He takes it out of his pocket, hoping that she exhibits a traditional female love for shiny objects. She stares.

He is holding something in his hand.

"You have a ring," she says.

"I—er, yes, I do." Doesn't she understand?

She blinks at him. "It's hideous."

"…Ummm."

"James?"

He fidgets. "Cough," he finally says.

She looks at him oddly. "James, if you're attempting to fill the silence, I believe you're supposed to actually cough. Not just say 'cough.'" He considers this for a moment.

"Solid advice," he agrees, then turns his eyes back to the telly. He is still holding the ring.

They are sitting on the couch in her dingy flat, watching reruns of 50s sitcoms while holding hands. He is frowning. She is biting her lip. They have been fighting.

"Even though you're the most arrogant, egotistical, obnoxious, narcissistic—"

"You can finish that sentence any time you'd like," he interjects. He begins to feel vaguely embarrassed, and tucks the ring into a pocket.

She looks upset, and it hurts him. "There's a war going on," she says quietly.

And he realizes she isn't angry. She is afraid.

"Yes," he says, because it is a fact, and even though he'd move heaven and earth to ensure her happiness, he knows there are some things that he cannot protect her from.

"You're going to be a married man and that's going to complicate things. The timing is…awful," she trails off.

"A married man?" His heart soars.

"You do have a ring in your pocket."

He runs a hand through his unruly black hair. "That's half the job," he says. "I'm desperately in need of someone to wear it."

"Thinking of posting an advertisement in the paper?" she asks, straight-faced.

"Something like that," he responds, matching her casual tone.

The telly is playing an obnoxious commercial. The man on screen is attempting to sell them dishwashing soap, and they both appear to be fully engrossed in his sales pitch. They are quiet for a full minute.

"James, you idiot," she finally blurts out. His stomach only has time to sickeningly turn once before she continues.

"Give me that," she says, and wrenches the ring out of his pocket. She slips it onto her finger. He stares.

"Evans…" he starts. His voice is choked up. She pretends not to notice.

"Yes?"

"Evans, I think I really love you," he finishes, looking away and adjusting his glasses. She smiles and leans into him.

"You may have mentioned that once or twice in the past," she laughs. He is odd and awkward and wonderful, and now he is hers. She wants to kiss him.

"James, we are sitting on a perfectly good couch. May I snog you a bit?"

"Splendid idea," he says, and turns off the telly. "I don't particularly enjoy doing the dishes, anyway. I mean, I'll do my part at home, on my honor, but I don't think we need new dishwashing soap, and that man in the ad seemed like a git. I could tell, you know. And I'm sorry my marriage proposal was utter crap. You smell lovely, by the way." He is rambling. He doesn't think he has ever felt so happy, or ever bungled a conversation so badly.

"James?" She is shaking with laughter.

"Hm?" He is tangling his hands in her hair.

"Shut up," she says, and kisses him.

So he does.