Chapter Text
The day he decides he's going to propose to her, she's yelling at him for not putting the dishes away.
Well, not exactly. He's usually pretty good at putting the dishes away, and folding the laundry, and tidying up the living room when she leaves her books and papers and notes around. He points that out to her while she's gesturing at the full dish rack, which is not the right move, because then she starts yelling about respect.
Respecting how much work she has in this final semester of her fourth year at Northwestern, the end of the Bachelor part of her Bachelors-Masters program. Respecting how hard it is for her to lean on her parents for money, for her not to pull a paycheck, how guilty she feels not contributing to their household budget because she isn't done with school yet. How she tries to do extra things around the house to make his life easier, and then he doesn't even respect her enough to notice them. He doesn't even say thank you.
She's wearing his brown flannel shirt over a white t-shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and her hair is up in a messy ponytail, and she's flushed pink with irritation and glaring at him, and all he can think is, I want to marry you.
He's not about to drop to one knee on their kitchen floor, though, so he takes hold of her upper arms until she stops ranting, looks her dead in the eye, and apologizes.
She shakes him off, sighs, and tells him she's going to take a walk.
While she's gone he puts on a record, puts away the dishes, puts water on to boil for pasta and starts to make dinner, moving on autopilot.
It's not like he hasn't thought about marrying Nancy before; it's crossed his mind dozens of times since he kissed her in Murray Bauman's basement. But those thoughts have all been abstract, hazy visions of a future together where they both have gold bands on their left ring fingers, marriage less as an intentional act and more of a thing that is.
Now, though, as he tears lettuce and cuts carrots and celery for a salad, he starts to think about how he would actually do it.
He can't imagine anything elaborate. No candles throughout the apartment – between the makeshift dark room and hall closet full of developing chemicals their home is unusually flammable – or trail of rose petals leading to their room, to the bed. The very idea makes him cringe and he knows if he tried it he wouldn't even be able to get to the proposing part; Nancy would be too busy laughing at him.
No fancy dinners or surprise trips either. The idea of putting a ring in a glass of champagne makes his head hurt from secondhand embarrassment.
He sprinkles the chopped vegetables on top of the lettuce and sets the bowl on their small kitchen table, digs around in the pantry for the spaghetti and a jar of pasta sauce.
His mind keeps circling back to the same image: Nancy's face, a look of blank surprise slowly warming, first in her eyes and then into her cheeks and the corners of her mouth, until it blossoms into joy. Her hand coming up over her mouth, because he knows it will, and how she will nod silently but with increasing speed until he pulls her hand away from her mouth so he can put the ring on it, so he can kiss her. So he can run his fingers from slim gold ring to the scar on her palm, more faint with each passing year but still there.
She still wears the same ring on her right index finger; he's never seen her wear any other. He wonders if an engagement ring will feel odd to her, if it'll feel heavy and strange on that finger at first. Wonders if he'll feel the same when he gets a wedding band to match.
He is 23 years old, a freelance photographer who also works part time at the bar down the street, and the idea that he would be proposing to Nancy, to anyone, should fill him with dread. He should be nervous, unsure, at least a little self-doubting in undertaking such a momentous endeavor.
But he's not.
There are no knots in his stomach, no pounding in his chest, just a lifting, looping feeling like he's about to burst out laughing.
He's too lost in his thoughts to hear her open their front door, or her footsteps down the hall. She startles him as he's dumping spaghetti into the pot by dropping a large bottle of Ocean Spray from the corner store down on the counter behind him, and he has to jump out of the way to keep from splashing himself with boiling water.
He turns to face her. She's got her back to him still, reaching up into a cabinet to pull down her favorite tumbler, a cut crystal Old Fashioned glass she'd found in the Salvation Army store when they were first furnishing their apartment. He remembers her holding it up to the light to see what rainbows it would cast before wrapping both her hands around it and holding it tight to her stomach until they got to the cash register.
He catches the silly smile on his face and schools it into something more neutral before she can turn around and ask him any pointed questions.
She raises her eyebrows at him anyway.
"Feel better?" he asks.
She lets out a breath, holds up a finger, and fetches the bottle of vodka out of their freezer. He watches her mix herself a vodka cranberry, take a long sip, and set it down on the table as she crosses the room to him.
"Sorry I yelled," she says when she's in front of him.
"That's what I'm here for," he replies and pulls her into a hug. Takes a deep breath with his nose in her hair. Wonders if the change in him looks as obvious as it feels.
He stirs the pasta as she opens the jar of sauce and dumps it into another pot, puts it on the stove to warm. As she sips her drink she starts to talk, telling him about the meeting with her department adviser earlier in the day, before she came home and lost her temper. They work side by side, moving smoothly around each other.
