Page 52 of Oddly Fine

“What in the bloody—”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Beckett admonished, gesturing for Hayes to remain calm as he threw their closet door open and began digging through its contents.

“Why are you back in the closet? Pretty sure we were done with that step—” Hayes commented with a smirk.

Beckett rewarded him with a well-deserved “Har, har,” and just kept digging.

Hayes wasn’t sure what his boyfriend was looking for, but whatever it was, he’d hidden it quite well. The colorful, non-stop swearing in French meant he wasn’t having any luck. Finally, he backed out of the closet, holding a small black box as he spun to face Hayes, looking very self-conscious.

“I bought it last year before we went to my parents’ house, but then I couldn’t find it, and then we got caught up with the whole purge incident so—” He was clearly nervous and uncomfortable. He padded towards the bed slowly and, sitting down next to Hayes, offered him the black velvet jeweler’s box.

Hayes was suddenly nervous, too, but then reminded himself that it was a gift Beckett had bought for him the previous year. It couldn’t be anything as crazy as an engagement ring, right? Hell, he hoped not, because he had absolutely no idea how to handle that.

“Don’t sweat it, Nancy. Pinky promise I’m not proposing,” Beckett said, reading Hayes’ mind with ease, as usual.

Ironic, really, since Hayes had always thought he was hard to read. Turns out, he’d just never been around people who cared before.

Hayes calmly lifted the lid of the little black box, struck speechless as he gazed in utter fascination at the golden glow of the signet ring resting on a black velvet cushion. It was small enough to wear on his right pinky finger and his initials were engraved in elegant cursive: H.M.

“I thought it was fitting since we started hooking up after you branded me with a fireplace poker.” Beckett smiled uncertainly, which was an odd expression for his usually assertive partner.

“I did not brand you. I cauterized your wound,” Hayes refuted while running his thumb over his initials. He was hypnotized by it. Couldn’t look away from it. And he was genuinely touched by Beckett’s thoughtfulness.

“You say tomato, I say shut up and put it on already,” Beckett said, with his usual blunt style of sass.

Hayes chuckled and complied. Carefully removing the ring from the confines of the velvet cushion, he slipped it onto his right pinky finger. It fit perfectly.

“It kind of made more sense last year when that big-assed scar was new, but—I don’t know. Felt like it fit with the James Bond aesthetic.” Beckett gazed thoughtfully at the ring now adorning Hayes’ pinky.

He continued to look uncertain—and Hayes suddenly realized the reason. He hadn’t said anything yet about his gift.

“It’s perfect.” Hayes swallowed against the wealth of emotions caught in his throat. It was beyond perfect, really. And it carried far more weight than Beckett would ever know.

“My father had one just like it,” Hayes explained, his voice barely above a whisper. “My uncle took it when he died, but—” He shook his head and set aside the sad memory. He looked back up at Beckett, feeling both overwhelmed and cherished.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Hayes said, hoping Beckett would know he meant every word.

Beckett squirmed, looking awkward and uncomfortable, as if he really had asked him to marry him. “Glad you like it,” he said with a hesitant smile.

Hayes reached up to grasp the side of Beckett’s jaw, then pulled him forward to give him a soft kiss.

“I hate when you call me that,” Beckett whispered against Hayes’ lips.

“What? Sweetheart?” Hayes asked, momentarily confused. His boyfriend had never commented one way or the other about the nickname before now.

Beckett gave a brief nod.

Hayes pulled back to study Beckett’s expression. “Why?”

“Because every time you call me that, I forget how to fucking breathe,” Beckett confessed.

Hayes smiled at the crude choice of words for such an incredibly moving, heartfelt confession. A perfect representation of who Beckett was.

“Well, then—” he whispered huskily at the corner of Beckett’s jaw. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart—” he breathed out, before kissing him once. “Let’s go have breakfast,” Hayes said, pulling back and heading towards the door.

“Only if I can eat bacon right off your ass,” Beckett growled, chasing after Hayes in hopes of pulling him back into the room.

Hayes laughed exuberantly, totally unlike the tight ass, buttoned-up Brit he used to be, as he gave Beckett a one-armed hug. “But no homo, right?”