Work Text:
January 1, 2021
She’s bleary-eyed as she shuffles into Chris’s kitchen. Shooting off small fireworks with the kids in his sister’s backyard and sipping champagne on the deck as the clock struck twelve - with a break in there for her midnight kiss, of course, that’s just non-negotiable - was certainly not her wildest New Year’s ever. But, she was 35 and it had been after 1:30 by the time they’d gotten back to his place and tumbled into bed, and so waking up and getting moving wasn’t the easiest task. She hadn’t gotten up because of her alarm but because she’d rolled over to escape the sun reflecting off the snow and pouring in the windows through the half-opened curtains (and she knows they were fully closed last night, which means he opened them when he got up) and reached across the mattress to find Chris’s side of the bed empty. So she’d dragged herself out of bed, pulled a t-shirt from his dresser and over her head and a pair of her own fluffy socks onto her feet and made her way to the kitchen, where she knew she’d find him and Dodger.
He’s standing in front of the open refrigerator when she gets there, one hand holding the door and one holding a carton of half-and-half. She scuffs her sock-clad feet across the hardwood until she’s just behind him and wraps her arms around his waist. “Good morning,” she mumbles, pressing her lips to his shoulder blade then resting her cheek along his spine.
“Good morning,” he answers, his voice a little louder, a little less rough than hers. He closes the fridge and wraps his hand around one of hers to pull it up to his mouth and press a kiss to the inside of her wrist. “I made coffee.” He returns her hand to his chest and leaves his resting on top of it.
“That’s because you’re perfect,” she tells him, the sleep starting to clear from her voice. She turns her head, forehead rolling along his back, so that she can kiss him again, then rests her chin just between his shoulder blade and his spine, her head tilted back so that she’s looking at the back of his.
He chuckles. “Yeah, keep thinking that way. Please.” She smiles at his snark then reaches out with the hand he’s not still holding against himself. He settles the half-and-half against her palm, waiting for her to curl her fingers around it before letting go. Then he squeezes the hand on his chest once before patting it twice. When she slides her hand down the center of his torso before pulling it away and taking a small step back, he steps forward, turning as he does toward the island behind them and swatting her butt as he heads that way.
Chris makes his way around the island to where his glass of orange juice sits, along with some other things he’s already arranged, and watches her head for the coffee maker. He smiles, biting his bottom lip between his teeth, at the way the hem of his t-shirt only falls halfway down her butt, the bottom curve of it outlined by her red and green plaid, lace-trimmed panties. He knows that after today, those panties will get washed and tucked away in the back of a drawer until after next Thanksgiving. He leans over the island countertop on his elbows, juice glass between his forearms and his fingers laced together loosely, to watch. To wait.
She pours a little half-and-half into the mug he’s set out for her without really looking at it then pulls the carafe from the coffee maker and fills the cup. She lifts it to her lips to take a sip and closes her eyes as the warm liquid flows past her lips and down her throat. She sighs, a little smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, then opens her eyes and lowers the mug, cradled in both hands, and makes her way toward the island, just opposite him. Still, he waits. When she’s standing directly across from him at the counter she takes another sip of coffee then puts the mug on the countertop and really looks at it for the first time. Her brow furrows, her eyebrows drawing together and those adorable little wrinkles forming between them, and her head tilts as she studies it.
The mug is ivory, the word Mrs. printed across it in loopy scrawl in a dusty blue-gray, similar to the color of his cabinets. Aside from the color-coordination, it doesn’t fit at all. It could be Carly’s, she supposes, but it wouldn’t make sense for it to be here. It’s not like she’d bring her own coffee mug to her brother’s house, or even that she probably has coffee here all that often. His house isn’t usually the gathering place for meals or coffee-dates, he’s more game nights and evening hangouts. It doesn’t cross her mind to feel threatened or jealous, concerned that the mug got there through some dishonest or nefarious means, doesn’t occur to her to be anything other than confused. “Where did this coffee cup come from?” she asks, turning it a little on the counter as if there might be something on the other side that will give her more information.
“Oh,” he shrugs, worried a little that his attempt at nonchalance might be pushing it a little too far, bleeding over into obviousness, “that’s yours.”
She looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “No it’s not.”
He lifts the juice glass to his lips and lowers his head a little to look up at her from under his brow. “Yeah it is.” He takes a drink to hide his grin.
“Chris.” She sounds patiently exasperated, like she so often does when he overhears her leading her virtual classes. “Why on earth would I have a coffee mug that says ‘Mrs.’?”
He doesn’t move the glass from in front of his lips. “I don’t know. Why on earth would you have a coffee mug that says ‘Mrs.’?” He blinks twice. “At my house?”
“I don’t. That’s what I’m telling you.” And god he loves this woman, and she’s one of the smartest people he’s ever met, but at this very moment he can’t help but think she’s not fully firing on all cylinders. Maybe it’s that she’s still not fully awake and those two sips of coffee haven’t kicked in yet. Maybe it’s that she really just does not see this coming at all, when he’d have thought she had to be expecting it just a little, at least enough to not be this caught off guard. Either way, it’s fun for him, more than he’d expected it to be, considering his anxiety and how nervous he’s been leading up to this moment.
