Bigby watched with crossed arms as you tried to get the homemade plaque to stay in its slot, silently chuckling every time you curse under your breath or roll your eyes with exasperation when it inevitably falls out again.

"I told you this thing's a son of a bitch," he says, a hint of amusement in his otherwise gruff voice. "Really, you don't have to worry about it. I'm fine with the piece of paper."

He was referring to the tiny folded sticky note he'd written his initials on as a replacement for a plaque. 'B. Wolf' it read, in his usual shoddy handwriting. But you weren't satisfied with it, and you knew a small part of him wasn't either. You were determined to get this stupid plaque to fit in there.

You reassured him that you got it, and all Bigby can do is shake his head and grin. "Seriously, bud... It's fine. You don't have to worry yourself with this, I know you're tired 'nuff as is."