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Comparatively, William's house is far more cozy than the man himself. The hardwood floors are a rich brown, and the living room where he spends the majority of his leisure time houses a carpet so plush and inviting it's like walking across clouds. Presently, Will's bare feet are sunk into that carpet and he's staring across the room at Grell balled up on his settee.
Her toes - sans those ridiculous boots of hers, which are discarded in his entryway - had curled in the carpet before she'd pulled them up and wound a blanket around herself, shivering so violently the beads on her glasses chain rattled.
Will rubs two fingers against his temple and asks again, "Why in heaven's name did you think walking to my flat in a blizzard was a good idea?" The first time he asked, when she pounded on his door demanding entry, she had been incapable of speaking past her blue lips and quaking shoulders. Will might not always be fond of her antics, but he wasn't about to let her freeze.
Thus, here they are.
Grell peers at him through damp lashes and tightens her grip on the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Will blinks slowly at her and, without a word, gets up to stoke the fire. A sigh of relief reaches his ears, followed by a telling lack of chattering teeth.
When he takes his seat again, Grell is slumped back against the settee, looking warmer and faintly drowsy. "I love the snow," she starts, gaze drifting to the window where gusts of wind pelt snow against the panes. "When I went out it wasn't a blizzard, Will. And when it got bad," her eyes meet his again, "your house was closer."
"You didn't think to Jump home?"
She shrugs, covering her mouth with the blanket and exhaling breath to warm herself. "It didn't occur to me." Will gives her a flat look. "Will, it's Christmas!"
"It's January third," Will deadpans. Grell is beginning to pout at him, so he drops it. She's here and likely not leaving. He'll manage.
They're both silent for a long few minutes. Will watches the fire crackle and thinks Grell might have dozed off when she speaks his name softly. "Will," she says, sleepy. "Could I borrow some dry clothes?"
Of course she thinks she's spending the night.
It’s not worth an argument he’ll inevitably lose, Will decides. He nods, though he makes no move to retrieve anything for her. They stare at each other for a long, quiet moment before Grell stands and disappears from the room.
Will waits approximately ten minutes before following her down the hall.
In his bedroom, Grell’s wet clothes are nowhere to be seen, though the cracked bathroom door leaves little guess as to where they are. Grell herself is a wadded up ball on the far side of Will’s bed, completely invisible beneath the thick quilt.
Will hangs his dressing gown on the hook behind the door after he closes it and crosses the room to the edge of his bed. Bright green eyes peer up at him from just above a fold of fabric. Grell isn’t wearing her glasses, and a glance to the side reveals them folded and placed delicately on his nightstand just to the left of his alarm clock.
“You’ve made yourself quite to home,” Will says dryly, gazing back down at her. Those eyes blink once, slowly, as Grell snakes out a hand to peel back the quilt. Will eyes the newly revealed space on his bed dubiously.
A minute and some rearranging later, Will is tucked into his own warm bed with Grell’s freezing feet creeping up the leg of his pants. “Grell,” he warns, eyes firmly closed and brow furrowed. She stills, then resumes moving, only slower. Will sighs harshly and opens his eyes.
“I’m cold,” Grell whines.
“Yes, I noticed. You will warm. Without my help.” Grell pouts at him but she does retract her feet. There’s blessed silence for a few moments as Grell resituates herself, balling the bedclothes into her cold fists and tucking her knees into her chest.
“Will,” she says, her breath the only warm thing about her; it puffs faintly against Will’s collarbone when she speaks. “Do you remember when we were trapped in that basement in Islington?”
Will remembers. It was well below freezing and the basement had been previously flooded with the run-off slush of an early snow. He and Grell had been up to their ankles in dirty, half-frozen water for over three hours while they waited for a rescue.
An hour into their forced companionship and Grell had been shaking so hard Will could hear her joints knocking together from across the room. She hadn’t exhausted her Jumping capabilities and could very well leave if she wanted to, but had insisted on staying with Will. They were partners, she had expressed firmly, and partners stuck together.
Perhaps it had been the sentiment coming from someone with whom he was still less than fond. More likely it had been that his own extremities were nearly blue and, though frostbite couldn’t kill someone already dead, he didn’t fancy several nights in the infirmary while he healed. Either way, Will had crossed the room and he and Grell had huddled on a few hastily stacked boxes, their feet just out of the slush and their arms round each other.
“I do,” Will answers, blinking away the memory.
“You held me then…” Will’s eyes open to find Grell quite close, her lower lip beginning to curve in a smile. “And again, in Hampstead. After the –.”
“The attack, yes. That was not so much me holding you as it was you collapsing on me in a dead faint.”
“I’d killed fourteen demons! Let’s see you do as much without collapsing.”
“No thank you,” Will replies quickly. He’ll take paperwork over demons any day of the week. Grell giggles and again tries warming her feet on his legs. This time, Will finds himself allowing it. He traps her soles between his calves and, when her hands seek out his, he cups them in the warmth of his palms.
“I much prefer being held here,” she says quietly, “in your bed.”
“Hm,” Will says, neither agreeing or disagreeing. He can admit, privately, that his house always feels more like a home when Grell is inside it.
“In your arms,” Grell continues, nearly interrupting herself with a yawn. To his surprise, that’s the last thing she says before sinking into an easy sleep at his side. There is no continued reminiscing or irritating wriggling as Grell aims to press even closer to him. There are only the soft breaths of one sleeping peacefully, utterly content.
Will watches her for another moment, gaze tracing along the relaxed planes of her face. There’s a warmth in his chest at odds with Grell’s cool fingers warming in his hands.
He thinks maybe it’s the holiday spirit still lingering in the air; Grell would say that, were she awake. It could be the blizzard outside, making him feel as though they are the only two people in this world. Perhaps it’s simply Grell and the frustratingly constant effect her presence has on him.
Whatever it may be, it has him doing something he wouldn’t outside of the comfort of his home or in the privacy of his bed: lifting their joined hands and pressing the softest of kisses to Grell’s knuckles.
“Good night, Grell.”