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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?"
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, will you marry me?"
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"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.
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Delicately, he pulls the ring out of the box and holds it out, waiting for her hand. Because this is going on it.
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"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.
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...what did he do, measure her with a piece of string? (Yes.) It's perfect.
"Feels okay?"
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"You must have been looking for this for ages."
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"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."
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"Connor," she finally says, "what on earth is a scrapbook?"
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He doesn't want to let go of her hands but they should finish dinner, probably.
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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."
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"Eat, love. This is something that will require some consideration."
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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?'
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"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.
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