I have no explanation for this. But I'm not sorry at all.

I kept trying to brainstorm some drafts for another fic I'm working on (you know, something with an actual plot, for once) but I guess I'm in a fluffy mood, so this is what you get instead.

This takes place in the same AU as 'always waiting for you to be waiting below', after they (finally, praise jesus) get married. I might write some other companion pieces for this lover-era-inspired-tagatha-fics, so if you're interested tell me which other songs you'd like for me to do.

(I noticed that I forgot to add my notes to 'always waiting for you to be waiting below', but it if you're scared of the m-rating, don't be, it's pretty much fluff trying to be spicy, yet while they are companion pieces in a series of lover-inspired fics, they can be read separately)

Tedros has always detested the heavy blackout curtains of his bedroom. They were stiff, they retained too much dust, and they were hard to open and even harder to close. That's not even mentioning the fact that they clashed horridly with any good wallpaper options he had when redecorating the room. As a morning person, he never saw much use for curtains in general (other than being ornaments), so naturally, he wanted to get rid of these monstrosities. Tedros enjoyed rising with the sun and the lack of privacy had never been an issue for him.

However, his wife, who was not a morning person at all and craved her privacy, especially in the bedroom, had great appreciation for them. It was one of the many, many things the king and the queen of Camelot didn't agree on, and therefore, as their relationship progressed, became one of their many, many compromises.

And so, the original Arthurian navy-blue velvet curtains were instead switched for lighter, translucid white curtains that were not only much more manageable but went well with the wallpaper and furniture, while still retaining the sense of privacy.

Tedros had had no particular opinion on these curtains, but now he has grown fonder of them, for they allow him to appreciate the simple pleasures of morning glories he normally doesn't get to enjoy. He's able to feel the sun's blessing on his skin far before the light wakes him up fully.

Dawn sweeps inside in soft streams. He relaxes into it, allowing it to trickle down the length of his spine, caress his bare back, and massage his shoulders. The light grows brighter and brighter as the minutes tick by, calling for him to stretch, get dressed and go about his day, but the warmth invites him to stay still and relish in comfort for just a little longer. He feels heavy and a tentative stretch of his muscles tell him he is definitely sore, the good kind of sore, his body insisting that he sink deeper and deeper in the peaceful atmosphere until he melts into a puddle.

Outside, daylight stirs the castle. He can hear the faint buzz of people talking, working, and walking, getting ready for another day. Tedros can smell the fresh morning air and the lush fragrance of the gardens, bringing the news that winter has ended and it is finally spring again. It mixes with the ever so savory scent of pastries, promising a delicious breakfast downstairs in the main dining room.

Camelot is awake, but Tedros, for once, doesn't answer its call.

Today, he is not His Majesty, King Tedros of Camelot. Today he is only Tedros, a man basking in the morning light, safe in his lover's warm embrace.

He eventually untucks his nose from the crook of his wife's shoulder, careful not to rouse her slumbering form, and extracts his arm from around her waist to give himself some room to stretch a bit more. His eyes open, uncharacteristically lazy, and for an eternal second, he is unable to breathe, the sight that greets him tugging at his heartstrings, stealing away the air from his lungs.

Tedros had always thought Agatha looked her very best in the mornings. Something about her dark hair fanning out, like ink spilling across his pillows, her expression so relaxed and unguarded, nearly angelic, her soft lips parted, her chest rising and falling slowly, undisturbed, her naked pale skin basking in afterglow, often sporting evidence of his ministrations from the night before, peeking through the soft sheets. Her.

Yes, his wife looked lovely asleep, and she looked even better if it was his bed she was sleeping on.

If he truly was to get deep and psychological about the reason why that was so, he'd guess that it was bit like why he loved to see her wearing her crown: they aren't always the best at communicating, and visual cues are helpful, especially to him (with his family and abandonment issues). It's comforting. Agatha has a band on her finger that matches his, her fingerglow is the same color as his, she wears the crown to his kingdom, she sleeps on his bed and therefore, even if they disagreed on many, many things, even if she got tremendously furious at him, if she shouted at him or gave him the cold shoulder, these cues assured him that she still loved him and that she wasn't going anywhere.

