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He's packing his things when she finds the nerve to get into the locker room. He tries to look like her presence doesn't affect him, but she can tell it does, has always been able to tell, even when she wanted to pretend his feelings for her weren't true.
She doesn't know how to approach this conversation. She has a lot to say when she feels she's being wronged, defenses and accusations flow out of her like she's not even the one speaking them, like she has a backup of arguments she's ready to spew out at any moment, no matter the nuance of the situation.
She hates this moment, though, the one where the goggles come off and she has to acknowledge no one was actually trying to hurt her, where she has to look the love of her life in his eyes and deal with the havoc she wrecked.
“I shouldn't have postponed our vacation,” she starts, and it's as good as any opening, and it's not enough.
He shrugs, or tries to. “I shouldn't have planned it.” He's being mean, he knows, but he can't bring himself to look at her, can't bring himself to try and meet her in the middle, because he doesn't know which Allison he'll get. He's not stupid, he can tell she's been thinking, but the gamble between the girl who shares his bed, and kisses his cheek, and burns her attempt at making him breakfast like his mom used to and the one who thinks of him as a nuisance to deal with as quickly as possible, is too much for him right now.
“I saw the ring, in your drawer,” she whispers, horrified by what she's admitting to him and to herself, but more terrified at the prospect of his eyes keeping that blank wall up whenever he looks at her from now on.
He takes the hit and she rushes to add: “I just– didn't want you to propose as some knee-jerk reaction to what happened to Kutner,” her voice cracks.
He nods and in the back of his mind, he hates her, hates that she blew him off for a week and threw herself in House's cases instead of just saying that, but he's too tired to even feel that properly, let alone be angry at her.
“I guess you don't have to worry about that anymore.”
“I'm not!” she gets closer then and forces all the voices telling her to leave him alone like he's asking to quiet down. “I don't care how it happens anymore, I just– want it to happen.”
He stops, a bit in the discussion he wasn't expecting, throwing him off the loop. “Are you proposing to me?”
She makes that face then, the same one she had that Monday-turned-Tuesday when she didn't want to wait anymore. The one that means, accept me even after you've offered me your heart on a silver platter and I've sent back the plate. The one that means I'm sorry, I see it now, I know I left you but don't leave me back.
“If I was, what would you say?” she's smiling, tentatively.
He turns to face her, scrutinizing her. “After I broke up with you,” her smile fades with each word. “After you ruined my proposal and everything I had planned. You really expect me to–”
“I'm not expecting anything! I'm…” she drops to one knee and she looks so small and nervous and hopeful and wonderful and in love with him. She looks in love with him again. “... hoping?” she finishes lamely.
He moves away from the locker, finally, his attempts at sending her away defeated. Having him near her seems to crystallize the possibility of a rejection, of him dismissing her with a sorry, missed your chance, try being less psychotic with your next boyfriend.
>She rambles. “Wait. I do have a ring, by the way! And a speech. So wait.”
He bites back a small smile then, the first sign of his absolutely predictable caving in. “Sure. Go on, then.”
She brings out the ring, a simple gold band with something inscribed he cannot make out. He has no idea how she managed to get it in such short notice, it took weeks and three near mental breakdowns for him to decide upon hers.
“Robert Chase,” she starts, exhaling. “It is not Tuesday–”
“Would have been, when I proposed on our vacation. By the way.”
“Okay, thanks, got that.” she snipes, leaving for a moment the scared person he sees in front of him and coming back to his Allison. “As I was saying. It is not Tuesday, but that's not relevant for me. Because ever since two years ago, every day has been a Tuesday for me.”
He cocks his head, interested. “Must have been awful for sick days,” he jokes, but he notices the crack in his voice himself.
“It was, great for the paycheck though, we'll be renovating the apartment in no time,” she tries, still scared that the only renovation that will be happening is Chase coming to pick his things up. “You used to describe Tuesdays as the day you remind me you like me and you want to be with me. There hasn't been a day we've been together where you haven't made that clear as day.”
He breathes out, Cameron unknowingly absolving him of a fault he'd been putting on himself. He knew she had her own issues, of course, but he couldn't help but wonder, sometimes, if maybe with a better partner she wouldn't have felt so compelled to listen to her urges.
“You've been patient with my retreats and welcomed me with open arms when I always came back to you. I don't know what it is that scares me away sometimes, but I do know I don't want to run from you anymore,” she looks up at him, then, with the determination he associates easily with her, whenever he has to conjure up an image of her in his mind.
“So Robert Chase,” she repeats. “Will you marry me?”
He thinks, how is this even a question. He thinks, if you ran from me a hundred more times, I'd still be here waiting. He thinks, it's always Tuesday for me, too.
He says, “Of course I'll marry you, Allison,” and she looks like boulder has been lifted off her chest, and they end up tangled and awkward as she tries to put his ring on and hug him at the same time, and it doesn't work, and his cheeks hurt from how much he's smiling, and he kisses her like they'll never have to let go.
“I'm sorry,” she manages to croak, as she's crushed against his chest.
“It's okay,” he reassures. “We're fine. We're getting married. I love you,” he blurts out like it's only just hitting him.
“I love you, too.” She rests her head between his neck and his shoulder. “We do have to put the ring back, though. It's from Wilson's second marriage…”
He breaks off to look at her. “What?” he asks, scandalized.
“I panicked! He doesn't use it, anyway.”
He looks closely at the inscription, then, and he sure sees it now: Anne Wilson, 1997. He wonders if that's the same year they got divorced, too.
“Wait,” he stops. “You said put it back, not give it back. Does Wilson even know you have this?”
She looks at the lockers, suddenly interested. “House knows…”
He laughs. “Of course, he does. Was it perhaps his idea?”
“I got scammed into screwing with Wilson, didn't I?” she asks, resigned.
He smirks and puts an arm around her shoulder, bringing her closer to kiss her cheek. “Don't worry, baby. Happens to all of us in desperate times.” She hits his chest lightly, but doesn't pull away. “Happens to you at all times,” she grumbles.
He doesn't rise to the bait, content and satisfied. “We do have to put it back though, that thing is a cursed object.” Wilson's divorce rate is, quite frankly, alarming and Chase wouldn't be surprised if it was a jinx.
Cameron disagrees. “I don't think we need to be worried about you being Wilson's successor. Unless you have a limping misanthropic friend you're secretly in love with, you've been keeping from me.”
“You think that's the reason his marriages never last?” he ponders. They do act like a married couple, now that she's pointing it out.
She scoffs. “With how much time they spend with each other, I'm surprised he even manages to date,” she looks up at him through her lashes, then, batting them excessively. “Speaking of House… would you mind giving him the ring back? For me?”
He blinks at her a few times before going in for a kiss. She yelps, surprised, but quickly melts into it, slow and sweet like they've done a hundred times before.
He pulls away with a smack and looks at her fondly. “Baby,” he starts, saccharine. “Not a chance.”