of her.
"I thought we had a rule about you sleeping over-" Cersei began to complain.
"I didn't," Margaery cut her off.
Cersei looked at her, and indeed, she was not wearing the same suit as yesterday. Which meant she'd brought Cersei home, gotten her to bed, gone home, and then gotten back up early enough to get back over here and make breakfast. She was too tired to bother hiding that she was impressed with Margaery's... industriousness. She sat on a stool in front of the island and started digging into the omelet.
"Well, did we-"
"No," Margaery interrupted, and started to breeze past her into the living room. She stopped and looked at Cersei carefully. "I don't fuck people who are too drunk to be able to say yes. Besides, do you feel like I fucked the shit out of you last night?"
Cersei paused a moment, taking a physical inventory. Nope, no sore muscles in her thighs or her ass. No residual wet, swollen feeling between her legs. No tenderness around her nipples the way she'd often get Margaery had gone to work on them. "Actually, no," she realized.
Margaery disappeared into the bedroom and pulled out some suit or other still in its drycleaning plastic, hanging it off the corner of the refrigerator.
"What's in this omelet?" It was surprisingly good, but its flavor was unusual and she couldn't quite put a finger on it.
"Whatever cheese you have in there, some herbs," Margaery answered lightly, disappearing into the bedroom again and pulling out two necklaces: one string of pearls, and one thin gold chain with a delicate pendant. She held them up for Cersei's approval.
Cersei pointed to the pendant, and after she finished washing the next mouthful of omelet down, she said, "Bullshit. There's something else, and I know it's not something I keep in my house."
"Well, you don't keep anything in your house," Margaery parried.
Cersei looked annoyed.
Margaery sighed. She took her little black purse off the countertop, unzipped it, and pulled out a small tin of Old Bay Seasoning. "Here. Happy now?"
Cersei picked it up, turning it over in her hand while she drank some more of Margaery's strong coffee. "Old Bay? Isn't this the stuff you use on fish?"
"It's good on everything."
Cersei finished her breakfast without another word, slipped off the stool, and got dressed. Margaery leaned on the other side of the island, watching her without bothering to pretend she wasn't. Cersei wouldn't admit it, but she enjoyed that hungry, appreciative stare that the girl gave her when she was changing. It was addictive, being the object of a younger woman's desire. Soon enough, she was neat as a pin and fully dressed, but Margaery was still looking at her like she wasn't.
Cersei considered her a moment. "You should do this again tomorrow morning," she decided.
Margaery smirked. "My pleasure."
"But it doesn't make you my girlfriend, is that clear?"
Margaery's eyebrow twitched. "Do I strike you as the romantic type?"
Cersei had to admit that she didn't.
Margaery came over and took a napkin, carefully wiped Cersei's lipstick off. Then she leaned in, kissed her hotly for a minute, her tongue moving in and around her mouth, hand slipping into her blazer to lightly palm one of her tits, in a way meant to wake her lusts. It worked. "We don't have time for that now," Cersei chided her through heavy breaths.
"I know," Margaery answered, grinning. She handed Cersei her lipstick. "But we will later."
Cersei breathed deeply all the way down to the street, trying to keep her mind off of thoughts of "later."