Work Text:
Thank Crowley Shepard has me as a friend. If it had been left up to him, he’d propose to Bunce in their flat, probably before they’ve cleared up their takeaway dinner, and with something awful like “Love Island” in the background. But instead, he wisely asked me to help plan the proposal of Bunce’s dreams.
It is going to be amazing. I’ve got Shepard the best florist I could find (lilies of the valley, pink buttercups, white peonies, and lavender), a lovely string quartet (they’re going to play Just Like Heaven by The Cure during the proposal), a highly recommended engagement photographer with an outstanding portfolio, and the rooftop terrace of one of London’s best and most romantic restaurants with the most breathtaking view of the sun setting on Thames in whole damn city (rented out just for Bunce and Shepard, of course). As long as Shepard doesn’t fuck up the speech or lose the ring in the next half hour, it will be the epitome of perfection.
Of course, it makes sense that I’d accompany him to the actual proposal. Shepard could probably take it from here, but I don’t think either of us is ready to put that much trust in him right now. I’ll make myself scarce when Bunce arrives. (Simon’s been keeping her occupied all day; once he gets her to the roof, he and I will sneak back downstairs for our own private supper.) (I hope he got her to change into the dress I picked out for her.)
I’d say I’m also here for moral support, but Shepard doesn’t seem to need it. We’re sitting in the back seat of an Uber (I wanted to rent the limousine to take us there as well, but Shepard insisted that it was a waste of money.) that is taking us to the spot where Shepard is about to ask the love of his life to marry him, and he’s just starting placidly out the window, smiling. Who is this calm right before they ask someone to marry them? (Well, I suppose maybe someone who’s already been engaged to a demon.)
“All right, Shepard?” I ask as the car pulls up to the restaurant.
He takes a minute to finish typing out a message on his phone (seriously?) before he meets my eyes. He still has that blasted zen-like grin on his face. He doesn’t say anything to me until we’re halfway up the stairs at the back of the restaurant.
“Baz,” he starts casually. “I have a confession to make.”
I sigh and roll my eyes. “Now, Shepard? You honestly don’t have anything else on your mind?”
“Nope,” he says simply. “I need to tell you that I…well, I proposed to Penelope a month ago.”
“You what?!” I stop climbing the stairs immediately, but it takes Shepard a beat or two to realize I’m not following him anymore. The bastard is still smiling.
“I proposed to Penelope a month ago in our flat. Well, actually, she proposed to me, but I would’ve asked if she didn’t beat me to it.” He starts his ascent again like he’s just told me about a film he saw recently or that he’s already paid the lighting bill for the month.
I grab his elbow as soon as I catch up to him. “Wait, wait, wait. So…you’re already engaged?”
Shepard nods. “Yes.”
“But…” I’m looking around the stairwell as if I’ll find some clue about what is happening. “But, Shepard…we’ve just spent the last three weeks preparing Bunce’s fantasy proposal! I mean…” I throw my arms up in exasperation, “The flowers, the food, the music, the photos…what the actual fuck was that all for?”
Still smiling, Shepard silently opens and holds the rooftop access door. “Come on and see for yourself,” he says.
I raise my eyebrow and slowly approach the door. I keep my eyes on Shepard until I’m outside on the terrace. It’s…it’s perfect. The flowers are everywhere, and the sky is all oranges and pinks as it glistens off the river. The quartet sounds wonderful, but…wait, they’re not playing Just Like Heaven. I think…I think it’s Nick Cave's Into My Arms. I don’t think I’ve heard that song since…
I hear the door close behind me and spin around. Simon Snow is standing there, smiling, wearing a dark blue suit, no tie, and a lighter blue shirt with the first button undone. Fuck, he really is the most handsome man in the world.
“Hey, babe,” he says. Simon reaches for my hand and pulls me further out onto the terrace. My head is spinning; I’m crying, I think, and my heart might be pounding in my chest for the first time in twenty years.
“Fuck,” I manage to croak between tears, “Crowley, this is my perfect proposal, isn’t it?”
Simon nods. “I thought you might get swept up in the romance of planning a proposal,” he admits, “and I figured this was the best way to ensure you got exactly what you wanted. So I asked Penny and Shep to keep their news quiet for a bit and, well…here we are.” He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me close; I rest my arms on his shoulders. We stand together silently, holding each other, swaying gently to the music. I can see the sun setting in his eyes, the pinks and purples dancing in his blue.
“Simon,” I whisper, “Simon, you are…I mean, this is…”
He shrugs, hopefully. “Perfect?”
I laugh wetly and nod. “Perfect,” I agree.