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Jane knew something was up the minute she stepped into the bedroom. Rusty was nothing if not unsubtle. Unsubtle really didn’t do him credit, actually. She needed a stronger word. Like blatant. Obvious. Hopeless.
Instead of the dog-eared paperback, phone charger, and earbuds she’d left on her bedside table, there was a classy-looking ice bucket with a bottle of champagne sticking out of it, along with two glasses that looked like they’d shatter if anyone breathed on them too hard. That wasn’t great, because instead of normal lighting there was a blanket of twinkling stars and colorful nebula swirling gently on the ceiling. It was bright enough that she’d shut the door and made it to the bed without having to worry about tripping over anything, but not bright enough that she’d want to risk popping a cork anywhere near delicate glassware.
Actually, revise that. She wouldn’t trust Rusty to pop a cork near delicate glassware even with all the lights on. He had an unnatural ability to survive any and all the disasters life threw at him, but he also wasn’t anywhere near as smooth as he thought he was. Between clumsiness, overconfidence, and the unavoidable hazards of super-science, he had quite the collection of scars.
That was alright, because she found scars kind of sexy. Every scar was a mark of survival. Maybe he wasn’t as smooth as he thought he was, but he was also a lot tougher than he looked. The scars were reassurances that her boyfriend was hard to kill, and every now and then she needed reassurances like that. Not that she’d admit it, of course.
And why was she thinking about scars and glassware right now, exactly? Well, it was better than thinking about how embarrassed she was on his behalf. Really, Rusty? Lights? Champagne? He might as well have strewn rose petals all over the—
Ah, fuck. He’d done that, too.
Well, she’d always known this day would come. She’d hoped that he’d do it the way she’d do it, which was just throw it out there as they were getting ready for bed or something. But he could be annoyingly romantic when the mood struck him. Definite flair for theatrics. She should have known. But at least, at least he’d waited until she’d finished wrapping up the work on the time machine. And at least he’d had enough sense not to do it in front of a crowd this time. She supposed that, in the interest of fairness, she could stomach a little bit of romance.
Where was he, though? He’d clearly spent time setting this up. It’d be such a shame if he was stuck on the toilet when she actually came in. Such a shame. She snorted in amusement. It would completely spoil the mood if he were to back out of the bathroom spraying a bottle of air freshener and turn around to see her standing there. Laughing harder to herself, she turned toward the bathroom door to see if that was a real possibility.
That was when the music started. The volume was thankfully low, but it played in stereo, subtly filling the room. She recognized it, but not enough to immediately name it. ‘80s, it was something ‘80s. A safely neutral genre—not her favorite, and not his either (she knew far more about his tastes in music than she’d ever wanted), but something they both enjoyed well enough.
Since someone must have started the music, he probably wasn’t in the bathroom. Unsure whether to be pleased or disappointed, she completed her turn until she was facing the door she’d just come in through. There he was, slouched against the wall behind the door in a blue silk bathrobe, remote control in his hand, thin smile of satisfaction on his face. In his mind, this was probably going exactly as planned.
Jane rubbed her face with both hands. “Why?” she asked helplessly, bringing her hands down and spreading them to encompass everything. “Why?”
Rusty continued smiling as he crossed the room to her, totally ignoring the question and dropping the remote onto the bed. He grabbed both her hands, pulling her up against him. “Dance with me, Jane.”
She tried to object that this wasn’t the sort of song she knew how to dance to, that this was some high school prom bullshit, that she’d much rather skip to the horizontal dancing. But he already had his hands resting comfortably against the small of her back, rotating gently to the music, and it wasn’t really all that bad. She could do this. It was still high school prom bullshit, but the music rose in a way that that seemed to fill her chest, and the collar of his robe felt nice against her skin as she draped her hands loosely around the back of his neck.
They moved slowly as Pat Benetar belted out lyrics about thunder and embracing and belonging. She rested her head against his shoulder because it was somehow difficult to look him in the face right now.
Because she was so embarrassed for him. Because this was so ridiculous and stupid. Not because she felt suddenly, inexplicably vulnerable and nervous.
Rusty didn’t say or do anything to make her look up. Maybe he was basking in the moment, relishing the fact that he’d gotten her to dance with him. Cataloguing everything about this tiny slice of his life and committing it all to memory. The way the music swelled, the way she undoubtedly smelled like sulfur and ammonia because she’d just left the lab, the way her head fit just under his chin, the colors of the nebulas moving slowly above them. The way that, as long as they were dancing, the contents of their bedroom seemed like the only real thing in the world.
We belong together. Why’d he have to choose this song? The one that echoed what she’d felt for eighteen months now. No one would ever understand her and accept her quite the way Rusty did. And she couldn’t imagine any other woman putting up with his various shortcomings. Individually, they were both disasters. Together they were probably a disaster, too, but it was a disaster that felt like home.
The song faded softly away. They stopped moving. She just stood there for a minute, listening to his heart beating, thinking that this was a pretty nice place to be. There was a beat of silence. And then the music started up again. The same song. She listened for a second, just to be sure. Definitely the same song.
