Ken woke up before the alarm, which was slightly after Crawford, who had already arisen and was sitting on the side of the bed, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes before he rooted around blindly for his glasses. Ken rolled over onto his side, kicking his legs free of the entangling duvet and a hitherto slumbering cat as he did so.
“Two deadly assassins, ready for anything,” he yawned widely.
“So long as it’s not first thing in the morning.” Crawford had found his glasses (where they always were) and shrugged into a robe.
“I was always more of a nightbird,” Ken admitted, hugging one of the pillows. “The kids don’t have to be up for an hour yet.”
“Otherwise known as an hour of blessed peace,” Crawford replied serenely. Although Ken said the same things pretty much every morning. He could have set his watch by the next question, had he ever had need.
“I don’t know why you bother with an alarm. I mean, don’t you know it’s about to go off anyway?”
“Well it wouldn’t be if I didn’t set it.” Crawford observed reasonably, pulling Ken’s pillow away after a brief halfhearted tussle. “And half the working population wake up before their alarms. The other half are late, which is what you will be if you’re not up and making breakfast by seven. Come and have a shower.”
Ken had flopped back onto the mattress, where he was doing a passable impression of a starfish, if starfishes were tanned and muscular and wore way too many clothes in bed. He smiled beatifically at the light fittings. “Is it one of those showers?”
“It’s always one of those showers.” Crawford threw the pillow back at him before disappearing through the bathroom door.