He tugs on my sleeve, and I slap his hand away. (The suit is new, and I don’t need him getting it dirty.) He tugs again, more insistently this time, and I finally give him my full attention.
I look up, and there’s an old couple standing next to a tree, snogging furiously. Simon sniggers and I flush. “Why are you watching them?” I hiss, “you’re being a bloody pervert!”
“Do you reckon they’ve been together a while?” he asks, sounding wistful.
I angle my body away from the couple and snort. “Why are you so obsessed with them? Do you think that’s going to be us someday?”
I bend down, and wait for Baz to turn around. The box is still back at the flat–I hadn’t planned to do this tonight–but I think the whole “down on one knee” thing will get the message across.
“Snow, what the fuck are you doing?”
“I want that,” I say, “I want to be your terrible husband.” For a moment Baz looks like he might cry, and then like he wants to attack. Or kiss me. I still haven’t quite figured out the difference between those two. But he’s definitely sneering now, only it seems gentler somehow. Like he’s trying not to giggle at the same time.
“I can’t believe you actually proposed like that,” Baz says, and he sounds exasperated and his voice is shaking and it’s making me nervous.
I shrug, and that seems to do something to Baz because he’s got tears running down his cheeks and he’s looking at me like I’m the sun.
If my 15-year-old self could see what was happening to me at 25, he’d probably think it was a trick. Some sort of spell to play with his mind, make him see his deepest fantasies. Because truthfully, I wanted this almost as much as the kisses and blood; those were just easier to imagine.
I crouch down in front of Simon, and take his face in my hands. My face is so close to his that he starts to go cross-eyed, like he’s refusing to shut them for even a second. I press my lips to his softly, trying to convey everything I’m feeling in this moment into one kiss.
He kisses me back and it’s so good, just like always. I’m vaguely aware of the fact that the couple from earlier is probably still doing the same thing not too far away, but then Simon does that thing with his chin, and I melt.
He breaks the kiss. “So, is that a yes?”
“Crowley, you really are thick,” I laugh. Snow frowns and shoves my arm. I use his moment of distraction as an opportunity to catch his chin with my finger and kiss him again, trying–and probably failing–to show him how I feel.
“Yes, Simon,” I say, “ Yes, I’ll be your terrible husband.”
Imagine Mike making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for himself and El on a Saturday afternoon. El’s sitting on the counter, chewing bubblegum, her feet swinging lazily back and forth as she watches Mike search around the countertops for the jar of strawberry jelly he could have sworn was just there.
But now it’s floating over his head, just out of sight and El is doing her best to hide the smirk on her lips and casually rub away the trickle of blood from her nose. After two full minutes of Mike’s futile searching, she bursts out laughing and floats the jar right into his hands, apologizing with a quick kiss to each of his very heated cheeks.