ana | Asgard-verse, Connor proposes

Entry tags:

connor,
sophie

Asgard-verse, Connor proposes

You're fucking crazy, man.

Maybe so. Connor felt oddly nervous as he stepped outside and into the storm, shadows flowing up from the ground to shield him from the rain. The magic umbrella was one of the things he'd miss most about shadow control when he left Asgard.

See? You're not even denying it.

Of course not. With a deep breath he squared his shoulders and headed towards Freyr, steps determined. No more stalling. He had intended to swing by the shop to pick it up over a week ago, but found one reason or another to put it off. It was time.

Because you're--

Nervous? Yeah. Extremely. He'd even go so far as 'scared' at the moment, but at least part of his current feelings were due to just how clearly he could hear John voice in his head. "You'd be best man, you know," he muttered to his absent friend, the words drowned out by the rain. An imaginary not-quite argument played out in his head as he walked to the jeweler's: like hell would John be best man. Okay, eventually, with some convincing, but he wasn't going to wear a tux. As if either of them would want anything formal. And so on, until the shop awning came into Connor's view and he realized he was talking to someone who wasn't there about something that was completely uncertain.

His stomach twisted as he pushed the door open. Beneath the tinkle of the 'someone's coming in!' bell was John again, this time a memory on replay, telling him that all this would end. "No. Everything is temporary. Just because something ends isn't a reason not to be happy while you can."

The native shopkeeper stepped out from the back of the store, peering at his customer through blue-rimmed spectacles. Did you say something, sonny? Oh, picking up? Yes, I remember your order. And he ducked back out again, leaving Connor to fuss at the display counter until he returned with a small velvet box wrapped in a receipt. The sight of it actually existing made Connor feel a bit dizzy, and wonder how he'd manage to actually propose when he couldn't even buy the ring without an anxiety attack, until he realized that he'd been holding his breath.

John-in-his-head didn't say anything, but was giving him that fondly amused 'you're a moron' look. Not that Connor was hallucinating; he didn't actually see his friend, just knew that's the look he'd be getting if they were here together. Oxygen was helpful, in any case. Connor took a long, slow breath and nodded to the shopkeeper to show him how his commission had turned out.

The box was opened and passed to him, and Connor pulled the ring out to examine it. A modest round diamond was set low in the silver band, which was antiqued and carved to match the locket he'd bought at the shop the previous spring. Small burgundy accents were nestled into the carved sections on either side of the stone. "It's perfect," he told the jeweler, tilting it to catch the light.

Connor tucked the ring back into its box, then the box into his pocket, and paid the remainder of the bill. He suspected he was being given a deal even though money wasn't an issue for them between jobs and stipends and how simply they lived. Or just him, in this case. His mouth quirked as he left the shop, scolding himself for thinking of so many things as 'theirs' so often. Not yet.

John-in-his-head was quiet for several hours after Connor picked up the ring, while he stopped by the bureau for a meeting and dropped in on the citadel to rewrite the schedule, and even while he was running other errands and picking up a few things for dinner that night. It wasn't until Connor got back to the apartment and was staring at the items he'd gotten with a vague sense of 'shit what now' that his friend's voice chimed in.

You're not planning to cook for her, right?

Food poisoning was pretty unromantic, Connor agreed, but he'd learned a few things. It would probably be alright. Besides, too many places had closed down with the curfew and rations… and he didn't want to do this in public. They weren't public people.

The flowers (which he'd secured with a thin strip of duct tape before placing them in a vase) went on the table, the vegetables got cut up and put in the oven to roast, the bread sat off to the side waiting to be warmed up later, and the steaks he'd gotten pre-seasoned from Des sat on the counter to come to room temperature before he seared them as the older assassin had instructed. In theory, this was foolproof. In practice, he could still screw it up if he didn't time things right.

You won't screw it up. Even if you do, she'd probably think it's an adorable kind of screwing up.

"I thought you were supposed to be mocking me," Connor says to no one, causing Inaia to tilt her head from her perch on the kitchen table.

Never was. You're still crazy, though.

"Yeah… that's okay."

Time passed slowly, unaided by his too-frequent checking of the time and vegetables and right front pocket, where the tiny box was hiding. What the hell was he going to say, anyway? Maybe tonight wasn't right. If not he could just--

For fuck's sake, Connor, I'd ask her for you at this point if I was real.

--point taken, imaginary best friend voice. Connor glanced at the clock again and exhaled. He could put the steaks on now, in any case, and once he'd started them his mind was too occupied with getting dinner ready to panic much more. When the lock turned fifteen minutes later he found he was actually pretty calm, and the kitchen smelled of meat and warm bread. His hand drifted back to his pocket just for a moment before he turned to greet Sophie.

"Hey. How was work?"

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Sophie smelled dinner as she opened the door. This was an unexpected development, as she had stopped by the grocer on her way back from the apothecary to pick up some ingredients for just that very thing. On the upside, whatever was cooking smelled wonderful, so this was hardly a terrible turn of events.

