A/N: Just want to give another big thanks to my beta reader and dear friend, sharp2799. Thank you, also, to everyone who has reviewed.
Now that you're married, nothing has changed and everything has changed. You love Allison more than you thought it possible to love another human being, but you carry on as if your marriage is nothing more than the financial arrangement you convinced her it was. Though she has somewhat relaxed her strict aversion to accepting financial help from you, she is still sort of detached and stubbornly independent and you wonder if she could ever learn to love you. She keeps working at the coffee shop, stocking away every penny she makes into her bank account, and spends her free time taking care of things around the apartment, and studying every medical text and journal she can get her hands on. Your only concession to your newfound feelings is to make sure to pick her up from work every night, because the thought of her walking home alone at nearly midnight is worrying.
It is one of those nights when you arrive at the coffee shop to pick her up that you slip. After a long day at work, you are tired and impatient, and it seems as if every damn resident of Princeton has decided they need caffeine at exactly 10:55 PM. Allison and her boss are rushing around to serve everyone while you sit and scowl and contemplate blocking the door with your cane so no one else can get in. Finally, over an hour later, she is done and ready to leave.
"'Bout damn time," you mutter, escorting her out the door.
"You don't have to do this, you know," she says, equally irritated after the last minute rush of customers. "I'm perfectly capable of walking home."
"I know," you retort, "Let's just go home."
"Then why do you do it every day? You clearly don't want to."
"Just let it go," you say, sighing and rubbing a tired hand over your face.
"I don't want to let it go," she says, her voice a crescendo of annoyance. "Don't pick me up again. Winter is over, it's not like I'm going to freeze. I'll walk from now on."
"Yeah, that's going to happen," you say, your own voice rising in volume to match hers.
"Why? Why are you doing this?"
"Because it's late and it's dark and something could happen to you," you shout, and you want to throttle her for a moment for not getting it. "It's called concern, and it's something that you feel when you love someone."
Crap! That was more than you planned to say, and now the tense silence in the car is nearly oppressive.
"You love me?" she finally says, incredulous.
"Yes," you say on a sigh, defeated.
"You shouldn't," she replies, as if you have any choice in the matter. "You shouldn't. You know what I was..."
"I don't give a shit about that," you snap, hands choking the steering wheel. "I don't. If you think that it makes you somehow less worthy of love, you're wrong."
You chance a look at her. She's all teary-eyed, and it's as if someone punched you in the sternum and messed up the rhythm of your heartbeat. Reaching over, you pull her into an awkward embrace, and murmur, "You deserve to be loved, even if it's just a cranky old bastard who loves you. You don't have to do anything about it, okay? Just let me love you."
"I'm not sure I know how," she says, and those words send a fissure through your heart, like a stone thrown at glass. You don't know whether to laugh or cry.
"Just be yourself," you say, pushing her hair out of her face and looking into her eyes. "We were doing just fine before. Nothing's changed really."
"I'll try," she says with a watery smile. "But no one's really... I mean, I've been on my own for so long..."
"Yeah, I get it. It's okay to let someone else take care of you sometimes, you know? It's even almost... normal," you finish with a little chuckle, because you and Allison are anything but normal. And maybe it feels good to have expressed your feelings for her. It's a release, of sorts, because you've been a bit of a pressure cooker trying to keep everything inside of you.
Alright. I'll try," she repeats, and you smile and kiss her affectionately, and then drive toward home.