"I don't understand what he wants from me," she's saying as he returns to the stove with the colander of drained pasta, puts it back in the pot and pours the sauce on top of it. She leans on the counter, close enough for her elbow to brush his side as he mixes it. "It's like he doesn't even think there's a point to me doing this. I don't know how to, like, tell him that I'm serious about this if he hasn't figured it out by now."
"That's bullshit," Jonathan agrees, wiping his hands on one of the tea towels that hang from the oven handle and turning back to her. She gestures to the table, and doesn't wait for him to sit. He takes his usual spot across from her and waits for her to stretch out her leg under the table and rest her foot on his knee. When she does he busies himself stroking the outside of her ankle as he considers what to say next.
"Can I ask you a question?" he finally says. She raises her eyes to him, points her foot so she can poke him in the stomach with her big toe.
"Of course."
"Why didn't you ever change advisers?"
Her sigh is heavy before she drains her glass and gets up to pour herself another drink.
"I've already done at least three quarters of the work with him. And there's no one else that really does the feature and investigative reporting he does. I just wish he wasn't such an asshole. He keeps asking me where I'm thinking of working after this, keeps saying bullshit about not being able to work a crime beat. Keeps telling me to think about TV news. I don't want to be on fucking TV." She's properly worked up now, almost yelling, and Jonathan holds up his hands in surrender.
"I'm just saying you've hated him for like a year now."
"I know," she sighs and puts down her drink, sets her head in her hands. "I think I just have to get through this semester with him taking me seriously. Next year they reassign me to an adviser in the graduate school, and I don't have to deal with Perry anymore."
She's not done, he can tell, so he just waits.
"It's just…" she finally says, and it sounds like the words are a struggle to get out. "He never says this to any of the men in our department. It's only me and Alice. So on the one hand I know he thinks I do good work, and on the other hand I think he thinks I'm just gonna give up as soon as school is over and become a secretary. And that is bullshit, Jonathan. Bullshit. It's the nineties, for fuck's sake."
The idea that anyone, especially a teacher, would underestimate Nancy Wheeler never ceases to amuse him.
"You should tell him about exposing Hawkins Lab," Jonathan chuckles, and takes her hands across the table. "Ask Murray to give him a call."
She's been exchanging letters with Murray since she decided she really was going to be a reporter. He'd do it for her, Jonathan knows; he thinks of her as his protégé. But there's a look on her face of deep frustration and it takes him a moment to realize he just suggested using another man to prove her merit to her stupid adviser.
The look fades, though, and she snickers through her nose, almost more of a sigh than a laugh.
"I can just imagine the two of them talking."
He feels some of the tension flow out of her and gives her fingers a squeeze.
"Want me to make you a plate?"
"Yeah, I'll grab forks and stuff. You know, so we can actually eat."
"I was gonna get to it!"
"Sure, sure." She laughs for real this time and he smiles wide at her and watches her pull plates out of the cabinet and forks out of the silverware drawer.
She has to remind him to put pasta on the plates; suddenly all he can think about is how he wants to marry her right now.
+++
He calls his mother as soon as Nancy leaves for class the next morning.
"Hello?" Her voice never fails to soothe him instantly. He can see her wide brown eyes and long brown hair and he smiles.
He intends to say Hey, Mom, but what comes out is "I'm going to ask Nancy to marry me."
There is a long pause.
"Jonathan?"
"Yeah, yeah, sorry," he finds he's oddly breathless. "Hey, Mom."
"Hey sweetie," she says, slowly, and he can see the grin frozen on her face and the amused sparkle in her eye as if she's in front of him, and there's an almost sarcastic note in her voice when she continues. "So. What's new with you?"
He can't help but laugh, covering his mouth with his free hand and closing his eyes. He can feel his cheeks burning.
"Sorry, I didn't really mean to lead with that." He leans on kitchen doorframe and spins his coffee mug on the counter. "How are you?"
"Oh I don't think so young man." Her tone is firm but he can hear the laughter behind it. "You're planning to do what now?"
"I—I'm going to ask Nancy to marry me." It comes out hushed, as if the first time was a spontaneous confession but the repetition means admitting to a plan.
"Well I can't say I'm surprised."
He doesn't know what he's expecting but that's not it. "What?"
"Oh come on, Jonathan. She changed schools for you and you've been living together for three years now. And, really, you think I don't think about the cabin anymore? I knew, even then. Even before you two did."
It's been years. Actual years, in a way he spent a long time believing would never be possible. It has been long enough that they've recovered themselves, the people they used to be and would find their way back to. It was a long time before he believed that could happen, and a surprisingly long time since it did.