...except for the fact that Connor was cooking, which meant that something was afoot.

"It...was..." The answer peters out before it ever becomes anything at all. "You're cooking." Despite the tone of a statement, it's quite obviously a question. "I mean, it smells lovely," she puts her unneeded groceries on the counter and stretches up on her toes to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, "but you're cooking." Her eyes flick to the table, and then back to Connor. "And there are flowers."

"The flowers were a backup plan in case I burnt everything," he tells her, smiling. "Des taught me a few things, I thought you could use a break." Neither statement is untrue, but it's not all there is either. Connor leans forward and kisses her forehead, breathing in the earthy smell of the apothecary that clings to her hair. "Sorry I didn't warn you... you can make what you got tomorrow?"

"It's fine, and of course I can." She grins at his excuses and wraps her arms around him. Her mouth brushes gently against her neck and she pretends to sniff. "A break would be lovely, it was a busy day today. I confess that I may smell a plot, though."

"Plot? It's steak. You can check the oven," he says, hoping for once that she keeps her hands up rather than sinking them into his back pockets as she often does. "No, don't check the oven -- go get ready for dinner, you're not doing anything tonight. It's your night off. Go."

Connor just manages to head off the downward slide of Sophie's hands by telling her to get ready for dinner, which makes her laugh just a little. "Very well, I'll go change. Perhaps shower." Her hands slip away from him as she begins twisting her hair to pile on top of her head. It doesn't need washing, and the smell of herbs and concoctions that hangs in it has become comforting. "Quickly, though. I wouldn't want to spoil the steak."

True to her word, it takes a fairly short time for Sophie to reemerge clean and in different clothes. Instead of her habitual pajamas, though, she's chosen a simple dress in a deep wine red that only just shows her feet beneath it when she walks.

Connor bites his lip as he smiles, eyes lighting up. "You did smell a plot."

Their little table is set for two with the duct taped flowers off-center, chairs on adjacent sides of the table rather than across. It's just steaks and veggies but it does indeed smell even better now that it's out and plated, and Connor takes a moment to give Sophie a slow look up and down before pulling out a chair. "Here."

"What can I say, I'm terribly perceptive." The statement is wry, but it's obvious Sophie finds Connor's little setup quite charming. "Ever the gentleman," she murmurs, gathering her skirts with the old habits of another era as she seats herself and lets him move her chair. "This is quite the plot, I must say," she adds, taking in the table and the food. Very simple, quality without frippery, because quality is what they had worked for in Asgard, and neither of their lives contained much room for appreciating unnecessary garnish. it is, in short, all very them.

For all that she desperately wants to know the occasion, this is Connor's surprise, and he gets to have it however he wants, so she just looks up at him with a small, expectant smile as he gets them situated.

He pushes in her seat for her, then places two glasses of water on the table and takes his own chair. The little jewelry box makes its presence known there, guaranteeing that he won't forget his purpose. As if he wasn't already half a mile away trying to figure out how to do this... thing.

But Sophie is sitting beside him looking as beautiful as she's ever been, looking like she knows exactly what he's up to, and looking like she's totally okay with that. He could be wrong -- he'd been wrong about important things before -- but they're familiar enough at this point that. Connor doesn't think he has to worry.

'You hear that, nerves? Shut up.' There's a chuckle from best-friend-in-his-head and Connor smiles wider and tells John to shut up, too, this is his moment.

"Go on, before it gets cold."

Sophie cuts her steak, chews a bite and then looks up again after she swallows to find Connor still watching at her, proverbial stars in his eyes. "Are you just going to watch me eat?" It's light, teasing, as she cuts another bit off her steak. Once she puts it in her mouth, she sets her chin on her palm, chewing delicately. "Yours isn't going to stay any warmer."

"--right." Connor eats obediently, still watching her with ridiculous moon eyes. The apartment is quiet except for chewing for about as long as he can take it before THE SUSPENSE that only he realizes exists takes over. He sets his knife and fork down and pulls the box from his pocket. "I got you something. You need to promise me that you know something first, though."

His fingers are wrapped around something small, small like a box, and Sophie finds that while she was expecting something, she wasn't expecting this exact something. It had been an impossibility in her mind since she was small, and she knows that for all the happiness she has been given, for all she can keep herself together, Asgard has slowly driven her closer and closer to madness. She knows these things, and her smile fades a little into inquisitiveness.

"Promise that I know what, love?"

"That no matter how this all ends, I'm going to be with you." Whether that means staying in Asgard, or chasing after her into her world, he's not going anywhere -- he'll literally fight the gods for it. His nervous expression flickers back into a smile, and he grips the little box tighter. "That nothing is impossible."

"Well," Sophie finds that her voice has faded to a bare murmur, "I've always known that nothing is impossible, only unlikely." It feels like something is filling her chest, something huge and fluttering, and Sophie makes herself exhale, makes herself hear the truth in his words.

