killing time

Alfred had found that Arthur was, most of the time, in some sort of mood. He was complaining, or lecturing someone, or starting a fight with Francis, or getting all defensive about something stupid, or (on bad days) on a journey to ruin everyone else’s day. 

There were around 15 minutes a day when Arthur was at peace:

the moments in between when they had sex and when Arthur fell asleep. 

Alfred was finally starting to master those moments.

He rolled over onto his back and pulled Arthur closer to him. Too content to protest, Arthur only managed a grunt. Alfred pressed a short, firm kiss to Arthur’s temple, and Arthur started to squirm in his arms.

“Hey, hey, no, Arthur, shh,” Alfred crooned into Arthur’s ear, not about to lose this moment. He secured his hold around Arthur’s waist. “S’okay.”

“Don’t manhandle me,” Arthur mumbled, almost slurring with sleep.

 “M’not. I’m sorry. C’mon, just relax.” He kissed Arthur’s temple again. Though Arthur gave another grunt, he fidgeted and settled into Alfred’s arms.