"That's not why..." He finds he doesn't have the right words to finish his sentence.
"Oh, sweetie, of course not." His mother's voice is so warm and he suddenly wants to drive down for dinner, just for the hug and the way her eyes sparkle. "But you were partners before you were ever… you. Even back then, I think we all knew you weren't about to leave her side any time soon. Her either."
He doesn't know what to say to that. He spent his teenage years trying to hide; it's a shock his mother saw him so clearly.
"I wasn't—that wasn't what I was thinking at all." He breathes it out almost in awe.
"What were you thinking?"
"She was yelling at me." It comes out lilting, almost like a song. "About not putting away the dishes. And all I could think was I want her to yell at me like this forever."
His mother laughs. A real, long, belly-deep laugh.
This time when he smiles he doesn't hide it behind his hand.
+++
Jewelry store clerks are judgmental and as Jonathan walks down Broadway he thinks about the revenge he'd like to have on the smirking, skeptical man behind the glass counter. The man had trotted out ring after ring he couldn't even dream of affording, then looked at him with pity as he'd simpered, I'm sorry, we just don't have anything in your price range.
He's really not a violent person, but he does think it'd be awfully satisfying to punch that guy right in the nose.
He opens the door to Reckless Records, makes a beeline for the New Used bin and waves at the clerk behind the counter as he starts flipping. If no one wants to sell him an engagement ring he will happily spend his meager budget on music instead.
Who needs a diamond ring anyway, right? He and Nancy have never been traditional.
He sighs when he finishes flipping through, wanders over to the New Arrivals rack and just stares at it.
He hasn't been this bothered by being poor in a long time, hasn't even really noticed now that he's not in a small suburb that judges the struggles of a single mother. He's not sure what's more upsetting; that he suddenly feels poor again or that it bothers him.
"Jonathan, you alright?"
A voice pulls him from his reverie. The clerk, Elliott, is now at his side with an armful of records.
"Yeah, fine," he answers, shaking his head. "Anything good in there?"
"If you're in the market for the new Billy Idol or The Bangles' greatest hits, sure."
"I'll pass," Jonathan laughs.
"You look bothered, man," Elliott says as he starts arranging the records on the shelves.
"I'm just… trying to get something for Nancy, but I can't find anything that's right."
It's not a lie. It's also not the truth. So far the only one who knows about his intentions is his mom, he's not about to tell the record store clerk who knows his name because he's a regular. He hasn't even told his brother.
Elliott is talking and he tunes back in just in time to hear him say "new place down the street."
"Sorry?"
"I said you should try the new place down the street," Elliott repeats. "Someone just opened a secondhand shop. Kim hasn't stopped talking about it all week."
Kim's the other clerk. Nancy always chats with her whenever she comes in with him, and he's heard her asking where she's gotten her dresses and necklaces before. It's not a bad idea.
"Thanks, man," he says with a grin and leaves.
The shop is only a few doors down, clearly new among the shabbier video rental stores and fetish shops and dive bars. There's a gauzy floral dress on a mannequin in the window and Jonathan makes a mental note not to let Nancy know this place exists unless they want to skip grocery shopping for a month.
A bell chimes as he pushes the door open, and the tall, thin man behind the counter gives him a long up and down look before he smiles.
"Hiii," the man says, and Jonathan tries not to blush at the loud flirtatious note in his voice. "Can I help you find something?"
There's a jewelry case next to the register and he walks over to it. The man is still looking steadily at him and smirking. Jonathan resists the urge to roll his eyes and instead takes a look at the row of rings closest to the glass.
There's a gold one in the middle, small and thin and delicate, that looks to have several small stones set in some sort of filigree. He points to it, taps the glass to keep his hand from shaking.
"Can I look at that one?"
The man pulls it out, sets on the glass. When Jonathan picks it up he can see the filigree looks like vines, winding around three delicate and sparkling white stones.
"It's 18 karat gold plated, and they're not diamonds, they're crystal, but they're high quality." The man looks him up and down again. "I take it you're not buying it for yourself?"
"I don't know if I'm buying it at all," Jonathan murmurs, but feels the bite of the metal in the pad of his thumb as he grips it tighter. "How much?"
"$50."
Something funny happens in his chest, like his heart is pausing. He feels a little lightheaded as he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet.
"I'll take it."
He hides it in a bag of frozen peas in the back of their freezer, and is glad he's the one who usually cooks.
+++
He is trying hard to project the image that everything is normal, everything is fine, but he's not sure it's working.
He almost has a heart attack every time Nancy opens the freezer, for one, which is kind of inconvenient now that the weather has properly warmed and their little, non-air conditioned apartment feels it. In the heat Nancy needs ice for her drinks and he might die before he can promise to stay with her until death do them part.
