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Winter sunlight laps through the cottage window and over the foot of the bed like an extra coverlet.
Further up, nestled in countless pillows, Aziraphale and Crowley lie curled together, drowsily content, although a glint of loving bastardry simmers in Aziraphale's eyes and wakes a similar glint of loving mischief in Crowley's eyes. Aziraphale's lips are closed around a tender smile. Crowley's lips are parted to let his snake tongue relish in his angel's scent.
Aziraphale combs his fingers through Crowley's hip length hair. "Darling."
"Mm-hm?" Crowley presses a lazy kiss to his angel's darling double chin and then lifts his head to give Aziraphale a look that is half challenge and half temptation. There's a game they play sometimes, on indulgent mornings like this, one that plays into each of their strengths and counters their weaknesses, meeting, as ever, in the middle, on their own side. They match each other's compliments in word or action, as they prefer.
"Sweetheart," Aziraphale responds, sliding his hands free to let Crowley move as his demon desires.
"Uhh-huh, easssy." Crowley slithers a little lower and presses his next kiss to the skin over his angel's sweet heart.
Aziraphale raises one white eyebrow, leans back into the pillows, and challenges, "Beloved."
Crowley snickers and coils in on himself to place a spate of kisses on every beloved stretch mark and fold that covers and shapes Aziraphale's soft, fat, belly.
"Dearest."
Crowley's snake-slit eyes sweep the whole length of Aziraphale's corporation, considering. Then he stretches himself back up to press a kiss between his angel's eyes, the closest he can get to the mind and the little bit of a bastard behind them, the dearest part of his angel, the one that brought them together again and again. The one smart enough to find a way to survive the aftermath of Armageddon. The one that leads to them being here, in this cottage, openly loving each other. "Angel," he whispers, forgetting their game, momentarily, drawing back instead to smile.
Aziraphale smiles back and traces a caress up Crowley's spine and through the point where otherspace and herespace meet to draw loving lines along the base of Crowley's once angelic wings. "Fiend," he whispers in return.
Crowley draws a shaky breath, and gathers Aziraphale's hand in his own to kiss the black snake wedding ring there, the only thing that could be considered fiendish.
Aziraphale leans in, quietly, and places the lightest of kisses over each of Crowley's eyes. "My love," he finishes. "Always, my love."
And this time, it's Crowley's turn to comb long fingers through silky soft hair, and trail them down in a caress that stretches as far as he can reach, even as he wraps himself around his angel, winding legs around legs and arms around torso until nothing can come between them, not winter sunlight, nor summer rain, not spring breezes, nor autumn mists, and nothing is, or ever will be, bereft of a loving touch.