Chapter Text
Cooper stares at the heap of bicycle parts and questions his life choices. If he was mechanically inclined, he’d probably have done something with that, like become a mechanic. Mechanics have a pretty sweet deal. The pay is good. They don’t have to keep tabs on how likely their clients are to be arraigned, or, if arraigned, convicted. Cooper is not mechanically inclined, but he is academically masochist and he was, for many years, uninspired by the concept of work-life balance, so he is a lawyer. He is an unmarried, childless lawyer, and his sisters are diabolical. On top of being required to give a damn about arraignments and convictions, he let himself get talked in to dealing with the bicycle situation. Fortunately, he thinks to himself, Kowalski.
Right now, Kowalski is prying a box apart. It was fastened shut with industrial staples. Kowalski is saying things – partly he is telling Cooper where to stand, and partly he is talking about Christmas pageants. Cooper is a little distracted. “By the stairs,” overlaps with “…and some poor sod with a dish towel on his head trips over a sheep.”
Cooper goes and stands by the stairs. “Do you also cry at Christmas pageants?”
“I don’t always cry at shows. Les Miz is a special case.”
“You cried at Hadestown,” Cooper points out. “And Hamilton.”
“I was fine in Hamilton!”
“The show, not the city.”
“Oh. Fair.” Kowalski turns an object that looks like an aluminum fish over in his hand. “Is there a real socket wrench around here somewhere?”
Cooper has only a vague idea what a socket wrench is. “Maybe?”
Kowalski puts the aluminum fish down – maybe it’s a sort of bicycle assembly tool, like the Allen wrenches that come with flatpack furniture – and starts opening drawers.
“Dad really hates it when people mess with his tools,” Cooper warns.
“Then your dad should have stayed to help.” Kowalski shoots Cooper a smile. It’s probably supposed to be reassuring. It misses by being sexy, which is nice, although it does nothing for Cooper’s jitters. “I’ll try to put everything back where I found it. I’m also looking for screwdrivers. Are those screws flat or Phillips?”
Flat vs Phillips is the one mechanical thing Cooper is sure he knows. He rips the little bag of screws open, and has to chase a few of them in different directions across the floor. “Both.”
Kowalski ambles back, two screwdrivers in his hand and other tools – probably wrenches, he mentioned wrenches – in his pockets. He kneels on the floor and extracts a sheet of paper from the wreckage of the box the bicycle parts came from. “I think these were translated from something.”
Kowalski hands the sheet to Cooper. It says “Instructions” at the top, in English. All the other words on the sheet are also English. Cooper got kind of excited when Kowalski said “translated” – he might be able to use a skill he actually has – but this is clearly not going to work out. “I think I could have made more sense of this before it was translated,” Cooper admits.
“Do you think any of the other ones have better instructions?”
“They all have the same logo,” Cooper points out. “So, it’s not the way I’d bet.”
“Good news,” Kowalski says, “I have assembled children’s bicycles before. It’s been a minute, but some of it’s bound to come back.”
Kowalski takes the wrenches out of his pockets and lines them up neatly on the floor, and then begins lining up bicycle parts as well.
“I feel like we should have visited your parents,” Cooper said. “I’m so sorry we got stuck with this.”
Kowalski smiles at him. It’s still much more sexy than reassuring. “We’d be driving my mom around. Two Christmas pageants, a midnight carol service that starts at ten, and another midnight carol service at actually midnight.”
Cooper’s stomach settles a tiny bit. He examines the instructions some more to see if there’s any logic to Kowalski’s lineup that he could maybe apply to the next bicycle. “We could really use Ikea instructions here. The little line drawings, with the guy? Don’t use hammers, bring a friend?”
Kowalski seems to be able to tell what he’s thinking. “Don’t open another one. I don’t want to get the pieces mixed up. Your nephew will get three handlebars and one of your nieces will have no pedals at all.”
“Does the line up do anything?” Cooper asks, “or does it just look nicer like that?”
“Bit of both,” Kowalski frowns at him. “You should get your wrist brace. And your coat.”
Cooper had been rubbing his arms, but he stops. “I’m okay. It’s not that cold.”
Kowalski doesn’t seem to find Cooper’s performance of not being cold convincing. “Go get the wrist brace, at least. I want you to be able to text me next week.” Cooper rolls his eyes, but heads up the stairs. “Can you also grab my coat?”
It’s not that Cooper is sorry to go upstairs. It’s definitely warmer. He keeps thinking of things he could do. He starts a pot of coffee. He gets both of their coats. He runs upstairs to check the post-it on the back of the router for the wi-fi password. He’s not punking out, he tells himself. It’s just that bicycle assembly might go faster without him.
