It's as unspectacular a venue as it is an entirely forgettable event, late one night while they're watching a marathon of dumb old action movies together on the couch. Harry falling asleep by about the third film isn't terribly uncommon, and sheer proximity leaves him snoring softly against Perry's shoulder as often as not, but tonight is different if for no other reason than that when Harry curls against his side in his sleep, Perry happens to glance at him and realize how used to this he's become. It isn't an earth-shattering revelation, nor even a particularly surprising one, but it's meaningful all the same: it's difficult to imagine life without Harry, anymore. He mulls that thought over for a long while, watching the movie drag on with detached interest as he shifts his arm around the other man to settle him more comfortably against his side.
The credits are rolling and he's nearing exhaustion himself when Harry murmurs in his sleep, fingers tensing into the material of Perry's shirt, which he covers with his own hand almost reflexively. Harry stills, quiets, and gradually drifts back into more peaceful slumber while Perry studies the rise and fall of both their hands atop his chest, little finger covering the space where Harry's missing ring finger would be. A whim is all, just to see what it might look like: Perry slides his ring off of his own finger to adorn what's left of Harry's, and though he'd never admit to it aloud there's a sentimental side of him that warms considerably at the sight of it. In and of itself it's a meaningless gesture, but it carries with it connotations that he wouldn't have to imagine a day without the strange, indomitable force of nature that has become such a constant fixture in his life. In the space before sleep, he allows himself such fanciful daydreams; they'll be buried come morning.
Perry awakes to an empty room and thinks nothing of it, but for the crick in his neck from sleeping on the couch. Coffee's already on when he makes his way into the kitchen, though, so there's still hope for the morning yet.
It's afternoon before Harry crosses paths with him again, edging into the room like a stray animal that's not entirely convinced of its welcome but just daring or stupid enough to try anyway. "You, uh— here, this is..." Harry holds up the ring in offering, looking admonished even before Perry can recognize the thing. It takes a moment, while he's nattering on incessantly, but it isn't a stretch to realize that Harry's probably convinced himself he pilfered it in some ill-advised drunken heist of his own home. "...yours. I think. Isn't it? I found it earlier and thought you might, y'know. Want it back."
"It doesn't matter," Perry answers over the slap of a folder hitting the surface of his desk, inexplicably irritated by his own mawkishness. "Do whatever you want with it."
He stands and dismisses Harry with a wave of his hand in the same motion, deciding abruptly that he's long past overdue for a half-day and that business isn't anywhere near booming enough for early closing to cut into anything important. Harry just fidgets in the doorway, giving him a look like he can't quite decide whether or not to blurt out whatever's on his mind. Miraculously, he opts for silence, shrugging when Perry glares at him for loitering in the doorway and then disappearing out into the hall.
Harry doesn't wait up for him, that night. He's asleep on the couch with the TV remote tucked against his chin when Perry gets home (pleasantly buzzed, if made dour by the company he's had to endure to get there), and nothing's changed at all; nothing, save the ring on the stump of Harry's finger.
Harry awakes to an empty room and thinks nothing of it, though coffee's already on once he slouches off the blanket that'd materialized around him in the night and stumbles into the kitchen. He pours himself a cup, ring clinking against ceramic when he folds his hands around the steaming mug in search of warmth. Knowing Perry, it doesn't mean a thing.
It's days before he thinks to ask.
"Is this some kind of gay ritual thing?" Harry blurts out, timing impeccable as always: it's near one in the morning, they're staked out at the far end of a parking lot, and he makes little to no effort to indicate which thing he's on about.
Perry shoots him an incredulous look. "Yes. Sitting here in the dark, freezing my fucking balls off waiting to see if this chick is a serial joyrider of antique cars is my way of sending a heartfelt overture. Client's not paying me a dime for the pleasure, but we might have dinner later. What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"What? No, I meant— hang on, she's stealing his cars?"
"She's taking them for walkies. I thought you were taking notes."
Harry clears his throat, in lieu of an answer. "I meant your ring," he twists it around his finger with the opposite hand, restless. It's a stupid question, he realizes the instant he's actually asked, but by then it's too late: "Are we engaged?"
The look Perry gives him this time is inscrutable. Harry flinches, expecting a slap upside the head that never comes. "What the hell kind of question is that?"
"I don't know, I just thought... I don't know what I thought. You're right, it's stupid. Forget it." He starts to curl into his seat before catching himself, toeing off his shoes first and turning towards the window.
They manage silence for all of thirty seconds. "Do you want to be?"
When Harry turns to ask for clarification, having already lost the thread of the conversation, the confusion on Perry's face stops him cold. Perry's very rarely confused, or if he is, he doesn't show it; not like this, not to him.
... oh.
Harry blinks. Shrugs. "Do I get to keep it if I say no?"
Perry scowls at him, the sort of expression where only one corner of his mouth turns down and his eyebrows pull together, and shakes his head before returning his attention to the far end of the parking lot. "Stop talking and you can fling it over a rainbow, for all I care."
Folding himself back into his seat, against the window, Harry idly adjusts the ring around his finger. Silence, for all of fifteen seconds this time.
"Perry?"
"What?"
"What size do you wear on your ring finger?"
Perry doesn't answer, nor does he look at him, but he does reach a hand over to rest atop Harry's bare ankle.
"Chief."
"Yeah?"
"Get your fucking feet off of the upholstery."
Harry smiles to himself, pleased for reasons too vague and ridiculous to define.