Back in the day, Spaceboy had always been awake before dawn, the first one of the Academy to leap out of bed and get an eager start on their day. Over the past ten years, that iron discipline has relaxed a bit with no Monocle to chase them all into training, but old habits still die hard. He's still an early riser and never late to an engagement, nor a mission with the enforcers, nor a public event in the archangel Gabriel's shadow.
It's still never as early as Allison's calls, though. This disjoint in their mornings can be aggravating, but they've also grown used to it: Allison has to weather literal hours of sitting patiently in a makeup chair, while Luther's dayjob doesn't require anywhere near the same upkeep. He rolls out of bed, takes a shower, shaves, mostly leaves it at that.
Today, he's reluctant to leave the cozy nest of blankets and the warmth of their bed (his body tends to run hotter than hers; irritating, on those sticky summer nights), expecting nothing but a cold and empty house to greet him. By by the time he pads into the living room, though, sleep-rumpled and mussed, he pauses in the doorway in pleasant surprise.
"You said you had a gig this morning. Liar," Luther says, his voice cracked and gravelly from sleep, and he stops behind the couch enough to peer over Allison's shoulder and read the headlines. Hands pressed into the back of the couch, he stoops low enough to press a kiss to the top of her head; breathing her in, a quiet little gesture that they never allow themselves in public. Her scent had been all over the pillows, but it's still no substitute for the woman herself.
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It's still never as early as Allison's calls, though. This disjoint in their mornings can be aggravating, but they've also grown used to it: Allison has to weather literal hours of sitting patiently in a makeup chair, while Luther's dayjob doesn't require anywhere near the same upkeep. He rolls out of bed, takes a shower, shaves, mostly leaves it at that.
Today, he's reluctant to leave the cozy nest of blankets and the warmth of their bed (his body tends to run hotter than hers; irritating, on those sticky summer nights), expecting nothing but a cold and empty house to greet him. By by the time he pads into the living room, though, sleep-rumpled and mussed, he pauses in the doorway in pleasant surprise.
"You said you had a gig this morning. Liar," Luther says, his voice cracked and gravelly from sleep, and he stops behind the couch enough to peer over Allison's shoulder and read the headlines. Hands pressed into the back of the couch, he stoops low enough to press a kiss to the top of her head; breathing her in, a quiet little gesture that they never allow themselves in public. Her scent had been all over the pillows, but it's still no substitute for the woman herself.