The whole day had been a total flop, Moist von Lipwig thought miserably. A flop from the floppy beginning all the way to the floppish end. And it hadn't even finished yet, which was the worst part – there was still potential for flop in the future.
He glanced down at Adora, wet and bedraggled, huddled under his jacket as she shivered. She'd let him put his arm around her, that was something, he told himself. Despite the fact that none of the day's mishaps had really been his fault, he still had the nagging suspicion that she was angry with him.
"You look beautiful." He told her, and he meant it. Her makeup was smudged beyond recognition around her eyes, her dark hair had escaped from the bun she normally wore to fall in rain-bedraggled waves over her shoulders, her dress was stained and soaked through and the heel had broken on one of her shoes, leaving her balancing precariously on one foot. But there was defiance in her eyes, and she looked stunning.
Adora frowned and hugged herself tighter, shoulders tensing as she avoided his eyes. Moist sighed and leant against the wall. He'd had such high hopes for today and he'd planned everything out so carefully, but some deity had decided to throw a heavenly spanner in the works of everything he tried to do.
The evening had started off well enough; he'd picked up Adora at five and they'd enjoyed a pleasant walk to the opera house, arriving in time for the half five showing. Nothing had seemed amiss, until an apologetic announcement was made that the lead soprano was ill, and a last-minute replacement had been found.
The fact that half the opera hall left in the first five minutes was a tribute to the poor woman in question, who fled the stage in sobs when she was pelted with rotten fruit. Moist remarked to an amused Adora as they left that he always wondered how crowds managed to have the disgusting stuff on them at such moments. Did people save it up, just for possible boo-ing occasions? Did they buy a bushel of fresh apples, hand them out to the kids and tell them to keep them in their pockets for the rest of the month in the hope that a show would go rimwards? Or was it something that the theatre was obligated to provide, like ice cream in the interval?
Thankfully, the loss of the opera show hadn't put too much of a dampener on the evening; no, the dampness (the moistness - his inner self wailed and cringed) was yet to come. No opera meant that they had two hours to kill before their reservation at Le Foie Heureux, so, originally, they'd headed to the little café by the Pin Exchange.
They found out - shortly after the cab driver had pulled away - that the café was closed for a few days for vital redecorating that the owner had negated to tell anyone about previously. Moist suspected that it was really due to the young woman who ran the place's boyfriend being caught in the stables with more than three…ladies of negotiable affection, or so the rumours said. He didn't mention this to Adora, however, lest he be hit by a stray dart of disgust towards the whole male race.
After a few moment's deliberation in the drizzle, they decided to make their way to the Broken Drum. Two cabs passed them on their twenty minute walk, both soaking them with puddle water and neither stopping. By the time they reached the Drum they were in a foul mood and covered in muddy splashes, but drinks and a good smoke - the smoke on Adora's part, obviously, not on his - brought some warmth back into the evening and Moist began to regain some semblance of hope that, maybe, something might go right.
Hope was evil, misleading and pointless, the Postmaster decided two and a half hours later; their visit to the Broken Drum had appeared to be harmless enough, until a particularly enthusiastic drunk managed to spill half of his Bearhugger's down Adora's dress. She stood, simmering and ready to retaliate, but misjudged the strength of her new boots (she resolved to only buy Mitzy 'Pretty Lucretia' heels from thereon) and managed to break the stiletto that she was stabbing the poor man's foot with. Thankfully for the drunk, Igor was on hand - or foot, as the case was - but Adora, never a young woman to carry flat shoes in her bag in case of sore toes, was left hobbling for the rest of the evening.
As a result of this, they left the Drum late, took longer than expected to make their way to the restaurant and missed their reservation. Apologetic excuses turned to blatant lying, which turned to furious hissing as Moist tried to negotiate them a table, but not even the promise that they would be dining with his Lordship himself would persuade the stubborn maitre d' to let them in.
Adora was, by this point, more than pissed off and Moist was nearly at the end of his own tether. They gave in, and the plan was to return to the Post Office for sandwiches. It was, sadly, the best option they had.
This plan, however, as narrative causality demanded, was to be brutally shot down by the Assassin of Plans, just as the other plans of the evening had been; the coach went through a particularly impressive pothole and (Moist felt stupid for not seeing it coming, really) lost one of its wheels. Thankfully, and despite all their bad luck that evening, the driver managed to stop it safely, but it meant that he and Adora had to climb out and wait in the shelter of a nearby porch. It was either that or walk, and they were far from both Dolly Sisters and the Post Office.
And so they were left standing, huddled together by someone's front door, whilst the driver ran off to find the equipment needed to fix the wheel.
"I'm going home."
Moist turned to his girlfriend in surprise, "What?"
"I'm cold and wet and hungry. Even my cigarettes are soaked through. I'm going home." she set her jaw, and gave him a look that suggested he better not argue.
"I'll walk you back." he said instantly, stepping forwards after her. She glared at him over her shoulder.
"No, Moist. I can walk back on my own," then her face grew weary, "Sorry."
Utterly and completely miserable, not to mention rather cold, as Adora had his jacket, Moist von Lipwig dug his hands into his trouser pockets with a grimace and watched the limping form of Adora Belle disappear into the drizzle. His fingers ran over something small and box-shaped, then he tightened them around it. Damn it all, he'd had so many plans for this evening, but everything had gone wrong - the opera, the meal, and then…
And then the golden mist descended, filling him from the tips of his damp hair to the ends of his toes, and he realised that this was perfect - more than perfect!
Because, what was the point in planning things? Plans went wrong. Plans went awry. He didn't plan, he just went with the moment. It took him several moments to realise that his feet were moving beneath him, quite fast, and that the moment was catching up with him.
"Adora!"
She hadn't got far with the broken heel. She turned, raising an eyebrow, then clicked.
"Oh, sorry, I took your jack-"
She couldn't continue, because he was kissing her and holding her tightly, almost lifting her off her feet. When he finally pulled back she gasped, and he had to steady her.
"Adora!" he took her firmly by the arms, his earnest gaze boring into her slightly bemused eyes, "I love you, and I think I have loved you since the day we met. I know I've asked you before, but," he pulled forth the box from his pocket, as the situation demanded, and opened it to reveal the glistening ring within. Adora's eyes widened, "Will you be my wife?"
She opened and closed her mouth several times, before swallowing and pulling herself together. She cleared her throat, and said, perfectly serious, "Actually, you're going to be my husband."
"…Good enough!"
It turned out that Anoia was entirely the wrong goddess to ask for help in this situation; in the ensuing…excitement, the ring was flung from its box and wound up in a nearby gutter. It took them a good five minutes to realise.
"Oh, shit!"
"Forget it, Moist." said Adora, smiling for probably the first time that evening.
They were soaked to the skin, mud-spattered, hungry, with only three watertight shoes between them, but there was undeniable happiness in the air. Perhaps, Moist pondered, it was not about how much flop the evening had suffered - perhaps, it was about how whether or not you could turn a spectacular flop into a double flip and nose dive, and bloody well splash everyone else on your way down.