All he says is, “Hmm. Weird,” and he looks across the counter at her with one eyebrow lifted.
She seems to be catching on, at least to the fact that this is about more than an unfamiliar coffee mug. She looks down at the mug skeptically, almost like it might bite her if she gets too close, and her voice is a little strangled when she says, “Chris?”
He doesn’t answer her directly, just asks, “Sugar?” almost like it’s a pet name, except he’s reaching for the sugar canister next to his elbow and starting to push it across the counter.
“You know I don’t,” she starts, but the rest of the sentence dies in her throat as he pushes the canister closer, because there’s something small, and round, and shiny on the top of it, and ... “Chris.” It’s not what it looks like. It can’t be. Because things like this, things this surprising, this romantic, this good don’t happen to her. (Except, the voice in the back of her head screams, he happened to her, and he’s all those things.) “Chris, what is …” She trails off again, because she just needs him to tell her what he’s doing, needs him to spell it out for her before her mind fills in the blanks more than it already has and she ends up devastated because this just can’t be what she thinks it is, what she hopes against hope that it is, what she wants it to be more than anything else in this world, she’s realizing.
Chris pulls his hand back from the sugar canister and she makes her eyes focus on him, not the shiny, sparkly thing he’s just pushed her way. He comes around the end of the counter to stand just in front of her as she angles herself to face him and he slips his hands just under the shirt she wears to rest them on her hips, just above the waistband of her panties. She leaves her left hand resting over the top of the coffee mug and crosses her right arm under her breasts to wrap her hand around her bicep, her eyes locked on his. “So, 2020 sucked, in like every possible way,” he tells her solemnly. “And I know for most people the past several months were the most difficult they’ve ever experienced.” His hands slide a couple inches up, just to the bottom of her ribs, then back down again, palms just skimming over her skin. “So that’s why I feel bad about what I’m about to say, because I know that I have so much privilege that other people don’t have and I don’t want to sound like I’m diminishing anything that anyone else has gone through.”
He draws her forward until he can press his lips to her forehead and even after the kiss is over he lingers so that his lips move across her skin with the first few words. “But for me, these past several months, and getting to have you here with me, just the two of us, for so much of it, it’s been amazing.” He takes a deep, steadying breath and a step backward. “And it’s made me realize how much I want it to continue. I wake up in the mornings, and I see you there in my bed, Dodger all curled around your legs because he’s a furry little traitor, and all I can think about is how I want it to be our bed.” He tightens his hands on her sides before sliding them down and out from under her shirt to rub anxiously over his own thighs. “And I could just ask you to move in, since you basically have anyway, but eventually the pandemic will be over, and you’ll have to start teaching in-person again, but I’ll still want you here, and it feels unfair to ask you to uproot everything if I’m not offering more than a roof over your head.”
It’s not. It’s not unfair at all. And she’ll do exactly that, if he asks. Because it wouldn’t be just a roof over her head, and she knows it and she hopes he knows it too. And lord knows she doesn’t want to stop him from asking for more than that, if that’s what he actually wants, but she doesn’t want him to feel like he has to, either. “Chris -”
He cuts her off. “No, let me do this.” He draws in another breath, deeper than the last, and slowly lowers himself to one knee there on his kitchen floor, his hands curling around the outsides of her legs, just above her knees, so that his thumbs can rub gently over the fronts of her thighs. “I see the way you smile and blush when my niece and nephews call you ‘aunt,’ and it suits you so well. And you love my mom, and she loves you. And god, I love you.” He smiles up at her, beams, really. “I love you more than anything, more than I knew was possible. And I want this, forever. I want morning coffee and movie nights in our pajamas, and later nights out of them.” He wiggles his eyebrows and she laughs a watery-sounding laugh. “I want more dogs, eventually, and babies, as long as you still want that.” Her eyes are starting to fill with tears and she nods. “I want to be where you land when you’ve had a ridiculous day at work and you just need to crash, and I want to be your boost, and your cheerleader, when things are going well and you get to fly.”
She finally pulls her hand from her coffee mug - yes, hers, because she gets it now - and crosses that arm over the other to wrap her arms around herself in a hug as her heart starts to beat too fast and her stomach does back handsprings inside her body. He goes on, “I had 38 years without you in them and I’ve had a year and a half with you, and hands down, I prefer the part with you in it a million to one." She’s starting to bounce a little on her toes and she’s holding her breath because she knows this is important to him and she wants to hear every word he has to say, but she also just kind of wants to scream and tackle him to the ground and kiss every part of him that she can reach. She doesn't, just keeps holding her breath and lets him go on. "So whether it’s soon, pandemic-style with just our immediate families in someone’s backyard, or whether it’s farther down the road, a whole big event with the white dress and the wedding party and the big reception afterward, or hell, both, even, I just want to marry you. So this is me asking, will you marry me?"
