runs his fingers through his hair
There’s an image to uphold-- a gentleman is always well kept; words heeded as Q stands, staring up with an amused sort of indignation (an attempt, at least at indignation). At first it was a gentle brush of fingertips to move unruly hair from Q’s eyes, then it became something more; to comb away locks curled from bedsheets, to smooth down the ones that defied sense and reason.
But with each adjustment came more of a frown on Merlin’s features, because no matter what he did or how he did it, it didn’t look quite right-- and that’s where Q’s amusement grew.
He reveled in the feel of hands through his hair, regardless of their attempt at some put-together aesthetic; to speak would only break the spell that they were alone and had somewhere else to be.
He can wait.
Eventually there’s a sigh; lips parting in defeat before a hand musses up and smooths back Q’s hair. Perhaps it was a hopeless endeavor after all.
Still, Q smiles, victory had despite what he might look like now, and he leans up to press his smirk against the line of Merlin’s lips. There’s a growing cheekiness in his expression
“You know, for having had sex an hour ago-- I thought my hair was fine.”