Work Text:
Mornings never really meant much to Aziraphale.
Well, no, that's not entirely true. Mornings meant as much to him as the rest of Creation--about as much as butterflies, or, say, sewer drains. There were concepts and objects and, indeed, people he enjoyed, but after several millennia, loving things just became a routine part of being who he was. It was, quite literally, his job.
And it's not that mornings weren't lovely. Of course they were, with their sunrises and dew drops and fresh coffee and newspapers, but none of those things ever made him feel particularly sentimental, and so he greeted each morning, dutifully, and then went about his day.
So perhaps a more accurate statement would be: Aziraphale had never been particularly fond of mornings.
That is, until this morning.
He's been reading all night, as he often does, although he's usually not propped up in bed like this. The sun starts to peek over the horizon just as he finishes a chapter, so he sets his book on the nightstand and turns his attention to Crowley, who has been softly snoring beside him since around midnight. He'll get up in a few minutes and make some coffee for them, but first, he gently brushes a bit of Crowley's hair from his forehead, and leans down to place a small kiss in the spot that it had occupied.
Crowley stirs, opens his eyes, and grins a small grin.
"But soft," he murmurs, "what light through yonder window breaks?"
"And I always thought I was Romeo," Aziraphale says.
Crowley shakes his head as best he can while still lying down. "Absolutely not." He shifts, touches his forehead to Aziraphale's side. "I mean, if anything, we're Gregory and Balthasar."
"The servants?" Aziraphale says, equal parts confused and amused. "Don't they get into a fight in the very first scene of the play?"
"Yeah, well," Crowley says, and snuggles down into the duvet a little further. "Nobody's perfect."
"Indeed," Aziraphale says, and settles in next to him. He realizes he's never really seen the delightful way that the sunlight hits Crowley's facial features at this time of day, and smiles.
"What?" Crowley says after a moment.
"First night in our cottage," Aziraphale muses, "first time I get to say good morning to you in our bed."
Crowley smiles back. "Morning, angel," he says, and kisses Aziraphale.
Aziraphale very quickly decides that the coffee can wait, and kisses him back.