She gives him weird looks and he catches himself stuttering around her like they're back in the hallways of Hawkins High. This person he seems to have reverted back to stuns him. Was he really that awkward when he was sixteen?
She comes into his bar after dinner on a Thursday, sits down in her usual spot near the service well. He pours her a vodka cranberry, and sets it down in front of her as she settles onto the stool.
"Hi." He smiles at her. She uses the foot bar to push herself up and halfway over the bar, and he meets her halfway for a kiss. "How was school?"
"Everyone else is getting ready to graduate, I'm signing up for more fucking classes. Remind me why I decided to do a fifth year of this," she sighs, dropping back down onto the seat.
"Because you're a hopeless bookworm who loves school more than anything."
"Screw you." She gives him the finger.
He grins at her. "Because you get a master's degree and a job with the Trib."
"Thank you," she smiles back. "I love you."
"Love you too."
"How's your night?"
"Slow." He leans his elbows on the bar, lets his hair fall across his face. "Better now that you're here, though."
She reaches up and tugs on one of the locks. "'Kay, Kurt."
"Ugh, Nance." She's been calling him that for over a month now, ever since the Reader tapped him to photograph this new Seattle band called Nirvana at the Metro and he'd come home with a copy of their album, "Bleach," demanding she listen. It was too harsh for her, he knew it would be, but he'd been hoping she might like it because he did, and while she wrinkled her nose at the buzzsaw guitars she'd looked between the photo of the long-haired band on the inner sleeve and his own past-his-ears hair and he knew what was about to happen.
Maybe he bears a passing resemblance to the lead singer. They both have blonde hair and a dimple in their chin, but that's not why he is growing his hair longer. He likes it. And anyway, he'd been growing it out before he'd ever heard of the band.
He scowls at her and she tugs on his hair again before getting up to drop some quarters in the jukebox. The bar is nearly empty and the music has gone silent.
When he straightens up again Davey, the other bartender, is laughing at him and he glares at him, too.
He's about to say something but tinkling electric organ comes over the speakers instead and they both turn to where Nancy is standing.
"Oh come on," Davey groans as "Dancing in the Moonlight" starts playing. "It's a dive bar, Nancy. We can't have catchy songs in here. You're gonna alienate our customers."
"Hey, leave her alone!" Tom, one of their regulars, turns around to face Nancy, swaying slightly on his stool as he does. Earl, who is sitting beside him, reaches out an arm to steady him. "Dat's da first good song I've heard all night, you let her pick da tunes, alright kid? No one wants to listen to the weird crap you like."
Nancy's laughing and Jonathan's laughing and Davey is rolling his eyes as she comes back to the bar and grabs his hand and tugs.
"Dance with me," she says, walks around to the end of the bar but not actually behind it, tugging harder. "C'mon, Jonathan."
"I'm working."
"The only people here are Tom and Earl, and they don't care." She grins at him, trains her gaze on the two middle-aged drunks at the other end of the bar. "You guys don't care, right?"
"Dance with her, Jonny Boy," Earl calls and he scowls at the nickname. "You gotta keep your woman happy."
"Come onnnn, Jonathaaaaan," Nancy whines, and he makes faces at her as he follows her out from behind the bar and pulls her into his arms.
They've danced to this song a thousand times – at her house, at school dances, on summer nights with Steve laughing incredulously, in their apartment, in other dive bars when they're both flushed and drunk and giddy. They fall easily back into the steps, her hips moving against his, and he knows exactly which beats to spin her out, pull her back in. He dips her and she throws her head back and laughs and the words slip out before he can bite them back.
"Marry me."
He's murmured it, thankfully, and under the volume of the jukebox and her laughter the words are muffled and lost. Still, when he stands her up again he thinks she must have heard something because there's a crinkle between her eyebrows and something deep behind her eyes.
"What was that?"
"I love you," he says and kisses her before she can ask any more questions.
+++
On Sundays they have dinner with Will. His little brother hops on the Red Line from his dorm building in the Loop to Uptown, catches them up on how things are going his freshman year at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago.
He'd shot up like a weed in high school, ended up a few inches taller than Jonathan (though every time anyone brings that up Jonathan puffs up his shoulders and straightens to his fullest height and insists they're the same. If Will ducks down a little to make it true, they all pretend not to notice).
His little brother is not the small, shy kid he was in middle school, but going to school in Chicago was clearly splitting the difference to keep close to family. Jonathan doesn't blame him, can't blame him – he couldn't leave the radius of an easy drive home either.
Will's still skinny as all get-out but he's sporting a sleeker haircut and what appears to be an attempt at a mustache on his upper lip. Jonathan makes a mental note to tell him to give up; neither of them inherited the facial hair gene.
