Sam padded back to bed as gracefully as she could, trying to hide the punch-drunk love stagger in her stride. As soon as her knees touched the sides of the mattress she collapsed forward, dragging her legs up after her into the pile of sweaty sheets on her side, now was a time to lie perfectly still and steep in the warm, fuzzy feelings flowing through her. She sighed contentedly, rolling her head over and cracking one eye open to look at the source of the fuzzies, lying next to her on his back. Baird's thick arms were behind his head, and the faint orange glow from the oil streetlamps highlighted every muscle and glittered in his eyes. He was staring up at the ceiling so intently Sam wondered if a chunk of plaster was about to break free and land on their heads. It wouldn't be the first time.
"Whatcha thinkin' about, Damon?"
He didn't answer for the longest time, still staring at the phantoms overhead. Sam didn't really need an answer, just some satiated grunt to let her know he was feeling at least as good as she was. The ruins at the end of the world was a strange time to be having performance anxiety, but that didn't stop her. Baird's bottomless well of snark always seemed to run dry afterwards; hopefully that was a good sign.
"Just making plans," he said at last, scratching his nose nonchalantly. He definitely sounded relaxed and happy, a fairly odd tone for Baird.
Sam wiggled closer to him, feeling their bare hips touch as she laid a hand on his chest. "Ooh, what are we planning on building now, mmm?" she cooed. As much as he could be a selfish arse interpersonally, Baird was always generous when it came to sharing his engineering talents, whether it was something for the people of Sera or something just for Sam. Sensing her interest, he tensed up a little and inhaled.
"You seem to have this incredible aptitude for knocking me full of feelings, so I guess the best time to do this is right now." He punctuated the strange statement by lurching upright and grabbing for his discarded boxers. "Come on, I've got something to show you." Sam was still groggy and bypassed the opportunity to make a lewd crack about being 'full' to give him a slack-jawed look.
"What-"
"No speaky, just walky." Damon strode to their shared dresser and whipped out a shirt, throwing it around his shoulders. He looked back to the bed and his lover rolling around in confusion, and tossed a hooded sweatshirt at her. "You might want to put something on, unless you want to walk around the yard like that. Which, you know, is fine by me." Sam groaned and grabbed the hoodie. Baird was up and gone in a heartbeat, effortlessly buttoning up his shirt on the run with his nimble mechanic's hands. Sam pulled the sweatshirt half on and grabbed the first thing that looked like panties in the dim night light, hopping into them by the time she crossed the threshold. She wasn't sure if it was a good thing she had no qualms about stumbling into her undies on the run. She caught up to the blonde on the stairs, trying to pull the hoodie down around her and realizing with mild horror that it had evidently shrunk when she washed it.
"Mind telling me what's so important that I have to run around in my underwear past midnight to see it?" she hissed, poking at his side. He pulled her aside on the second floor landing, holding her forearms gently in his big, rough hands.
"Since I cannot help but take on projects, even when I know they'll kill me in the end," he intoned with fake seriousness, "I have decided to follow through on the advice of certain other, older, wrinklier people about my life. I have decided that I need a better half."
A little jolt went through the Kashkur, as though she'd brushed up against a battery. That her long-term boyfriend wanted to make their relationship more serious wasn't too shocking, that he actually found the emotional capacity to propose it was. She looked into his eyes and saw sincerity there, an earnest expression that yes, Damon Baird really was posing the question to her. She tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear and stammered, 'Well, uh, I think if it's you we're talking about, you're going to need a better three-quarters at least." The smile at the end took away whatever mild sting her joke had.
"Cute. Coincidentally, three quarters is all I'd get for you on the slave market today. Should've traded you for that bacon when I had the chance."
"I'm glad you didn't." Sam lifted herself up on tiptoes and planted a light kiss on his lips. Her whole body had gone from feeling nicely fucked to whoa-nelly-I'm-gonna-be-a-bride; her arms shivered slightly from it. "But I gotta say, Damon, a half-broken lightbulb?" She pointed a finger at the flickering orb above their heads, dangling from where a chandelier once hung. "Not exactly moonlight over the Tyber River, is it?"
"What, this?" Baird snorted. "This is just the project overview, not the actual engineering study. Trust me, there might not be a fancy restaurant or a jewelry store left, but Damon Baird still knows that you gotta have some goods when you propose to a lady." He beckoned her to keep following him down the stairs; she laughed and took his outstretched hand.
"Does the Cole Train know that Damon Baird is now aping his third-person speech gimmick?"
"The Cole Train and Damon Baird are working out a licensing deal."
