Malcolm and the MC's sweater

My back cracked with a deep stretch as I stumbled out of the bedroom. I had been so tired the night before that after kicking off my shoes, I had fallen to the bed and not moved. It resulted in an awkward sleeping position, and strands of teal hair stuck to the sleep crust of my eyes. Not exactly what I had been hoping for when coming to Malcolm’s last night.

I stumbled into the kitchen, in search of something warm to wake me up. Malcolm was already up, per usual, going about his morning routine. The smell of oblong filled the small kitchen, along with the spicy scent of the recent incents we had picked up from the last flea market we attended.

“Morning,” he threw over his shoulder, his voice still gruff with sleep.

I found myself frozen, halfway to the kitchen, looking dumbly at the man who I saw nearly every day. By now, I was intimately aware of who Malcolm was. How he took his tea. What he preferred to do during an evening. His bedtime routine. I was also aware of every tattoo. The way he stood with most of his weight on his right foot when he was tired. The almost blank expression he had when he was trying to puzzle out whatever current dilemma was at hand. But this? This was entirely new.

Malcolm set down a large black teapot with small clay rosebuds blooming from the handle. “Tea?” he asked.

I nodded dumbly at him.

He glanced up at me, his eyes shinning through the thick of his lashes. “Problem, Lamplight?”

I was staring. I knew I was staring. But at this point, it was my right to stare. “I’m sorry,” I said, trying to shake myself out of my reverie. “Is that my sweater?”

Malcolm looked down at himself, plucking at the oversized material. It was dark green in color and incredibly soft to the touch. “Yeah. Guess it is. Just grabbed the first thing I found. Tired this morning.” He poured both of us a cup of tea, fixing it the way I liked. Normally, I watched his hands. I had a slight obsession with his hands, in fact. But today, I couldn’t help but watch the way the sweater kept falling off his shoulder. How it went right to his mid-thighs, where his bare legs stretched out from beneath. I had seen Malcolm in a lot of different ways in my time, but never like this. I was quickly becoming obsessed.

When it was clear that I was still non-verbal, Malcolm pushed the mug of tea towards me, curling his fingers around his own. He leaned on the counter, looking at me over the rim. “You good?” he asked, clearly amused.

“No,” I snorted. “I’m sorry for staring, but I can’t seem to look away.”

“The sweater doing it for you?”

He shifted in just such a way that it slipped even further down his shoulder, exposing the top of one of his tattoo’s. The black lines peeked tantalizing out from the collar. The sweater was slightly large on me at six foot three. On Malcolm, who didn’t even reach six foot, he was practically swimming in it. I now wanted to buy all my sweaters large and leave them around the house for him to find.

Malcolm snapped his fingers. “Aster,” he laughed.

I blinked, realizing I was blatantly staring again. “Sorry,” I muttered, grabbing at my tea. “Sorry.” I shouldn’t have felt the telling signs of a blush. This was my partner. But, oh how it pricked the tips of my ears and ran down my neck to and my chest.

“Who would have thought a sweater would be your downfall,” he grinned.

I rounded the counter, coming to his side. It was criminal how long I had stayed away. Hands on his hips, I slid them around to his back, linking my fingers there.  “I need to see you draw like this.”

Malcolm raised his brow. “This is not becoming a kink.”

“It might be.”

“No,” he laughed. He didn’t pull away, however, as I leaned down and kissed him. My lips brushing against his own in near reverence. Everything with Malcolm felt like worship and I was simply a supplicant, bending to his will.

“Pull yourself together, Lamplight,” Malcolm laughed.

“Never.”

“We have things to do today,” he reasoned.

“Absolutely not.” I wasn’t leaving the house. 

“So the plan then,” he said, his mug of tea still somehow in his hands. Damn him for looking so incredibly composed the entire time. “Is to keep me here and stare at me all day?”

“Yes.”

“Strange plan.”

“It’s the only possible plan I can come up with.”

Malcolm rolled his eyes, setting his tea aside. The movement was awkward with the way I refused to let him go. “How about this. We continue with what we are supposed to be doing today.” I hated it. “But, I wear this sweater in doing so. All day.”  Suddenly I didn’t hate it anymore. Suddenly, the idea of walking around the market, Malcolm wearing such a clear display of our partnership, was doing things to me I had never expected. “Then we can come home,” he told me with a grin, “and we’ll decide some other things to do.”

I groaned, my head falling to his shoulder. “Yes to all of that.”

Malcolm laughed, patting me on the back. “Go get dressed, Lamplight. I’ll buy you breakfast.”

Reluctantly, I let him push me away. I watched as he walked to the bedroom, stretching his arms above his head. The sweater rose tantalizingly high. 

It was going to be a very long day.