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Montparnasse tosses in tomato and olive and spinach into the omelette he's making when Feuilly kisses the back of his neck. He knows it's Feuilly by the way his mystery assailant has to stand on tiptoes to peek above Montparnasse's collar and the toned, freckled arms that wind around his waist.
Montparnasse hums. "I seem to have been captured by an enemy agent. How unfortunate for me." He turns the omelette over in the pan.
He can feel Feuilly smile against his back. "Babe, how could you not know this by now! When it comes to enemy agents, I am simply the best there is."
"Well it seems you have me right where you want me, Feuilly. What now?" Montparnasse shift the omelette and it sizzles.
"I could try and interrogate you for your spy secrets... Or, I could interrogate whatever's in this pan that smells so delightful."
Feuilly comes around to lean on the counter next to Montparnasse, who leans into the other man's space to kiss his forehead.
"I have work tonight," Montparnasse reminds him and Feuilly beams. After so long of being able to see Feuilly's mood sour whenever he said that, he thinks that he'll never get used to seeing the opposite.
"That's fine, I have a late workshop and then D&D at Juhbim's after."
"D&D isn't a good system," says Montparnasse, reigniting an argument that they pretend to have every week. "Play a good game for once."
Feuilly looks dramatically laid low and he swipes a hand across his forehead. "You sad because you can't go on a heart-warming fantasy adventure, aren't you, babe?"
Montparnasse pretends to be angry as he plates the food, and hands it to Feuilly.
"I'm just saying. In Call of Cthulhu if you get cleaved with a hatchet, you die. There are no stakes in D&D." He cracks two more eggs into the pan and they sizzle.
Behind him, he can hear a chair being pulled out from the table, hears Feuilly pick up utensils.
"Oh, of course, I forgot that the point of RPGs is to be realistic -- the unknown horrors in Call of Cthulhu are nothing short of the height of realism."
Montparnasse turns briefly to find Feuilly smiling and he smiles back and Montparnasse wishes he could watch Feuilly smile forever. The eggs have their yolks broken and mixed up in the pan and its so stupid and simple and domestic, how had he staved off kissing Feuilly for five fucking years?
"You're being an asshole," Montparnasse grins. "I just think that when you get shot with a gun, it should kill you."
"Oh, like all the times you've been shot at and died?"
Feuilly is good at not letting it show at not letting it show when things are bothering him, but Montparnasse is getting better at being able to tell when his boyfriend's jokes about his past life are genuine and when they aren't.
He dumps the rest of this ingredients into the omelette and sets the pan on to low heat so that he can walk away from the stove top.
Feuilly has tiny hands because Feuilly is a tiny person and their cutlery looks comically huge in Feuilly's tiny fingers. He walks around their table and leans over his boyfriend. He rests his face in ginger curls and slides his hands over a smooth chest. He kisses Feuilly's temple and his boyfriend's hand comes up to smooth itself over his cheek.
"You know I don't get shot at anymore," he reminds his boyfriend.
"I know. Thank you."
Montparnasse can feel how much Feuilly is smiling. Over in the pan, the omelette starts spitting and and he ducks away from his boyfriend to go save the eggs.
It would be a lie to say that Montparnasse doesn't regret the choice he's made to stop killing people. He misses the catharsis of murder, sure, a part of his always will. There's something akin to therapy about hunting a man for sport and strangling him with his own tie. His therapist still feels like he's making progress though, and he can be happy with that, even if he feels like his progress is minimal. When is his next appointment with Shonda, anyway?
"Feuilly, my sweet, can you dig my phone out of my jacket for me?" he asks. Montparnasse writes all of his appointments down in one tab of his notes app. Feuilly doesn't answer but Montparnasse hears him get up and putter around, which he can probably safely interpret as 'yes'.
Montparnasse works at the bar they'd lived down the road from in their shitty old apartment, Lettermen's. Feuilly likes to tell him that their first date was a week after they met -- greasy burgers and and listening to Feuilly complain about ginger beer, despite downing multiple pints of it. Montparnasse remembers it as the night he realised he was well and truly fucked and had spent five subsequent years running away from that fact.
Security's not the same as being a hitman, but it's something he could bring his skill set to, if nothing else. He's glad to not be worrying Feuilly every time he goes to work these days. He really enjoys Feuilly smiling whenever Montparnasse comes home instead of frowning with worry.
When Feuilly's voice echoes through their home, stricken and worried, is when he knows he's fucked everything up.
"Montparnasse?" Feuilly's voice rises with alarm and concern, and oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, he's made a massive miscalculation.
