Work Text:
One of the great things about miracles—even demonic ones—is that morning breath is a non-issue.
A smile breaks upon Crowley’s face mid-kiss. Aziraphale’s mouth is soft and tastes like frosty mint, the tip of his tongue swiping across his bottom lip feeling as fresh as the seaside breeze. He finds it delightful that neither of them are burdened with the task of getting out of bed before they can greet each other with a kiss, their legs tangled beneath the sheets. It is simply impossible not to smile.
“Morning, angel.”
Aziraphale’s stubborn when he wants to be, and right now what he wants is to keep the kiss going. It’s evident in the faint sound of protest that escapes him, obvious when he wraps an arm around Crowley’s shoulders and tries to keep him exactly where he is, flush against his body.
But Crowley can be stubborn too.
“Angel.” He pulls away by merely an inch, chuckling. “You told me you had places to be this morning.”
Crowley knows that if he lets Aziraphale keep this up, he’ll be blamed for it—blamed in the sense that Aziraphale will reproach him for being such an irresistible, lithe thing, but blamed nonetheless.
“Places?” Aziraphale frowns, as if this is somehow new information. “Where would I need to be except right here in this bed, with you in my arms?”
Aziraphale leans in again but Crowley avoids his lips by diving for his neck, snuggling in closer, running a hand up his back and resting it over his shoulderblades, fingertips reaching out to brush against the soft hairs at his nape.
“Dunno. Places. You weren’t specific.”
“Well, then it can’t be that important, can it?”
Aziraphale rolls onto his back and carries Crowley along with him, giving him a lift to swiftly pull him on top. They both laugh a little when the bedsheets don’t cooperate and twist themselves silly around their ankles, a corner getting stuck in the tight space between their thighs. It requires a fair bit of kicking and maneuvering before they are freed from their accidental restraints.
“Not important? You always insist that whatever you have to do is important. Terribly important.” Crowley pauses, looking down at his angel—his angel, his angel—with a devilish smirk he cannot manage to overpower. “It’s irritating, really.”
Aziraphale doesn’t look like he believes him. He rolls his eyes and scoffs, hands landing firmly on Crowley’s bare hips, anchoring him.
“Oh, please. You love my work ethic.”
“Do I, now?”
Aziraphale sucks in a breath, tilting his chin, gearing up for the challenge spoken between the lines of Crowley’s taunt. He’s being a devilish tease and they both know it.
“Allow me to rephrase,” Aziraphale says, his voice dropping low, his tone softening. “You love me.”
“That, I do.” Crowley admits. “Very much so.”
It wasn’t as easy to admit last night. In fact it was nearly excruciating—the thunderous beats of his heart ringing in his ears, the long minutes of silence that passed feeling longer than six thousand years. But then, he realised that the tears trailing down Aziraphale’s cheeks didn’t look sad, they looked happy, and before he knew it he was kissing his angel. His angel. Before he knew it, they were walking up the stairs hand-in-hand, falling into bed together, and Aziraphale was promising that he would love nothing more than to spend the night with him. Before he knew it, they were discarding clothing and Aziraphale was telling him he loved him, mouthing an endless series of praises against his skin.
He did mention he’d have places to be in the morning, only he didn't offer any sort of explanation, and Crowley didn't ask any follow-up questions.
“Are we really not getting out of bed?” Crowley asks, laughing when Aziraphale answers by burying a hand into his hair and giving him another taste of frosty mint freshness.
“I don’t believe I have anywhere better to be. Do you?”
“Nope.”