Author's Note: Finally, it all it's late glory, you can read this short wrap up to What A Beautiful Wedding :). As always, this was written with demonoa and .olive. All credits to Rainbow Rowell for these characters. To anyone that's confused about these random titles, they're lines from the song 'I Write Sins Not Tragedies' by Panic! At The Disco (just realized I probably should have said that from the beginning whoops). Happy holidays and merry christmas! Keep calm and carry on (reading)!

Simon

Everything gets a bit blurry after that. Just because my eyes start to well up, trust me, I'm not planning on forgetting a moment of this. I thought my hands would be shaking like mad when I proposed, but my voice is steady as I speak.

"Basilton." The beautiful boy before me sucks in a breath, the drooping sun coating his edges in gold, like some sort of celestial god. Close enough. "Marry me?" For the past week I've agonized over how to do it, now I know that I chose the right words. Baz's eyebrows lift slightly, though I don't think it's me he's laughing at.

"You beat me to it Snow." Seeing my confusion, Baz pulls out an identical box from behind his back and opens it, a smile dancing across his pale cheeks. I stare in disbelief, but before I can continue Baz runs one hand through his long hair and steps closer. "But yes, Simon. Oh course I'll bloody marry you." It takes me a second to remember the question, but soon I'm standing up straight (not that I am). Just as I reach my arms around Baz's neck to give him the fairytale kiss of a lifetime, he nudges me back slightly.

"The rings, Simon."

"Right, er." My hands fumble to fit the silver loop around his delicate violinist finger, but once they do, it just feels right. In return Baz slides his ring around my finger with ease.

"Show-off." I mutter, wrapping my hands around the base of his neck, closing the space between us. There's a gentle pressure between our lips, like it's some sort of secret. So I push harder, I'll be damned if I keep this a secret. Every person in London will know that Basilton Pitch is mine, and I belong to him, for better or for worse. Starting with the gawking people on the street below, staring at the two boys, hands in hair, kissing. Not a suicidal vampire and a false Chosen One. But a sun.

Baz

I proposed. Or he did. Of-bloody-course Snow would have do it first and ruin my plans. Simon had almost burnt down the apartment and he still seems bent on uprooting my plots. I don't know why I didn't see it coming.

There are a thousand different things that I could be worrying about right not. How my father will adjust to this. How I will adjust. But I don't don't worry. For one of the few times in my life I'm not analyzing, not setting myself up for failure. Not even plotting. I can't really - Simon is squeezing me so tightly I don't really have enough oxygen to breathe, let alone formulate a plan of demise.

"Simon." I gasp, secretly enjoying the pressure against my chest. Snow loosens his grip but still doesn't let go. Not that I wanted him to.

To any of the pedestrians below it would have been a strange sight. A boy straight out of a surfing magazine hugging someone as pale as the plumes of smoke pouring out through the doors. When Simon finally decides he doesn't want to strangle his boyfriend, sorry - fiance - to death, he lets me pull away just a bit.

"Read it." Simon says, nodding at me.

"Pardon?"

"The ring." He replies, rolling his eyes, and starting to pull off the ring. Except that his face twists in dismay and the silver stays firmly around my finger. When Snow finally looks up at me his eyes are wide, but somewhere in there I can see giddy mischief and I sneer instinctively.

"Snow…" My voice is a warning growl. We both know what's happened, but neither person wants to be the first to acknowledge it.

"It's stuck."

"I know."

"I'm sorry!" Simon throws his hands up comically, verging on reckless laughter. "When I was in the shop I thought about trying it on myself, but you're supposed the have skinny fingers, Baz!" To prove his point, he waves his fingers around in the air.

"Snow."

"Pitch." The no-nonsense tone is difficult to keep up, since Simon's turned into a full on hoodlum. Then it's like we both agreed to go for the Guinness World Record of staring competitions. Finally, I roll my eyes and pull out my wand.

"The bigger the better." Nothing happens. "Wibbly wobbly, timey wimey." My ring slowly turns to a gelatinous loop of metal as I work it off my finger and into my palm. I have the Whovians to thank for that, what with their obsessive use of that phase. As Simon watches in horror I stretch it slightly then slide it back on. "Set in stone." My ring is instantly gleaming again, like nothing ever happened, but when Simon nervously goes to pull it off, it slips with just the right amount of resistance.

"You're brilliant."

"I know." I was making up as I went along. Simon knows that but I appreciate the self-esteem boost.