"What is this?" asks Feuilly, and Montparnasse turns the eggs off, breakfast be damned. He steps out of the kitchen and into their little foyer space.
Feuilly is holding a ring box in his hands. More precisely, Feuilly is holding Feuilly's ring box in his hands.
"Montparnasse," says Feuilly, holding the box up in one hand. "What is this?"
Montparnasse hasn't felt like this around Feuilly in years, not since the early days when he was still so convinced that his boyfriend would run screaming at the slightest provocation.
"It's your engagement ring," says Montparnasse, keeping his voice measured and even.
"How long have you had this?"
Montparnasse pauses. This is definitely where things could go wrong now. But he'd promised -- had sworn to Feuilly that he would be honest. He has to be. He opens his mouth, and the sound of his own lips parting sounds louder than gunfire.
"I got it a week after we started dating," he says. He raises his gaze to meet Feuilly's. He's know for three and half years that this is want he wants. He'd run a string around Feuilly's ring finger in the middle of the night, when he'd been feeling the weight and the vastness of the feeling building inside him.
"A week?"
"Yes. I wanted-" Montparnasse inhales. "It was like making a promise to myself. To keep something in my pocket to prove and keep proving to myself that I wanted this. Wanted you. Enough to work on stopping Thénadier."
"No," says Feuilly, in a tone that Montparnasse has never heard before. "This isn't happening."
Montparnasse feels his heart drop through his stomach. Oh no, he thinks. Feuilly doesn't look at Montparnasse as he paces by and his stomps echo up the walls. It's not too late to go back to killing people, he thinks idly, even though it definitely, definitely is. He's afraid to move, it feels like going anywhere will unhook time and make him have to face the consequences.
He can hear rummaging from the drawers in Feuilly's office. Bags, probably. It's always wise to have a go bag in a couple of different rooms. He hadn't realised he'd taught Feuilly that lesson.
Feuilly storms back out of his office, his presence electric and both his hands clenched into fists. His hair's never looked more like fire and his eyes dark and molten. Montparnasse is gearing up to get punched or punched or screamed at but then Feuilly grabs one of the chairs and drags it over in front of Montparnasse, who can't even pretend to understand what's happening. Feuilly pulls the chair to in front of him and Montparnasse is tensing because he absolutely deserves whatever is coming now. He deserves everything he gets for hurting Feuilly. That's when he notices that there are two boxes in Feuilly's hands.
"What's going on?" The words tumble out of his mouth and shatter on the tile floor.
Feuilly is grinning. "I hate you. You're the love of my life and I hate you." He kneels on top of the chair, which brings the top of his head even with the bottom of Montparnasse's ribs. Montparnasse looks down at Feuilly and takes in the way freckles run across his skin, the way his mouth dimples as he smiles and the way his eyes glow as they look up at Montparnasse.
"I can't believe you've had this for years," says Feuilly, putting the box for himself on the table."I've been saving for yours for months."
He opens the other one for Montparnasse to see inside. It's a simple band, yellow gold and largely unadorned, except for the engraving on the inside: yours. What the fuck is happening?
"For months, Mont. I was going to take you to the cute ice cream shop on the pier and I wrote - am writing a speech, I have palm cards, I-"
Montparnasse cuts him off by kissing him. It's tender and it's chaste but the feeling of their lips together like this still makes him feel held and close and safe. Feuilly's hands land on his shoulders. They kiss and kiss and the silence in the kitchen is heavenly.
They pat and rest their heads together, panting into each other's mouths.
"Is that a 'yes'?" asks Feuilly, grinning wide. Montparnasse's knees and spine are killing him but there's no where he'd rather be than right here with Feuilly.
"You haven't asked me anything yet," Montparnasse smiles back against Feuilly's mouth.
Feuilly groans and rolls his eyes.
"Okay, Mont will you marry me?" Feuilly offers the ring to him again.
"Only if you marry me back," says Montparnasse, grabbing Feuilly's ring off the table and flicking it open. The ring is dark, with luminescent blue ceramic work around the inside. He'd know it was the one the moment he'd seen it.
"Oh my god," whispers Feuilly. "Oh my god."
"Is that a 'yes'?"
"Oh my god, you fucker!" Feuilly is beaming and everything is perfect. "I hate you, yes... But you have to say it too! I want to hear you say you'll marry me."
Montparnasse cups Feuilly's cheek with the hand that's not holding the ring. His smile threatens to break his face in half and it's divine. "Yes," he whispers into Feuilly's ear. "You've always been my 'yes'."
He lets himself just stare at Feuilly, revel in his constancy and his nearness and the warmth of his touch. He stares at Feuilly and Feuilly stares back.
The eggs congeal in the pan.