When he gets back to the basement, two coats draped over his arm and his bad wrist in a compression wrap, no process appears to have been made on bicycles. Kowalski is frowning at the instructions. “Does your dad only have metric socket wrenches?”
Cooper stands on the stairs and blinks. “I can’t even pretend I understand that question.”
One of the lovely things about Kowalski is that he can recognize when it’s useless to explain. “I think we’re stuck using these,” he says, waving the aluminum fish. “I’ll do the nuts and you do the screws?”
Cooper gives him his coat and says what immutable forces of the universe require him to say: “I am happy to do the screwing.”
Kowalski gives the snort that the immutable forces require in response to that joke while standing up to put his coat on. Cooper doesn’t think he’ll get a better moment, so he goes down on one knee.
“Shit,” Kowalski says. “Are you okay? Did I kick you?”
“You didn’t kick me.” Kowalski’s hands are battered. He’s sprained or broken half his fingers. He lost half a thumbnail a few weeks ago. Cooper gathers them in his own hands. “Stanley Kowalski—" he says.
“Is this a speech?” Kowalski interrupts, lip quivering.
“Shut up,” Cooper tells him. “Yes, it’s a speech. Stanley Kowalski—”
Kowalski sinks to his own knees to wrap his arms around Cooper. “I don’t want to be far away for a whole speech.”
“I feel like you’re killing the suspense here.”
“Handsome, the only suspense in this room is about bicycle assembly.”
“It’s supposed to be romantic,” Cooper protests.
“It’s more romantic close up. Go ahead. Speech.”
“Are you going to interrupt again?”
Kowalski shakes his head. “No. The floor is yours.”
“Good.” Cooper takes a breath. “Stanley Kowalski.” The dangerous moment after the name passes without Kowalski saying anything or lightning striking either of them. “The best thing that has ever happened to me is that you found me in an airport. Every good thing that’s happened since comes from that, and there have more of them than I could count. You are so generous, and so caring. You bring me joy every single day that you’re with me, even when you’re with me and far away. I love you.” He pulls the ring box out of his pocket. “Will you marry me?”
“Oh wow.” Kowalski takes one hand back and dabs carefully at his eyes. “I was not expecting this. Thanks for bringing my coat.” Kowalski reaches into an inner pocket and brings out a small velvet box. “Cooper Lee—”
“What?” Cooper shouts.
“Shut up, it’s my turn. Cooper Lee—”
“You have a speech?”
“I’m proposing to a guy who makes speeches,” Kowalski says. “Of course I have a speech.”
Cooper’s vision is turning watery. “You hate speeches,” he says. “You came up with a speech?”
“I love you, and you love a speech,” Kowalski’s eyes are so lovely, so shining, so patient. “Are we at interruption parity? Can I…?”
“Yes,” Cooper almost succeeds in not squeaking.
“Cooper Lee,” Kowalski says, “the year and a half since I told you my name has been more amazing than I can say. I didn’t think I was suffering before that, but now that I have spent some time with you, going without you would be suffering. I started by enjoying the twisty way you think, and admiring the way you throw yourself into things you care about, and the next thing I knew, I was in love with you. I am so in love with you. I want nothing as much as I want to love you for the rest of our lives. Cooper Lee, will you marry me?”
Cooper knows he should be talking. He should be telling Kowalski that he loves him and will marry him, but instead of either of them answering any questions, they are holding each other, crying. Cooper figures he can give this a minute before insisting on answers being given in words, but when he starts to think it’s time to switch to talking, Kowalski switches to kissing, sweeping Cooper off his knees. Kowalski is really good at kissing. It’s a few minutes before Cooper can bring himself to stop. He’s a little surprised to learn he’s on the floor.
Kowalski is beside him, with one hand under the back of Cooper’s shirt and sawdust in his hair. “Will you?” he asks.
Cooper’s face hurts. He’s at risk of splitting his lower lip. “I will if you will.”
They sit up. They kiss again. This one ends with their foreheads pressed together.
“We have to finish here,” Kowalski gestures to the assorted metal things they have miraculously managed not to roll over on.
“I know.” Cooper pants in his direction. “I’m so sorry we didn’t go see your folks. We could have made out in church parking lots.”
“We’d freeze.”
“But not be required to assemble anything.”
“Bold of you to assume there aren’t opportunists patrolling the parking lot.” Kowalski considers the proto-bicycle situation. “How can we do this fast? Because I really want to get you back to the hotel.”
“Likewise.” Cooper pulls out his phone. “There’s got to be something on YouTube for this. Here.” He texts Kowalski the picture of the wi-fi password. “I’m doing the last letter as a, you try e. Whoever doesn’t connect can destroy the next box and unearth another aluminum fish thing.”