Five years is a very long time, especially when you don't know it's just
five years. When you think it will be forever, it becomes forever. Time's weird like that when you're human.
Of course, he knows this. Contrary to popular belief, he and every other seasoned Time Agent did
pay attention in class (which didn't stop him from sleeping with his instructors, dear goddesses no). But even in abstract you're not allowed to know your own
future (just everyone else's). You just know that whatever it is, if it's not death, it probably won't last.
Que sera, sera. But maybe not. Especially(/especially not?) when you're trapped in a time bubble.
Time's not made of math. It's made of grammar.
If a (specific) tree falls in the forest and nobody mentions it, does it really matter?
The point is... was...
There is not a single bone in his body that believes in monogamy. Not that that means anything. Right now the only thing he's very certain of is his partner, his partner's physicality, existence, laughter, peeves, temper. Five years in the bubble, some time before that; consistency. It's seeming good.
Table. Red and white checkered tablecloth. White china. White candles, long and only implicably
phallic, yellow flame, crystal holder things. Venusian oysters, chocolate mousse, etcetera, etcetera, the typical usual and some chicken cordon bleu for variety.
The sort of thing his partner likes to chuckle about when drunk. Either he likes them (sekritly, of course) or he'll think it's funny. Either's a win.
Clothing is... optional, but he supposes he'll start with 'on' and see how it goes. Being thrown on the street naked is exciting but sometimes debatable regarding the 'fun' levels.
Besides, this is a surprise. Enforcing a dress-code, or even trying, might end up distracting or looking suspicious, and he really wants to get this over with. Now.
Not for some stupid 'moment' that's supposed to be perfect. Please.
And not because he's scared or nervous either. He does not
get scared. Or nervous.
He also doesn't yelp or jump in the air when the door opens, ever, not at all like a scalded cat, and he does not
approve of the comparison or
"You're cute when you're paranoid and sulking."
"Darling, I'm always
cute," and that gets him a chuckle as he grins.
He practically bounces over to take his seat, which, all right, might be excessive, but the waiting and planning and the everything
has got him wound up and near vibrating with excess energy. Ooooerrrr.
"What's this?" and there are those eyebrows, all arch and taunting and good.
"Tablecloth. Phallic lighting. Supposedly erotic food," he explains slowly, as if to a child, pointing to each item as he explains, keeping things this side of vulgar because, well, time, place (hah).
"My, my," came the playful drawl, "I do believe you're trying to seduce me, sir," and oh he's glad things are going well. Violent, angry, and moody is fun, but time and place, this is good and now.
. Actually." Duh.
And oh, he's actually scored surprise, so he goes ahead and slides to his knees, and all right, maybe he's inching technically a little too close for the occasion, and his expression matches his thoughts (hardly pure at all
, cat and cream come to mind) but he's happy and thrilling on the nerve-spiked(/ing) addrenaline.
Pulling the ring from his pocket, he offers it up, and yes, it's made from a grenade pin, but it's apt and "Don't I get points for making it myself?" and there's laughter, and it's good, it's great,
they're falling back into place in time, but this is the wrong place, or rather the right one, and they're being 'rescued' and 'recovered' and separated for debriefing and
everything was almost right