Summary: AU. Late nights and an acoustic guitar on the worn out carpet of their living room. She thinks it doesn't get any better; he thinks he agrees. Oneshot.
Disclaimer: Still don't own. Most likely never will.
A/N: I've been promising my good friend Marina that I would write this, and I finally got the inspiration. Psst…I'm actually dedicating a fic to someone. Feel special, sweetie.
If every simple song I wrote to you would take your breath away I'd write it all.
She's reorganizing their CDs … again. He watches from the short hallway of their apartment and smiles a little as her brow furrows in concentration and she mumbles something under her breath to herself. The melody of a Clash song hums quietly through the speakers and he pads silently across the floor, sitting down behind her and brushing her hair away from her neck.
She jumps a little and turns around to swat at him. He chuckles and kisses her; her look of irritation is replaced with a smile.
"We need more shelves," she scrunches up her nose and turns back to the congregation of discs in front of her. "And a new organization system," she nods and looks back at him.
"Alphabetical doesn't work anymore because…" he trails off, turning his response into a question. She shrugs and continues to sort through CDs, small piles forming all over the floor in front of her.
A comfortable silence settles over them and he lies back on the floor. She's oblivious, too caught up in categorizing their myriad of music to notice the movement. He lightly traces the design on the back of her t-shirt with his index finger, smiling to himself when she shivers under the touch.
He continues the action for a few moments. Then she turns and leans down to kiss him and he pulls her closer, organization forgotten.
The next night she's lying on the floor battling the overwhelming heat of the summer, her tank top clinging to her skin and the frayed ends of her shorts tickling the skin of her thighs. The air conditioner hums softly in the background and the windows and doors are shut tightly, blinds drawn to block out the sun. The hem of his thin t-shirt is being worried between her fingers as he strums lightly on his guitar.
Suddenly she's giggling and he stops his movements, glancing down at her with an eyebrow raised. She shakes her head and continues to laugh for a moment before sobering and shaking her head.
"Remember when my mother made you play for five hours straight back in high school?"
He grins and nods, inspecting his fingers. "I got Kurt Cobain calluses," he nods. Lane's smile widens as she stares up at her boyfriend, a warm feeling penetrating her stomach.
Dave returns his focus to his guitar and she sighs contentedly, sinking into the carpet further. Late nights and an acoustic guitar on the worn out carpet of their living room. She thinks it doesn't get any better; he thinks he agrees. It's nights like these - just the two of them, alone in their apartment without the interruptions of every day life – that she realizes why she's here, with him, struggling to make ends meet every month and constantly wondering if she'll need to get a second job to help make the rent.
It's the moments when she comes home from a day full of annoying interns and always-ringing phones to see him on the couch writing a song.
He saves her column, every week. She reviews new releases for a local magazine and pretends it means something. She doesn't know that he has a book full of every column she's ever written. But she makes photocopies of his songs and he doesn't know about the box under her side of the bed, either. In comparison it all seems to even out.
He's humming quietly as his fingers move along the strings, every note perfected and memorized from years of practice. She closes her eyes and listens, focusing on the soft sound of his voice and the smooth melody of the song. The tempo changes after a couple of minutes and she grins when she recognizes the song.
"Billy Idol," she opens her eyes and looks at him. He smirks and nods, continuing to play the song. "I thought you didn't like White Wedding," she accuses softly.
"That's why I figured ours could be black," he jokes.
Her heart rate speeds up and she stares at him, trying to catch her breath. "Our…our wedding?"
He puts the guitar down on the table next to him, turning on the threadbare floor to face her completely. She's still lying on the carpet, her eyes locked onto his. Dave smiles and takes her hand, adopting a serious expression. She gasps when she notices the object in his hand.
Lane continues to stare at him for a moment. Then she grins and nods, giggling through the tears in her eyes. "Yes," she breathes, sitting up and throwing her arms around him after he slips the ring on her finger.
She thinks it doesn't get any better than this. And with her laughing and kissing him on his lap in the living room of their tiny little apartment, he thinks he agrees.