AN: Hello! Sorry, I couldn't resist one more. I justified my absurdity with the fact that this is actually centered on an important "missing moment" from Woes of The Eternally Bored about which readers might have wondered. Well, here you are; enjoy! Oh, and reviews are wonderful.

We were sitting there on the floor of my living room, he reading a book about Megamind, cool as you please and trying to pretend his arm wasn't stealing gradually around my waist, when he asked me.

Or, rather, sighed, extracted his arm, and fumbled around in the pocket of his blazer while I, leaning against him with my head on his shoulder, looked up in alarm.

"Dammit," he mumbled, now checking the pockets of his pants. "I should have known."

"What's wrong?" I inquired, sitting straighter and watching with bewilderment as his cheeks turned pink.

He didn't reply, only searched his pockets once more, sighed, and turned to me, expression characteristically unreadable.

"Forget it. I must have left it."

He sighed.

"God, this is embarrassing."

"Well, get it out with, then," I advised, inwardly admiring how well embarrassment suited him—really, any expression at all was a lovely change.

"Fine," he said, and swallowing. "Well—I…"

It was the first time I'd seen him really stumble with his words; smiling at how desperately he was trying to remain cool and composed, I prompted, gently:

"You what?"

"I…I…" Then, abruptly, he controlled himself, and stated, in a dry, matter-of-fact tone:

"I want to marry you."

For about five seconds I thought it was a particularly sarcastic joke; gaping, I sat there, waiting for him to raise an eyebrow and tell me not to be stupid, he hadn't been serious.

But he didn't. Bernard just looked at me, a dry mirth twitching the corners of his mouth at my dumbfounded expression, the heat in his face the only outward sign of any discomposure.

"Well," he said after a moment of the sort of silence one associates with cricket chirps, "aren't you going to cry?"

"No," I said, still dazed. "But I'd—I'd like to know…why?"

"Because I could use the added income," he replied, completely dead-pan. When I, still numb with shock, made no reply, he sighed again, and passed a hand over his face.

"Sorry," he said. "You know why. I love you, Gwendolyn."

"Oh," I breathed, pinching myself black and blue on the arm. "A-alright."

Another long period of quiet; Bernard, who, for a bare second, looked miserably hurt, quickly calmed his face into that bored, snarky mask and said:

"If you don't want to, just say no."

That cleared away the daze; whoever said I didn't want to?

"No," I said, quickly. "I-I do…I do very much."

"You do?" he said, and there was a hope in his voice that no snark could cover.

"Yes, of course," I told him, an enormous smile overtaking me. "God, Bernard…what the hell do you think I've been waiting for?"

He didn't reply to this; he simply sat there, and I could tell it was taking every ounce of willpower he had within him not to grin like an idiot.

"Well," he said, at last. "That's settled then."

Without reply, I leant in and lay my head on his neck, twining my arms around his abdomen. The initial stiffening—which became shorter every day—melted within a second or two, and I felt his arms slowly settling on my back, as his chin rested atop my head.

"The ring's at home," he told me, as if it mattered. "I forgot it."

"So you bought a ring, then?" I said lightly, pulling back to look him in the face.

"I believe that's what was implied. Why?"

"Because," I teased, grinning; I was so used to his sarcasm by now it scarcely even registered. "That means you've got to go through with it now."

"Damn," he said. "I didn't think of that."

But I saw him smile to himself as he picked up his book again, and knew that the idea rather pleased him.

"So," I said, casually, once silence prevailed once more. "When does Marianne get to call you Uncle Bernard?"

Immediately wary, he sat stiff, and raised an eyebrow, giving me the patented "go to hell" stare.

"Never."

"She'll do it anyway," I told him, twisting my head to kiss him on the jaw. "Get used to it, Bernard."

And, for once, instead of making a snarky reply, Bernard said, in a voice not quite as dry as it usually was:

"I guess I'd better. I have lots of time."

"Ages," I agreed, and settled back against him. "I love you, Bernard."

"I know you do, Sharp."

And little more was said for the rest of the afternoon.