Will talks about the impending departure of his roommate, his new fake ID ("Just come into my bar when I'm working," Jonathan tells him with a shake of his head but Will looks away and says something about wanting to try other places and Jonathan wonders if someone's already told him about Berlin and Smart Bar, if his little brother is being safe), his finals and his summer plans over glasses of wine as he makes their old favorite weeknight dinner, the Byers' Famous Mac N Cheese N Peas.
Will is telling Nancy, who's lounging at the kitchen table, about his final project crit and Jonathan's grating cheddar to add to the packet of cheese powder when his little brother crosses to the freezer and starts digging around for a bag of frozen peas. He almost chokes on the spot.
He has no idea how to tell his little brother to stop right now, there's an engagement ring hidden in one of those bags and only Jonathan knows which one.
Nancy saves the day, wrinkling her nose.
"Peas are disgusting." She mimes a gag. "C'mon, can't we leave them out this time? You always make me eat them."
"We never make you eat them! We always leave them out. They're good and they're good for you," Will argues.
"I don't remember you being my dad, Will—"
His little brother is still rooting around in the freezer, and Jonathan manages to remember how to speak just in time.
"It's okay, we'll skip the peas this time. Next time Nance is out I'll let you know and we can make it the right way, okay?"
Will gives him a funny look but closes the freezer and Jonathan finds he can breathe again.
They don't bring it up at all during dinner but once they're done eating Will suggests they sit out on the narrow wooden porch on the back of their apartment in the warm early summer night.
Nancy says something about having to call her mom back before it gets too late – and it's strange, the decidedly arbitrary one-hour difference between Chicago and Hawkins but it means they forget, often, how late they're actually calling home – so Will and Jonathan settle onto the folding lawn chairs that pass for patio furniture, each still holding a glass of wine.
"What?" Jonathan asks after Will looks at him steadily for too long.
"Got something you want to tell me?"
The back of his neck prickles and he runs a hand through strands that are closer to shoulder-length every day. "What did Mom say?"
Will smirks. "Just that you have something to tell me."
"Ugh," he runs his hand through his hair again, glances back over his shoulder through the screen door to make sure Nancy's not in the kitchen anymore. Leans in close to his little brother and breathes it out almost as one word. "I'm gonna ask her to marry me."
"I knew it!" Will crows and Jonathan shushes him sharply. "Sorry. But I did. What, did you hide the ring in the peas?"
"How did you know?!"
"You looked like you were about to have a stroke when I went to get them. I guess I wouldn't want me to cook a diamond by accident either."
"It's not a diamond but yeah, I'm pretty sure she has no idea, so if you could keep it a secret I'd really appreciate it."
"Of course, Jonathan," Will is smiling ear to ear. "You know, Mom and I placed bets on whether you guys would get married."
"Really?" That's weird. Really weird.
"Yup."
"Did you bet for or against?"
"Against." He must look wildly offended because Will snickers. "I thought you guys would just shack up forever. You were always so anti-anything normal. What's more normal than marriage?"
"Hmph." Jonathan frowns and takes a gulp of his wine, wondering why he feels so insulted. Will is still laughing at him when Nancy's voice drifts onto the porch.
"Jonathan!"
They rise, following the sound to the living room only to find her balanced precariously on her toes on their coffee table, trying to reach the bulb in their ceiling light. It's gone out. She's somehow gotten the light cover off, but he has no idea how; her fingers just barely graze the tip of the bulb from her perch.
They had to buy an extra-tall step stool so he could hang the curtains above their massive front window and change the light bulbs in the overhead fixtures, and even then it's a stretch for him. Yet here she is, six inches shorter than him and halfway through the task on her own, tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth and brow furrowed with determination.
He thinks again about the ring hidden in the freezer and wonders if he gets it, will she fall and break her neck?
Will shakes his head and walks over to the stereo, crouching in front of the record shelves and perusing his options. Nancy looks over her shoulder at Jonathan.
"Gimme a hand?"
"Yeah," he shakes his head to clear those thoughts and walks over to the table. Places his hand on her hips to steady her and guide her at the same time, ducks down between her legs until her thighs are hooked over his shoulders and stands. She lets out a little squeak and her hands fly to his hair, gripping his head tightly as she gets her balance.
He carefully moves the coffee table over with his foot until he's under the light and feels her stretch and shift as she unscrews the bulb. When her hand returns to his head he steps over to the couch and tips until she falls onto it. She's laughing as he takes the dead bulb from her and tosses it into a trashcan.
"Not exactly what I had in mind but that works for me," she giggles, carefully removes the new bulb from its cardboard packaging, and looks at him expectantly. "Up?"
