His Shirt
Disclaimer: I wish, but no, I don't own the characters/show.
Author's Note: This fic is the result of major fangirl flailing with Sentient Mist late at night. You've been warned. :P
It's true that he's never slept better, despite sharing a home with all manner of creatures that could kill him with little effort.
Funny how that worked.
Nevertheless, there were nights that his insomnia would rear its ugly head, and tonight was one of them.
Rather than stay up and read in his room or head for the kitchen, however, he turns the corner to her office.
It was always a good bet that she'd be up, even at this hour, but while the door is open and her office lights are on, what he finds upon entering is not what he expects.
The cold teakettle and mountains of paperwork tell him she'd been up for a while, but her sleeping form splayed across the couch tells him so much more.
Like where the hell that favorite shirt of his had ended up.
It wasn't anything special, a simple t-shirt with the Agency's logo on it, but it was soft and well worn, and he'd missed it immediately.
She'd told him it must have been lost to the massive laundry machines downstairs. He'd suspected differently of course, but never would have he suspected her out of all the possible culprits. She was also the one person he wouldn't dare demand it back from.
It clashes horribly with the long patterned silk robe that covers the rest of her, but he can only think of one word: adorable.
Even more so when she starts to stir in her sleep, moving to bring her legs closer to her chest with a soft murmur.
It's then that he notices the chill in the air, the fire she'd started against the autumn chill now only smoldering ashes. It was one of her many quirks that she put off using the heating system in her rooms for as long as possible, preferring the fire she'd grown up with over more modern methods.
Just one more thing to love about her, he supposed, shaking his head as he moved to grab the heavy afghan that covered the back of the couch.
He knew better than to wake her up, she'd only go straight back to work, probably ask for him to retrieve a fresh pot of tea since he was already up, but he has other ideas.
Tucking the blanket securely around her, he keeps his movements swift and silent, only chancing a touch to move an errant bang from her brow.
"Good night, Magnus," he whispers, and, before he can talk himself out of it, presses a kiss against the skin he'd exposed.
Thankfully her only response is to burrow deeper into the blanket, and he breathes a sigh of relief, stepping back to head for the door.
He's almost left when he hears her.
"Thank you, Will."
He wonders how long she's been awake, but then decides it doesn't matter.
She was the one wearing his shirt after all.