They snuck out the back door into the cool midsummer air of what was once a nice big patio for the pre-war residents. Now, weeds shoved up in great rude clusters through ankle-deep cracks in the concrete, and a smattering of corrugated shanties held private storage, little greenhouses and construction materials for the never-ending renovations. Baird led her to the largest one, his personal home workshop, and drew aside the doorway curtains. Inside it was about the size of a one-car garage; he pulled on a chain and a little lightbulb sputtered to life, casting a cheery yellow glow over his workbench, jack stands, tools, and boxes. A large object leaned up against the workbench, covered in a brown tarpaulin. It was just under waist high and about six feet long, but Sam couldn't make out what sort of thing would be so lumpy and asymmetrical. Baird slowly got down on one knee, grumbling about sharp grit and knee joints, and grabbed a fistful of tarpaulin.
"Samantha Byrne, against my better judgment" – he yanked the tarp aside – "will you be my wife?"
Sam clapped a hand over her mouth. It was a bike! Not a homemade one either, a real pre-war motorcycle, albeit completely disassembled. She knelt down carefully beside it, placing a hand reverently on one tire. It appeared complete, too, with a minimum of rust on the parts. "Where on Sera did you get this, Baird?" she gasped, jiggling with girlish glee.
"Uhh, hello? Marriage proposal? Profession of undying love?"
"Oooh, it's a Swifthorse too!" Sam carefully turned the front fender over in her hands, tracing fingertips over the tarnished horse emblem on the front. Bikes had gotten into her blood. Her last pleasant memories of her father involved kneeling on the driveway beside him as he took apart the old bike he owned for the millionth time, patiently explaining the workings to a bewildered, fascinated young child. She missed her rat bike, missed the freedom that having a vehicle entailed. This was better than any wedding ring. "Yes," she murmured, sifting through the parts with sparkling eyes.
"Uh, what?"
"YES, you bloody arse, I will marry you!" Sam wrapped one arm around Damon's neck and drew him in tightly, snuggling her head against his neck. One of his hands softly cradled the back of her head as she squeezed him like a constrictor snake. When she pulled back, he was smiling as much as she was. "I'd rather have a boxful of memories than some useless shiny ring any day."
"Junk? Hey, that didn't come free." Baird stuck out his lip in a perfect fake-pout. "I had to do jobs for people to get my hands on this. Actual favours and nice things. It's in perfect running condition, believe me. I was the one who stripped it down."
Sam looked at him curiously. "Run? How? I don't think even Marcus Fenix could bum enough leftover fuel off the government to run this thing." Her gaze turned sad as she looked over the collection of pipes and parts and framework, thinking that it would never be much more than a memento now.
"Fuck imulsion," Baird huffed. " There's more than one way to juice a motor up, believe me." He struggled to his feet again and retrieved a battered cardboard box from his workbench, strange lettering splayed out around a triangle symbol on it. Sam took the offered box and opened it slowly, tilting her head as the four shiny metal… things inside revealed themselves. They looked like some kind of air hose fitting, brassy and dark steel in different places and about the size of her thumb. She jiggled them around experimentally, which made the mechanic cringe and snatch the box back. "Heyheyheyyyyy, don't fuck these up. These cost more than the whole bike."
"What are they, exactly?"
"Spring needle valves with built-in pressure reducers so that the methlyized…" Her confused puppy dog eyes evidently had the desired effect on him. "They make it run on vapor fuels. Cow farts, believe it or not. Yours truly has learned that they plan on making a sewage distilling plant to capture biogases for fuel. In the meantime… well, I'll think of something."
Sam grabbed the box back greedily, positive the little valves were reflected in her saucer eyes. "So the bike works, once you put it together, and it will run on the same nasty swamp gas that seems to come off every man on the street? My, my."
Baird snorted. "As if you're any better, with your 'cycles' and your 'I'm not feeling freeeesh, Daaaamon. Nyee-" He shut up when a second pair of lips pressed tightly against his own, the sudden addition of Sam's weight knocking him over on his back. Baird squirmed against the rough floor as she gripped his legs in her thighs and sucked a lungful out of him.
"You are one of the biggest assholes I have ever met." Her breath came in ragged gasps, lips returning to peck at Baird's face. "You are rude, crude, sexist, antagonist and dismissive, and those are your good qualities." Sam countered every attempt to brush her off with another kiss. "And yet, you have just made me the happiest woman on the face of the planet." She really meant it too.
"Whoa, insults and cliches?" Baird finally squirmed free of her grasp and pulled himself into a sitting position, wiping at his face and smirking. "Helluva way for a woman to show some appreciation when a gentleman offers to take her under his wing."
"Under? Let's go for a second round, see just who ends up under whom." Her tone was filled with brazen lust; Baird actually looked over at the shed opening and squirmed a bit.
"What, right here? Uh, you know, those canvas curtains are pretty threadbare… people are at least going to hear us."
"Frankly, Baird," Sam purred, skinning off her sweatshirt, "with the way I feel now, I couldn't care less."
So, more explicit in the future? Less? Let me know what you guys think.
And no, ladies, I have no plans to write some huggy-wuggy wedding scene in the future, with white dresses and runny-nosed ring bearers. I gots standards, y'know. :p