Marry me, he wants to say. Marry me and almost kill yourself trying to change light bulbs on your own for the rest of our lives. Please.
He ducks instead so she can climb onto his shoulders and digs his fingers into the flesh of her thighs as she screws in the new bulb. Behind him, Will makes a sound of exasperation as he swaps records on the turntable.
"You guys are so fucking weird."
Jonathan laughs, carefully maneuvers so Nancy can keep screwing in the light bulb but he can see his brother from the corner of his eye.
"Who wants to be normal, right?"
+++
In the end it happens like this: It's a warm day and Nancy wants to walk by the lake.
He's got his feet up and his nose buried in a book, but when he looks up she's haloed in front of the window with her hair up and wearing that light blue sundress he likes so much, and he can't say no.
Well. He tries to get her to climb onto his lap on the couch first but she just laughs at him and swats his hands away until he gives in and lets her pull him up.
He watches the muscles in her back as she slips her purse over her shoulder and dips his hand into his pocket.
He took the ring out of the bag of peas a week ago, has moved it from pants pocket to shorts pocket and back again every day, jerking out of sleep at the crack of dawn from the fear that Nancy's decided to do laundry and found it. (As if Nancy has ever done laundry without reminding, and whining, and a general sense of discontent.)
The words live in the back of his throat, on the verge of popping out a dozen times a day. He gave up on planning anything and instead resolved to be prepared for when he can't keep it in anymore.
His fingertips brush metal as he steps up behind Nancy, dips down and drops a kiss on the back of her neck.
She smiles at him shyly and takes his hand, leading him out the door.
He tucks her into his side as they stroll east to the lake, feels her slide her hand into his back pocket. She rambles as they walk, stories about her friends and whatever pops into her mind, and he lets her words wash over him.
The sky is blue and clear and the sun and the breeze and her voice all seem to conspire to make him feel dreamy enough to almost walk into traffic as they're crossing under Lake Shore Drive. It's only her arm around his waist that pulls him back.
"Jesus," she gasps, holding him tighter, and he wraps his other arm around her for a brief hug.
"Sorry, sorry," he says into her hair. "I zoned out there for a minute."
"I didn't realize I was that boring." The light changes, the walk signal lights up, and they continue on. "Wait, did I just almost bore you to death?"
"I'm not bored!" he laughs and tightens his grip around her shoulders.
"I apparently bored you into almost walking into traffic so…"
"You could never bore me. I zoned out. It's so nice out, and you're so pretty—"
"Oh, cut that out." She smacks his stomach with her free hand and rolls her eyes. "Suck up."
"I'm not sucking up."
She lets him go as park gives way to beach, slides her sandals off and steps into the sand. Lets out a happy sigh and reaches her hand out for him to take, to join her. Her hair has come loose from its bun, is whipping around her face with the lake breeze, and he's just so in love with her.
So he takes her hand and stands at her side and the words just pop out.
"Do you want to get married?"
She gives a little hmm, tips her head to the side as she contemplates.
"Yeah, I mean, I'm definitely not as freaked out by it as I was when we were sixteen. God, do you remember that? With your dad's gun and the cans, and we were hunting a monster but all I could think about was my parents. I was so convinced that I was going to get married right after high school and turn into my mom—" She's pulling on his hand, trying to continue on their walk.
"No," he interrupts, standing firm. "No, I mean, do you want to marry me?"
She looks puzzled more than anything. "Who else would I marry?"
"I'm not doing this right," he mutters, biting down on the urge to giggle like a lunatic, and drops her hand, digging in his pocket instead. He finds the ring, pulls it out and holds it up, trying to keep from shaking too much. "I mean will you marry me?"
Nancy is frozen. She is gaping at him, her eyes no longer squinting in the sun and instead trained on the ring. He can't move as he waits for her to answer, feels every muscle in his body tense as hard as stone. He can't even breathe.
Slowly the corners of her mouth turn up into a smile and she meets his eyes.
He remembers he's supposed to go down on one knee, is dropping down as she breathes out, "Yeah."
"What?" He looks up at her, unable to believe he heard right.
"Yes," she says, louder and more firmly, and the smile on her face is the one he's been imagining for weeks now. "Yes."
He opens his mouth to say something in return, an affirmation of his own or maybe I love you, but instead she tackles him and knocks him onto his back and he can't even get out a sound of surprise before her lips are on his.
He almost loses the ring in the sand, manages to palm it at the last second before his arms wrap around her and he kisses her back with all the love and relief coursing through his veins.
Her hands are in his hair, on his cheeks, and he is ready to get lost in her right here, just keep kissing her in the sand as someone whistles at them, but the ring is digging into his palm and he's so, so ready to see if it fits her.