He hasn't moved too far away from their original position, but Agatha shifts on her sleep, chasing after his warmth with a low whine. She pulls on the blanket and Tedros allows her to hog most of it, exposing his nakedness to the sunlight, looking amused. He adjusts his body to protect her from the imminent shower of golden light that slowly inches through the room, bound to wake her soon enough. She sighs, burying her head on the space between his chest and the mattress.

He allows a small smile to grace his lips, wondering how is it that he got so damn lucky.

He gets to wake up every day to the most incredible woman in the world. Agatha loves him and she's his wife. Agatha, who is so smart it's almost annoying, who was too kind for her own good, who was so loyal and true to the people she loved, who was the most hardworking queen Camelot had ever seen, who was the strongest person he knew, whose beautiful smile stripped him bare of any arrogance, whose touch set him on fire... Agatha, who is everything he could ever wish for. A queen who is, indeed, better than Tedros in every way, and yet somehow still chooses to be with him. She chose him.

She mumbles something unintelligible against his skin, balancing on the thin line between sleeping and waking, shifting among the sheets again, now lying on her back. A strand of ebony hair falls upon her face and she twitches, a small pout forming on her lips. Tedros had asked her once about the things she said in her sleep, but her only response had been to blush and smack him on the arm, telling him to shut up. He dropped the issue and never brought it up again, for he had found yet another thing he adored about morning-Agatha: she was for his eyes only. It was a part of her that he didn't have to share with anyone else; sometimes, not even with Agatha herself. Whatever nonsense she said, whatever expressions she made, they were his to keep.

(Tedros supposes he is just greedy and selfish like that, but he guesses that Agatha is just so good that he might as well be greedy and selfish for both of them.)

He adjusts her hair behind her ear, letting his hand linger on her cheek. She leans back into it without any hesitation and it just about kills him.

He loves her, he loves her, he loves her, he loves her…

Tedros moves to prop himself up on one elbow, pressing a reverent kiss to her forehead, and then starts running his fingers through her hair, feeling the silkiness, tenderly massaging her scalp with his fingertips. Agatha nearly rumbles in delight and so he proceeds, drawing random shapes.

He can tell the exact moment she starts gaining consciousness. She stretches lazily, curling into him, almost as if trying to sink into the bed, running away from the sunlight. He is more than happy to be her shield, focusing instead on diminishing the indolent grin that seems to taken over his features, trying not to look like he is enjoying this too much, least his wife picks a fight with him first thing in morning.


The way Agatha says his name, almost like a prayer, is all the proof he needs that she is his queen. No one but her. She owns him, heart, body, soul and anything else he can offer her. It grounds him, almost like a chain, and he is once again baffled at the hold she has on him. He was hers.

When his body can no longer keep her from the glowing daylight, she tentatively opens her eyes, squinting amidst the streams.

Agatha wakes up to the adoring cerulean gaze of her husband. Her brown eyes are sleepy but alive, lit with gold when they meet his, the silent exchange completing the nearly ethereal picture of this moment in time. Tedros doesn't know how she manages to look even lovelier, but she does, and he decides that he wants things to be like this forever. Important things, good things, such as morning glories, should be eternal.

"Good morning," she murmurs, the hoarse quality of her voice telling him that she's going to fall back asleep soon.

Most days, this is the part in which Tedros would kiss her briefly, then get up and start his exercise routine, leaving her to lounge around in the sheets for a while longer before the two of them have to attend to their duty as Camelot's rulers. Today, he just whispers back, "good morning", burying his face in her hair.

If Agatha suspects anything amiss, she doesn't voice it out loud. Instead, she prompts him to lie down again by rolling onto her stomach, half on top of him, resting her cheek on his chest, an arm across his torso. Tedros slides his hands to her hips, keeping her in place, just in case she decides to roll away. His wife's eyes close and it's not long before her breathing evens out again.

He allows her to fall back asleep, even if he has no intention of joining her. His fingers absentmindedly trace patterns and sweet nothings across her soft skin, losing track of time.

Morning glories, indeed.