Allison is seven months pregnant and you can't keep your hands off of her stomach. You make stupid excuses at work that everyone, including Allison, sees right through but you don't care.
"You dripped," you tell her, wiping at her belly, and she rolls her eyes and tell you she's on her way TO lunch, not from lunch, and she hasn't eaten since she had that bagel at 10, and there was nothing on her then. You mumble something that makes no sense and head off to your office.
"You're not coming?" she asks, and goes to the cafeteria. When you meet here there ten minutes later, there will be a Rueben and a bottle of water sitting across from her at the table.
You wonder what the stories about you two are – you've heard from several people there's a nice betting pool going that you aren't the father, but for once in your life you care not at all about placing bets.
Allison is having an easy pregnancy, the baby is growing perfectly and right on target and even though she looks at her extended stomach and whines, she hasn't gained an ounce anywhere else, though her face is getting round. You love watching her, especially when she doesn't think you are, because she is already so in love with your baby. She smoothes her hand over her belly all the time, and when the baby kicks in return she grabs your hand so you can feel too.
You wanted to name the baby Cameron, but she'd laughed at you. She'd made a joke about the poor child being "Cameron Cameron" and you remember the way your chest clenched. You were surprised how much you wanted the baby to have your last name, and you'd told her so.
She'd raised an eyebrow at you, and when you argued to make your case, she smiled at you and told you it was fine, that she hadn't thought that was something you'd care about and of course the baby could have your last name. But you still weren't naming her Cameron.
You argued Cameron for a middle name, and she'd waited till you shut up and then said Sophia, and you'd stared at her blankly for a moment before nodding.
Sophia Cameron House.
At home, when there is no one but Allison to see you and judge you, you let your fingers splay over her belly, and you tell Sophia you love her. You tell her you want to teach her how to play the piano and ride a bike and you want to take her to ballet lessons, but only if that's what she wants. You tell her you'll take her anywhere she wants to go, and Allison listens with tears in her eyes.
At night, when Allison is asleep and there is no one but you awake in the quiet darkness, you run your fingers through her hair and you tell Allison you love her. You wish you could tell her in the daylight, but you are so afraid of repeating your relationship with Stacy and you are scared to think that you could lose her, even now. The ring has been sitting in the bottom locked drawer of your desk for nearly three months, and you are growing frustrated with yourself.
Allison mumbles something in her sleep and rolls towards you, her arm extended. She moves until her hand connects with your shoulder and she wiggles until she is in your arms. She has not woken up, and you smirk and press a kiss onto her forehead. You think she could sleep through nuclear war.
You go to all of her doctor's appointments, and while no one would refer to your behavior as good, you do make an effort to curb the snarky comments to the woman who will be delivering your child. Dr. Jackson holds a decent verbal spar with you, and Allison sighs and rolls her eyes, and mumbles she wants another nurse in the room while she's in labor. Someone need to hold her hand, she mutters, but her annoyed façade is broken when the doctor hooks up the ultrasound and you see your daughter, in black and white pixels.
She stares at the picture, then at you, and then back at the screen. The baby is getting big now, and she looks like a baby (if you know where to look) and not like a peanut. You think it doesn't matter how many times you see this, your jaw still drops and you stare.
Allison's smile is so wide you worry her jaw will hurt later, but you understand. Dr. Jackson points out a tiny appendage, "Look, she's waving at you," before remembering you're both doctors. You don't even care, and you feel a little foolish because your hand almost lifts to wave back.
Dr. Jackson prints out several pictures for you and Allison, and when you think no one is looking you tuck one in your wallet. Allison coughs, and when you look over she's smirking at you and you tell her Wilson will want to see.
"Of course," she says, her voice neutral even as the corners of her mouth turn up into a smile.
You take her out for dinner that night, the ring box heavy in your pocket. She is eating her tiramisu with all the gusto of a pregnant woman when you clear your throat and set the box next to her plate.
Her spoon drops to the table and she swallows hard before she meets your gaze, her eyes wide.
"Aren't you going to open it?" you ask, and then think that was probably the worst proposal ever.
She swallows again, and reaches for the box, her hands trembling. She flips the lid open, her hand comes up to cover her mouth, and when she looks at you again she's crying.
"Well?" you asked, a little impatiently and then you soften and you reach across the table for her hand and you ask her really, glad your voice doesn't shake.
She nods, finally manages a "yes" and as you slide the ring on her finger she cries harder and you think maybe you should have done this before the pregnancy hormones got this far out of hand, but you don't know that you'd trade the look on her face for anything right now.
"Let's go home," she says, and you smile. You have everything you thought you didn't want, and you can't believe your luck.