"Nance," he says against her mouth, "Nancy."
"I love you," she replies. "Jonathan, I love you."
"No, I mean—" he laughs, shifts under her and manages to get himself into a sitting position. "Give me your hand."
They're both trembling, shaking enough that he has to hold her hand in one of his and slide the ring on with the other. There's a moment as the ring goes over her knuckle that he's worried he guessed too small, that the crystals and vines distracted him from how well he knows her hands, how strong and steady they are and how slim when she threads their fingers together, tugging him off into their next mission or adventure.
But it does go over, slides into place and they're both staring at it like it's treasure, or maybe an alien.
"Whoa," she breathes. "It's beautiful."
"Yeah," he agrees but he's looking at her face. She catches his gaze and blushes.
"Stop it."
"Stop what?"
"Looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. Like something's different?"
He takes her hand, runs his thumb over the ring. "It sorta is."
"I guess." She looks down at the ring again, at his hand wrapped around hers.
"What?"
"You know, when we were young Barb and I used to talk about getting out of Hawkins and traveling the world, escaping our stupid, small town to exotic places. I didn't think… I didn't think I would ever find anything I could love there, you know, other than my family, and I didn't think I'd ever… I couldn't have imagined I'd end up here, like this, with you." She sounds breathless with admission, runs her fingertip over the crystals sparkling in the sun.
He wants to feign offense, wants to say something about how he didn't think he'd end up with here either he was going to New York to be a famous photographer, but for a second they're both sixteen again and standing at the trunk of his car with a box of bullets and bear traps, on the horizon of a very strange and foreign and bizarrely right adventure, and the same question rises, unbidden, to his lips.
"What's the weirdest part? Me, or the ring?"
Her smile is brighter than the sun.
"You," she answers, leaning her forehead against his. "It's definitely you."
There's a small crowd around them now, and usually he'd be mortified to have something like this witnessed by anyone at all, but all it takes is a tilt of his chin to kiss her again, so he does.
If the people around him cheer, well, he thinks he's earned it.
+++
It's funny. He asked her and she agreed but as she's sprawled on top of him, kissing his chest he thinks they don't even need to get married as long as they can stay like this, just like this, forever.
He's trying to catch his breath but Nancy's making it hard, the way her mouth is moving down his torso, and he has to grab and her shoulders, pull her back up.
"Stop, stop," he laughs, wrapping his arms around her so she can't do anything but settle on top of him. "I need a break."
"Do you?" she wonders, nuzzling his neck. "Do you really?"
"Yes," he laughs and closes his eyes. Her fingers walk up his chest, his neck, following the moles and freckles there, and comes to rest on his cheek and he can feel it, the metal, the ring, cooler than her skin, which is flushed and warmed by what they've been doing. The giggle escapes him entirely against his will and he can feel her snort against the underside of his jaw.
"I feel, like, drunk," he admits. She sits up a little at that.
"Ooh, that's a good idea. Do we have any champagne? I'm gonna go see if we have champagne—"
"No, stay here." He tightens her grip on her.
"But we should celebrate—"
"We don't have any champagne," he tells her. "I didn't really, uh, plan this."
She frowns at him, wiggles her ring finger at him. "You had this."
"Yeah, no, I mean," he's stuttering again and the glinting gold in their room's warm afternoon light doesn't help. "I didn't know it was going to be today. I just knew I was gonna do it."
She looks down at him, eye twinkling. "How long?"
"How long what?"
"How long have you known?"
"Since April 5th." He can feel his face burning; he didn't mean to admit he knows the exact date.
He expects to be teased about it, but the look on Nancy's face is unexpectedly soft, unexpectedly warm. She strokes her thumb along his cheekbone as she looks down at him.
"You didn't have to, you know. I was happy. I am happy, I mean, I'm still happy, but it's you, you know, you're what makes me happy." She looks frustrated and he wants very badly to kiss her. "I don't need to be married to you to be happy."
"I know," he replies simply and pulls her down so he can brush his lips over hers. "I wanted to. I want to."
"To what?"
"Marry you."
She giggles this time, high and wild, and hangs onto his neck as he rolls them, settling over her, cradled by her, where he feels most like he's home.
"Ugh," she says, shifting under him in a way that makes his blood warm a little faster. "You got sand all in the bed."
"That's not my fault."
"It's from your hair."
"I'm not the one who tackled me on the beach."
"I'm not the one who proposed to me on the beach."
"But you're the one who wanted to walk—" he cuts himself off, flicks his hair out of his eyes and feels a fine spray of sand settle on his shoulders. "You know what? Okay. That's true. Should I take it back?"
