I do not own TMI or its characters. This is absolute fluff. That is all.

&.&.&.&

Jace loved to watch Clary sketch.

Sometimes, she would work on a piece as though she was possessed, and even he had a hard time distracting her. Clary worked with such purpose, like her life depended on it. Jace admired her for that, because she was truly beautiful when she was creating life from nothing.

Clary was hunched over her drawing pad at the head of her bed, some of her hair falling over her face and observing his view, while Jace lounged across the other end. They'd been talking, and making out intermediately, when she'd suddenly been struck by inspiration—the sunset over the spires of a building in the distance, with gothic architecture and stone-walls. Jace had chuckled when it had captured her attention, because he'd known then that he'd lost her.

Her tiny nose scrunched in the most adorable manner, and how she would occasionally bite her top lip in concentration. It took all of his self-control not to claim her mouth at those times. If he'd really tried, he could have interrupted her with a few well-placed kisses or touches, but he'd learned in the past that this was ill-advised. Most of his efforts ended in a firm and indignant scolding from her.

On days like today, he was content to simply watch her fingers work nimbly, smudging and erasing as she went, the shape of her mouth changing with dissatisfaction or pleasure.

After almost two hours, Jace's body finally complained, and he had to move. He shifted closer to her, and the bed creaked. He gathered the stray pieces of hair in his hands and pulled them back behind her tiny ears. He leaned in and said, "How is it coming along, my lovely Picasso?"

She made a sound in between a hum and a grunt, but didn't break her trance. Her fingers were moving even faster than ever, if that was possible, as if she was trying to make an imprint of every single ray of light onto the paper.

Clary always said dismissively that her drawings were nothing compared to her mother's, but Jace begged to differ. Where Jocelyn's drawings were perfect to the tiniest detail, like a photograph, Clary drew with her heart. Her sketches could invoke feeling s, like this one, with the sun dipping over a vast and romantic church-like building, making Jace feel hope.

She had a gift.

Clary Fray had no self-awareness whatsoever, in Jace's opinion. She had no idea how beautiful and desirable she was. Even now, the sight of her milky white skin on her exposed shoulder was enough to drive him crazy with desire. Clary had never had to try to capture his interest—her very existence enchanted him, no matter what she was doing, no matter how mundane. Even just now, with her fiery hair clipped back by plastic flowers that she'd probably worn since grade school, sweat pants, and a plain lavender shirt, and not an ounce of makeup on her innocent face, Jace felt like he was observing an angel.

They'd had the same conversation many times. Clary would distance herself from him, and he would confront her about it. Sometimes these conversations would end in tears, sometimes with an embrace, but the root of it was always the same.

&.&.&.&

"I'm always insecure… who wouldn't be with a roman god worthy boyfriend?" Clary said plainly, gesturing across my body in a jerky motion. She couldn't shake the feeling that one day, Jace would come to his senses and see that she really was just gangly, awkward, ordinary Clarissa Fray. That the novelty of her would ware off, and he would find someone more up to his standard. Clary didn't doubt that he loved her now, but couldn't expect Jace to be satisfied with her forever.

Jace was torn between preening at her compliment and arguing. I wished that I could somehow make her see that she was every bit as heavenly as she thought me to be.

"Why can't you just believe me when I say that you're absolutely exquisite?" Her pulled her body into his, and she let him.

"Because I'm a realist, Jace."

"I like to think that we were rather romantic together, actually. A bit like Romeo and Juliet, minus the mutual suicide."

She raised her head from his chest and gave him a long look.

"I just… I can't help but feel like this is all too good to be true. I can't believe that I actually got the boy. That he actually loves me back." Girls like me never get the boy, she thought.

"You think that I don't feel exactly the same way? I feel fortunate every day that someone as amazing as you actually cares for me… because I know that I'm not an easy man to love, Clary. I question everything. I wonder all the time if you'll find someone better for you, someone kinder and gentler and someone who doesn't devote his life to killing demons." Someone like Simon, Jace thought, but he didn't say this out loud. " I'm surprised that you stuck by me through all this… and now we're here. Together. Finally." Jace said, stroking her hair. Clary's breath caught in her throat, because she never got used to the way that Jace would stare fiercely at her—like she was something precious.

"Why won't you believe me when I say that you're the most fascinating, wonderful, and brave girl that I've ever met?"

She scoffed. She thought that fascination should be saved for cultured, worldly travelers, or people like Isabelle who were so alluring and striking that boys couldn't help but attach themselves to her.

"I wish that you would see yourself the way that I do." He cradled her face and leaned in, until his lips were mere centimeters from her. "Utterly perfect in every way, shape, and form."

"I'm pretty sure that's how you describe yourself, too." She ribbed.

"You're infuriating." He growled, but tightened his hold on her so that she knows that he didn't mean it.

"I guess we have that in common." But she was smiling now, her embrace more enthusiastic.

"If I haven't done enough to assuage your fears of inadequacy, than I guess I'll just have to spend every waking moment of the rest of our lives proving it to you."

He kissed her, and they no longer spoke with words, but with caresses.

&.&.&.&

One of Clary's misgivings was that she wasn't as glamorous as Isabelle. She was most comfortable in well-worn, loose jeans and old band t-shirts and flannel, not skin-tight dresses and thigh-high boots. She always looked a bit frazzled, like she spent minutes instead of hours getting ready, and Jace had no complaints.

After all, he preferred her unclothed.

As Clary set aside her spiral sketch book on the desk by the bed, giggling with every compliment and sweet-nothing that he whispered in her ear, his hands sliding along her stomach, he thought that he wasn't doing such a bad job of fulfilling his promise.