He takes it slow. He's got enough going against him in this, he doesn't need to seem overeager or pushy, too. So, he goes slow and he starts small.
At first, it's just trinkets. A spoon made of antler. A shot glass with a slogan that reminded him of her. A new cleaning cloth when hers gets too full of oil and grease to be usable anymore. She accepts each one and he sees her using them and he smiles, pleased.
Then she gives him something. It's just a pen, one of the wooden ones with something inscribed in the side, but it's the first gift he's ever gotten, so he cradles it like it's fine crystal. Then the words register and he looks up in surprise, but she's already gone again and he's left gaping at his hands. My Angel
The presents start getting bigger, more elaborate. He knows enough about her to avoid anything frilly and extraneous, but he does buy a simple pendant necklace, just chain and drop-shaped morganite. He leaves the little card with the properties of the stone with it and when he sees her wearing it the next time he comes around, it makes his grace warm all over.
He doesn't buy her a gun, though he knows she'd appreciate and use it. Instead, he finds a hand-carved crossbow, with blessed, silver-tipped bolts, and he spends time teaching her how to use it. The grin he gets when she manages to nail the bullseye the first time makes the cost more than worth it.
The gift-giving goes on for a while and he drags it out a little longer than really necessary. He's nervous, though. There's been nothing but affirmation that he's doing alright, that he hasn't messed anything up, but he's still terrified that if (when) he broaches the topic of what comes next, she'll reject it and him.
He's still thinking about it when she sighs and grabs him and pulls him in close. "You better propose or whatever soon," she growls, "or I will castrate you with a spork while you're sleeping."
And he'd point out that he doesn't sleep, doesn't need to sleep, but she's serious and he's never been happier.
"Marry me," he breathes, bent over awkwardly and her hand still twisted in his shirt and she blinks, grins, pulls him down those last inches.
"Yes," she says. "Yes." She kisses him, then, hard and sweet and all his and his grace sings.
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At first, it's just trinkets. A spoon made of antler. A shot glass with a slogan that reminded him of her. A new cleaning cloth when hers gets too full of oil and grease to be usable anymore. She accepts each one and he sees her using them and he smiles, pleased.
Then she gives him something. It's just a pen, one of the wooden ones with something inscribed in the side, but it's the first gift he's ever gotten, so he cradles it like it's fine crystal. Then the words register and he looks up in surprise, but she's already gone again and he's left gaping at his hands. My Angel
The presents start getting bigger, more elaborate. He knows enough about her to avoid anything frilly and extraneous, but he does buy a simple pendant necklace, just chain and drop-shaped morganite. He leaves the little card with the properties of the stone with it and when he sees her wearing it the next time he comes around, it makes his grace warm all over.
He doesn't buy her a gun, though he knows she'd appreciate and use it. Instead, he finds a hand-carved crossbow, with blessed, silver-tipped bolts, and he spends time teaching her how to use it. The grin he gets when she manages to nail the bullseye the first time makes the cost more than worth it.
The gift-giving goes on for a while and he drags it out a little longer than really necessary. He's nervous, though. There's been nothing but affirmation that he's doing alright, that he hasn't messed anything up, but he's still terrified that if (when) he broaches the topic of what comes next, she'll reject it and him.
He's still thinking about it when she sighs and grabs him and pulls him in close. "You better propose or whatever soon," she growls, "or I will castrate you with a spork while you're sleeping."
And he'd point out that he doesn't sleep, doesn't need to sleep, but she's serious and he's never been happier.
"Marry me," he breathes, bent over awkwardly and her hand still twisted in his shirt and she blinks, grins, pulls him down those last inches.
"Yes," she says. "Yes." She kisses him, then, hard and sweet and all his and his grace sings.