"No!" Her arms tighten around his neck, her legs wrap around his waist. Her eyes slide away from his as she bites her bottom lip and it takes him a moment to realize she's blushing. She mumbles something he can't hear.
"What?"
Her eyes fly back to his and her chin takes on the sharpness he recognizes as her screwing up her courage. He has no idea why she's suddenly gone shy.
"Say it again," she finally says. He can't stop the grin from spreading across his face.
"Marry me."
+++
They manage, after a while, to drag themselves out of bed and into the shower, to change the sandy sheets and pull on clothes and eat a couple peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
They stretch out on the sofa; she curls up between his legs with her back to his chest. Usually they watch the news every evening, at least when they're home together, but they've lost track of time so Wheel of Fortune is playing softly in the background. It doesn’t matter; neither of them is really paying attention. She rests her left palm on his, faded scar over faded scar, and he twists the ring around her finger, watching the gold and the crystals reflect the dimming evening light.
"Did you tell anyone you were doing this?" she asks after a long silence. Her hair is still damp against his cheek and when he breathes in he can smell her floral shampoo.
"My mom." He laughs quietly. "Will figured it out, too. I should probably call them tomorrow."
"Did you talk to my parents? Mike?"
"No," he shakes his head. "I don't need permission."
"Good," she says firmly and sighs. "My mom's going to want a wedding."
"You think mine won't?"
"No, no, Jonathan," she turns a little, twists so she can look at him, eyes as large and serious as they were when they were planning a trap for an actual monster. "My mom is going to want a wedding."
He thinks about that for a second, about Karen Wheeler and her kind eyes and gentle voice and incredibly elaborate birthday, holiday, and graduation parties. He can feel the look of horror come over his face, knows it probably looks a lot like Nancy's. She nods seriously at him.
"I—Honestly, Nance, I really didn't think that far ahead."
"Well," she says, and he knows this tone of voice, this affected casualness that means she's actually come up with a solution but doesn't want to seem too eager. "What if… what if we just went to City Hall instead and then my mom can throw the party she wants for us next time we're home?"
"City Hall?"
He wasn't lying; he hadn't really thought past the proposal part in practical terms. But part of him had expected Nancy to want the kind of wedding her mom likely would want to throw her. Part of him remembered the girl wearing pearls and ribbons in her hair in high school.
"Yeah," Nancy is saying. "City Hall does weddings Monday through Friday. It's $30 for a license, and we just have to wait one day to use it, and we don't even have to make an appointment. We can show up in the morning and be married by noon."
He's gaping at her. How on earth does she know all that?
"What," she says, smirking at his stunned expression. "You think you were the only one thinking about this?"
He should have known. Oh, he should have known. He feels a little lightheaded, and he's smiling like an idiot. He hates that. Only Nancy can make him do that.
"So when do you want to go downtown?" he asks instead, fighting to regain control of his face.
"Well," she says, considering. Turns fully on the sofa so that she's cross-legged and facing him, pushing his legs until his knees are bent over her thighs to accommodate her. "Wait, hold on."
She jumps up, runs into the kitchen and he takes the opportunity to stretch out on the sofa again, waiting. When she returns, calendar in one hand and a red permanent marker in the other, she doesn't ask him to move, just straddles his lap and sets the calendar on his chest. He looks down at it, then at her, and glares.
"I am not a table."
"Shut up. You are now," she bites her lip as she runs her fingers over the dates. "Okay, you've got shoots tomorrow and Thursday and then Tuesday and Wednesday next week. Are you at the bar this weekend?"
"No, I'm shooting Friday and Saturday too, I didn't write those down. I'm at the bar Sunday and Monday."
"But Ashley's party is Friday."
"Day shoot."
"Hmm, okay. I'm meeting with Dennis about that internship Tuesday, so that's out, but it wouldn't start until June so that gives me a couple weeks without a schedule. Ummm. Well." She looks up at him, finger tapping on a Monday two weeks away. "We need some time to get you a ring, maybe get some other stuff? We can get the license next Thursday, right, go back on Monday morning for the wedding? What do you think?"
He thinks he can't quite breathe. He thinks his heart is going to burst out of his chest. He thinks this all seems very, very fast and not nearly fast enough.
"I think that's perfect. "
She smiles at him, wide and warm, and carefully, purposefully circles the date in red. He watches her write 'get married' in her neat print. He wonders if she can feel his heart pounding through his chest, through the paper.
When she looks up there's something mischievous gleaming in her eyes.
"Think you're ready to have sex again?" she asks, tossing the calendar and marker onto the table. "I really want to have sex with you again."
His laughter echoes off the walls and ceiling, and as she peppers kisses on his face and neck he basks in the warmth of this happiness, pure and exciting and new.