"And I've known that first bit for a long time." He has, after all, had years in which he could have, and by all rights possibly should have, abandoned her.

Connor tries to keep his face neutral, not to be giving her a big goofy smile or too intense a 'give me answers' look. But he can't hide the huge smile that creeps into his eyes as she speaks. He pushes his seat back and drops to one knee with more smoothness than he feels... and opens the little box and presents her with the ring. It's not the ring that matters, really, despite the fact that it's very pretty indeed, but how long it's clear he spent choosing the right one for her. And the hope in his eyes.

"Sophie, will you marry me?"

Despite knowing exactly what he's going to say, Sophie still feels like she must not have heard him properly. There's a long moment when she just stares at the ring and wonders briefly and incongruously how long it took him to find such a thing. Then her eyes meet his, wide with the wonder that happens even when something expected happens. Her lips purse for a moment, restraining a smile.

"If you insist upon asking, I have no recourse but to accept."

Then she can't hold back the smile anymore as she takes his face between her palms and kisses his forehead.

Yup, breaking into the hugest smile now. "That means yes," he says, as if confirming it for them both and perhaps the cat who didn't understand the extra words. "Awesome."

Delicately, he pulls the ring out of the box and holds it out, waiting for her hand. Because this is going on it.

Awesome, he says, and Sophie laughs, because what else is there to do at the moment?

"Of course it does." She is wanted, she is needed, and her hand is surprisingly steady as she extends it for Connor to slip the ring onto her finger.

Connor scoots back into his chair because this one knee thing is awkward, puts the empty box on the table, and cradles Sophie's hand in his own as he slips the ring on.

...what did he do, measure her with a piece of string? (Yes.) It's perfect.

"Feels okay?"

"A perfect fit." He knew it would be, she suspects, despite having no memory of Connor sneaking a measurement of her finger. She stretches her fingers to admire it, her palm never leaving Connor's.

"You must have been looking for this for ages."

"For awhile," he admits, looking very proud of the fact that not only does the ring fit but she's actually wearing it. He lifts her hand to his mouth and kisses her knuckles softly.

"Look, I know we can't do anything right away, not that I thought you were going to run out and buy a scrapbook or anything -- I mean. You can scrapbook if you wanted, whatver. But... it's a promise, and we can decide when. Sooner, later, as soon as the war is over, in another place...? Whatever you want." He gives her hand a little squeeze, running his thumb over the ring. "What I want is sitting right in front of me."

His words run over her like a tide, fast and strange and yet cool and comforting. She looks down at her hand in his hand, watches as the metal comes to meet the temperature of her hand. Sooner, later, in another place. Whenever. Whatever. Forever.

"Connor," she finally says, "what on earth is a scrapbook?"

Of course. Connor laughs, shaking his head. "It's a blank book where people put pictures and scraps and inspiration for-- you know, I'll show you, but don't worry about it. I just meant you could plan what and when you wanted. Anything you want."

He doesn't want to let go of her hands but they should finish dinner, probably.

"I've never been much for weddings."

Of course not, as in her mind they're church affairs, and God has no interest in Sophie. It would only be playacting. "But I suppose the gods here are a bit different. I just want..." Sophie squeezes his hand. "This is all I really want."

A pause. "Although I suppose perhaps we ought to tell people, or something."

"Where I'm from it's usually just for the couple and their families, their friends. That'd be nice. There's not many of our people left, but it still means something to tell people." His smile fades a little bit, as he remembers the ones that have gone. But he's still got his family, and Sophie can be part of that. "They say it's the bride's day. You deserve one of those."

"I'm not sure I've ever had a day before." She smiles at Connor, leans in and kisses his cheek. There aren't so many for her left at all, but she can pretend they would be happy for her. Draco would. Athelstan would. The Doctor will.

"Eat, love. This is something that will require some consideration."

"Does it?" His smile says that she's getting her day, even if it's just the two of them left saying vows. But he goes back to his meal while it's still sort-of-hot.

Connor finishes first, unsurprisingly, and busies himself picking a few flowers out of the bouquet and weaving them together for her. He needs to keep his hands busy, with the nervous energy of 'holy shit she said yes she's wearing the ring what do we do now?'

"I would hardly know where to begin having a day." Sophie eats more slowly, as usual, watching Connor weaving the flowers together.

"Are you waiting for something to magically change?" She twists the ring around her finger, extending her hand to look at it. The delicate piece of jewelry somehow manages to not look out of place on her knuckly, calloused hand. "Is there something we do now?" She's teasing him, of course, but that doesn't stop her from sliding out of her chair and coming to sit on his lap.

"No. Well -- yeah, maybe. You're my financee now, not my girlfriend, but that's just a word. Words like that aren't magic." Other words are, obviously, but not those. Connor twists in his seat so Sophie can cuddle onto his lap , and reaches up with the flowers to see if they'll reach all the way around yet. Not yet. He plucks another. "There's nothing magical about weddings by themselves, either, it just feels special. So I guess tonight feels special."

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