That was what got her to turn her face upward and meet his eyes. “You put it on a loop?”
“I—” He didn’t have an answer for that. As always, not nearly as smooth as he thought. Good. That was how she liked it.
She closed her eyes and nudged his face down to meet her, running her hands over the back of his head as she kissed him. His lips were dry (his lips were always dry in winter) but his tongue wasn’t. Jane made a soft, small sound of desire and pressed herself harder against him. There had been a time, years ago—a lifetime ago—when she’d been surprised to discover he was a good kisser. She’d been frustrated by her life and amused by his reactions to her flirting, so she was ready to have him anyway, but he’d seemed like he’d be underwhelming. The revelation that he was intense but not sloppy had been a pleasant little point in his favor. But the Jane of five years ago would never have believed there’d be a day when he would be the only person she’d kiss, day after day after day, and that she’d somehow still enjoy it.
To be perfectly honest, she liked the Jane of right now a lot better.
Rusty pulled back before the kiss escalated into anything that required the removal of clothes. That was disappointing, because the song had made it to the chorus again, his hand had made it to her ass, and she was feeling very close to him right now. Not just horny, either. Close. If she really wanted to go out on a limb, she might even entertain using the word romantic. No, no, that was too far. But still. She wanted to look him in the eyes while feeling him inside her. She wanted to hear that tiny sound he always made in the back of his throat just before—
He cleared his throat. “Jane,” he began, and for the first time she realized he was nervous.
Stupid man.
“Yes,” she told him, keeping her hands firmly on his shoulders. “It’s yes. Just ask already.”
“I can hardly ask if you’ve already answered now, can I?” His tone was faintly sour, as though he was put out, but she knew him well enough by now to see the relief and even happiness underneath.
She sighed heavily and released him. Pat Benetar was still singing. “Fine, do it your way. My goodness, Rusty! The lights, the music, the champagne, what on earth can this all be about?”
She enjoyed watching him waver for half a second, torn between irritation at her facetiousness and his desire to have this play out the way he’d planned. As she could have predicted, his desire for theatrics won out. He turned toward the ice bucket, reached behind it, knocked over one of the glasses, and swore.
Jane heroically suppressed a smile. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll share.” She shrugged. “Or drink it straight out of the bottle.”
“You can’t drink champagne straight out of the bottle,” he scolded her. But he’d clearly found what he’d been reaching for. There was a small velvet jewelry box in his hand when he turned back. “As I was saying. You remember, we’ve discussed this before, and I thought—”
“And so you remember all my conditions?” she interrupted, because if she didn’t make things at least a tiny bit difficult for him then it wouldn’t feel genuine.
“Yes, I do,” he snapped impatiently. “And I was thinking that I’d like—”
“Oh good. I wouldn’t want you complaining about false pretenses or something down the line.”
“Would you shut up? I’m trying to say that I’d like to be able to say the woman who invented time travel is my wife!”
She grinned. “Sorry, what was that? You worship me and can’t go another minute without begging me to spend my life with you?
“Worship?” he repeated skeptically.
Jane smiled serenely and waited.
He opened the box. “Before you come up with any more ways to destroy the moment—will you marry me?”
She did not cry or fling her arms around him. She looked in the box and said, “Well, I’m not wearing that ring. Is that the same one you used last year? Protective gloves are never going to fit over that thing. Take me to the jewelers’ tomorrow and let me pick out my own.”
“That’s a funny way of saying ‘yes,’” he observed coolly.
“I already said yes,” she reminded him. “Weren’t you paying attention?”
Rusty managed to sigh in disappointment while looking happy. It was quite a feat. “Fine, I’ll let you choose your own ring. Provided you actually wear it.”
“Of course I’ll wear it!”
“And not turn it into some sort of explosive?”
She hesitated, but only for a moment. “And not turn it into some sort of explosive. Or any other sort of weapon, before you ask.”
He thought about that, and apparently couldn’t find anything else to complain about. He set the box back down. “This makes us officially engaged, then,” he stated carefully, as if he thought she might not have gotten that point.
“Yes,” she said simply.
“Good.” He dusted his hands against each other, clearly pleased that it was all settled. “How do you feel about having the wedding on Spanakos?”
She liked that, actually. A cake made out of fresh figs. Rusty was always so happy and relaxed there. And it was secluded, which meant there was less chance of Malcom or Richard turning up to crash the party. And come to think of it, if they did turn up, she could sic the goats on them.
“Why not,” she agreed generously.
Rusty smiled one of those rare, bright, delighted smiles before wrapping her in his arms and pulling her down onto the bed. Pat Benetar was still singing about falling under the sound of words, whatever that meant, when Jane threw her bra in the direction of the floor. Briefly, she considered asking him to turn it off, or at least switch to a different song.
No. She was going to fuck him to it, over and over again, until a mere snatch of the tune was enough to create a Pavlovian response.
“What are you laughing about?” Rusty demanded mildly, pulling his mouth back from her throat but leaving his hands on her breasts.
“Nothing,” she told him firmly, arching her back into his touch. “Just, we belong together.”
She was still smiling about that as she leaned in for another kiss.