"Now read it." He delicately places it in my palm and watches as I read the words engraved around the outside. I choose you over the scones. Simon's eyes crinkle as I look up at him and throw my head back in laughter. After all we've been through. Fighting goblins, saving the magickal world, muddling through as arch enemies. In the end, he ties it all back to scones.

"Your turn." I say pulling off his ring, - which, let me add, fits perfectly - and holding it up to him. Simon's eyes scan the words on the outside, and then pops it onto his finger nonchalantly. It's quiet and I'm not sure why, until I see Simon's eyes sparkly and wet around the edges.

"Snow, are you crying?" This is a rare time when I'm not being sarcastic or even mildly annoyed. To answer me Simon wraps his arm around me again. Try and imagine a bear hugging a tree, that's a bit what we look like now, except its slightly more romantic. When he seems to have all his squeezing vibes out Simon places his forehead against mine. The curls caught between our heads do nothing to break the ferocious eye contact between us. Blue and grey and the rest of the world.

"I love you." I whisper to the space between our lips.

Penelope

I'm just pulling on my cover up for the pool when the hotel room phone rings. I pause, my pink hair caught in the drawstrings of the shift. It rings again out into the tiny hallway. I yell for Micah. "Love, can you get the phone?" Through the piece of the head-hole I can see him poke his head around the corner of the washroom, face covered in white sun cream.

"'Course, Pen. Who's calling?" He responds, his voice lilting over to me. I decline to answer, deciding to focus on getting myself out of the predicament I'm in. My arm is caught over my head, my hand waving helplessly in the air. The strings of the cover-up are tangled in my already-knotted hair, and the bottom of the shift is wrinkled up around my stomach, revealing the bathing suit beneath. Micah appears from the loo, heading towards the still-ringing telephone. He grins, seeing me all mussed up. I glare at him and gesture as best I can towards the phone. He grabs it and lifts it up to his ear.

"This is Micah, who's this?" His face shifts from the remnants of his smile to a surprised O, and then he says "yes she is, hold on one minute, Simon."

I stop trying to disentangle myself and stand there. Why is Simon calling me? I told him he was under no circumstance to contact me while I was on my honeymoon. Then I gave him the hotel number for emergencies, and emergencies only. What could have possibly happened? Is he hurt? Is Baz hurt? Was war declared? Are they both dead (Penelope, honestly, Simon is calling you on the phone, you idiot)? A thousand possibilities run through my head, each worse than the last. I make eye contact with Micah as he puts the phone down for a second and heads over to me. He yanks the cover up until it settles onto my form and I emerge from the depths of green cotton fabric, sweaty and disheveled. Silently, Micah passes me the phone. I hold my breath, waiting for the worst. It crackles for a second, then clears and I hear Simon's voice. He's yelling, and sounds terrified. Then slowly I begin to make out what he's saying.

"Baz - Baz and I," more crackling, "are," a pause, as I digest that he is, yes, yelling, but that he sounds elated, not terrified. I relax and exhale, then tense up again in annoyance. This is my honeymoon, and I obviously love Simon to bits, but I told him to only use the line for emergencies. It doesn't sound like this qualifies as an emergency. I open my mouth to try and clarify what the hell he's trying to say, when he gets the rest of the words out - "are engaged!"

My mouth opens, then shuts again. Did he just say he's engaged? No. Possible. Way. I start to squeal, but immediately stop - I am not a squealer. Instead, I just settle for one of the biggest smiles humanly possible. Micah, who is now sitting on the bed, lifts a questioning brow. I point to the phone and then tap my left finger, where my engagement ring is. Comprehension dawns on him, and he gives a thumbs up in response, we've all been expecting it for a while. I turn my attention back to Simon, who is now shouting an explanation of how it happened. Something to do with burnt rice and a sunset? I cut him off and just say,

"Simon, I'm so happy for you! This is amazing and you have to tell me all about it when I get back, okay?" I can practically hear him grinning over the phone.

There's a pause, and then he says in a calmer tone, "Okay, Penny. I just had to tell you!" Another pause. "I love you."

"I love you too, Simon. Tell Baz I'm happy for him. And you. And don't use this line again unless there's an actual emergency," I tease him. Across an ocean, through the telephone, I can hear him laughing in glee. I picture him and Baz, holding hands with their engagement rings flashing in the sunlight. Facing each other at their soon-to-be wedding. Cutting the cake. Starting their life together. And I smile, knowing they finally got their happy ending.

And now, they can carry on.