He hasn’t even finished the actual question part before she’s laughing, tears sliding down her cheeks that she bats at ineffectually with her fingertips and sobs mixed in with the giggles. “I’m going to have to make Abby maid of honor,” she manages to splutter out as she grins down at him.
He smiles back up at her, maybe wider and more pure than she’s ever seen. “I’m pretty sure those are happy tears and I heard the words ‘maid of honor,’ so is that a yes?”
She reaches for his shoulders, her palms slapping down onto them and damp fingertips sinking into the muscles. “God, you big dummy,” she does her best to shake him a little and he lets his body go lax, moving with her hands, “of course it’s a yes.”
The smirk that takes over his face is automatic, involuntary. “I’m gonna let the name-calling slide, because you’re my fiance, but -”
Her hands tighten even more on his shoulders, short nails starting to bite into the skin. “Would you just get up here already and kiss me and put that ring on my finger?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” he teases, already pushing himself up to his feet. As he stands, she lets her arms wrap around his neck so that by the time he’s upright, she’s hugging him, her hands holding tight to his opposite shoulders. The second he’s steady on his feet, she lifts one foot off the floor, hooking it around his thigh, then shifts all her weight into her arms. He knows what she’s doing, so he wraps his arms tight around her waist, helping support her as she lifts the other leg to wrap around him and manages to actually pull and shimmy her way up his body, climbing him like a tree. When she’s finally still and settled, her thighs resting on his hips and her feet crossed at the ankles behind his back, face buried in the crook of his neck and shoulder, he asks quietly, against her hair, “ Did you even look at the ring?” She shakes her head and he laughs. “Do you want to?” She nods and he chuckles a little more before kissing the side of her head and turning them until he’s facing the island and can sit her on it.
She gasps a little when the backs of her thighs hit the cold countertop. He has to pat the top of her behind a couple times before she untangles her limbs from around his body. She knows it’s silly, knows now that his intention is to not go anywhere, to not leave her, ever, but she still has a hard time letting him go. He reaches to her side for the sugar canister - for the ring - but she grabs his wrist to stop him. “I asked for a kiss first.” His eyes light up as he smiles.
“That you did,” he answers, cradling her face in both hands and leaning in to brush his lips over hers. He starts soft, gentle, slow, but then she wraps her hands around his forearms and whimpers into his mouth and the next thing he knows he’s sucking her bottom lip between his, tugging at it with his teeth, sliding his tongue into her mouth and across hers. Fuck . He has a sudden image of laying her out on the counter and moving his tongue across other parts of her body before having his way with her right there, but that image is soon followed by another of her leg sending the still-full coffee mug crashing to the floor and her arm flying, grasping for purchase on the counter (if he does his job well, anyway), knocking the sugar canister off the counter and sending that ring he still needs to put on her finger flying somewhere across the room (probably, knowing his luck, down an air vent or something) and he pulls back with a soft kiss to her lips and another to her nose. “Ring,” he whispers when she just blinks at him, dazed, and she nods and smiles.
He picks up the ring and holds it up between them with just his thumb and forefinger. It’s simple, delicate, gorgeous, a two-and-a-half carat cushion cut diamond solitaire set atop a thin band with tiny pave-set diamonds going all the way around, all set in platinum. He’d considered going a little smaller, knowing she might protest the size and the expense that came along with it, but he can afford it, and he can’t think of anything, other than the charitable causes that he already contributes to regularly, that he’d rather spend the money on. The way her breath catches and her eyes go wide as she reaches to trace the band with just the tip of her index finger make it worth every penny.
“Chris,” she breathes, “did you -”
“All by myself,” he tells her quietly.
“It’s gorgeous,” she whispers, “bigger than it needed to be,” he rolls his eyes because he totally saw that coming, “but gorgeous.”
“You’re gorgeous,” he tells her, leaning in to brush his lips over her cheek, “this is just jewelry. And you’re lucky I didn’t go bigger.”
It’s her turn to roll her eyes then, because he’s a truly ridiculous man. But now he’s her ridiculous fiance. The thought makes her giggle, and he looks at her funny, one eyebrow raised and his lips pursed. “It’s not just jewelry,” is the only explanation she can think to give, and she’s smiling so widely when she says it that he has to smile back. “Can I have it now?” she whispers, and he nods quickly, grabbing her left hand with his when she holds it out flat to him and sliding the ring onto her finger with his right hand.
Later, he’ll ask her if she’s upset that he didn’t wait until she had a fresh manicure before asking, and she’ll joke that even before the pandemic, she only did that about once a year, so he’d have been waiting for a very, very long time. And to prove that she far prefers their real story over something they might have staged in a picturesque location with perfectly painted nails, she hands him her phone and picks up her new coffee mug, left hand wrapped around the handle and right hand cradling the bottom, the word Mrs. and her ring both on full display as she lifts the mug to her lips and he snaps a picture that they’ll send to their families and close friends right away (about half of whom, unbeknownst to her, will be waiting eagerly for that exact news) before posting it to their social media accounts later that night.