as_damaged | ☎ voicemail

i do appreciate the sacrifice.

i'll be here.

[He's not there. Not at eight, or half past, or any time that might still, conceivably, be called around what they'd discussed. She must know how it is. What seems like a good idea, a steadying influence, turns into a second glass, for courage, and a third for luck. By the time he arrives he's broken another of her edicts and clasps a good Merlot in a crumpled paper bag (he'd seen the label through a shuttered window: one she always asked for. It seemed like the hand of fate on his shoulder).

It's half ten when he knocks at her door, smelling too heavily of mint and cologne and sure, by now, that he can keep it together.]

[There's less hesitation than usual in opening the door, but she doesn't look glad to see him. She is, sort of; glad he's showed up at all, but not pleased at the time or the fact that he hasn't been in touch, already suspecting she can guess the cause of his delay.

She stands in the open door, arms crossed, with the slightest of frowns.]

[It's not the most offputting expression he's ever seen, not from her. Though it might almost be a relief to be turned away at this last hurdle. There's still, what, an hour and a half to fill, at least, and a low dread of what might be said, or not said, and aren't the silences always the worst.

Breaking the one that threatens now, he unwraps her bottle, presenting it like a trainee sommelier with a big-money patron.]

Which year do you want to see in? The way I see it, there's a choice of three.

[Peace offering or no, she's tempted to close the door in his face. The real reason she steps back to let him pass is that she doesn't like feeling baited. Her eyes linger a little too long on the bottle as she takes it. It's a convenient alternative to meeting his eyes.]

I think 2012 is the generally accepted option.

[He makes it a couple of steps inside the door — see how fresh he smells — before pulling up beside her, turning to lean against the wall rather than press too close to her personal space.]

Not for either of us. Maybe it should come down to which year we'd like to see the back of.

Take your pick, then.

[She's hard-pressed to think of a year it wouldn't be better to pack away and forget, at least right now. She moves away, not to escape but to lean a shoulder against the door and lock it, bottle tucked under one arm.]

Which do you prefer?

[He takes a breath only to be silent on it, keeping the swell somewhere against his sternum. Writing the whole year off would almost make life too easy. If he could let go of three sweet, summer months maybe he wouldn't still keep a platinum ring in the back fold of his wallet in spite of the dull certainty he won't have reason to wear it again. Writing off horrors of the year would leave him without a reason for those momentary freezes in the operating room when something gets nicked by the scalpel and the gurgle of blood makes his heart pound with the impossibility of staunching it.

He has to remember why it's so important to cover when he panics. When he pines. One of those is a skill he's more adept at, and his mouth twists into a sharpened curve when he realises there isn't anything to say, or do but look away from her and shrug.]

2011. Why not. We'll scrap it in advance.

Why not.

[Right now this seems like a terrible idea, though-- she reminds herself sharply, glancing at him as she turns-- what else could she have expected? This is less a celebration, for her, than a precaution. Maybe all she can hope for is to stop him from doing anything she regrets.]

Hungry?

[Steadying herself mentally she brushes past him towards the kitchen, to set the unasked-for bottle on the counter, standing by the refrigerator. The takeout's long since been put aside.]

Yes.

[He answers after a pause in which he discovers that actually not having eaten since breakfast means he is hungry. Enough not to mind cold Thai, although he'll be sorry for putting her through it when his brain connects the smell in the apartment to the fact that she must, by now, have expected to have been eating it alone.

Which it does - now. He moves far enough into the living room to keep her within his eyeline, through the door, and suddenly feels stricken.]

Sorry I'm late. [There would be time to think of a good reason if he hadn't slowed his own mind with deliberate purpose. For a moment he turns over the words there was this girl.] There was... what's that?

[From her vantage point, all she'll see is him dropping to a crouch beside a chair.]

[There was this girl might get him shown to the door, for reasons that have very little to do with tonight. Little to do with anything he knows, for that matter, so it's a well-timed distraction that ends the sentence. Cameron bends to take the plastic containers from the fridge, glances over as she straightens and sets them on the counter.]

What's what?

[She asks, neatly setting chicken satay on a plate before putting it into the microwave.]

[It would, ironically, be the last thing she'd need to worry about, now. Just another small part of the city that throws him uncomfortably off balance. Another reason to have stopped for a drink that isn't I don't know who I am to you, much less who I should be.

But it wouldn't have been the best idea. His own tongue was ready to have tripped him up on it before he noticed the cat.]

What are you doing here? Hey?

[And if she hasn't stepped through to look by now she'll hear that rarest of things, a soft, honest laugh.]

Bloody animal. I'd started to think you'd given up on me, moved in next door.

[If she does look, she'll find Chase with a small gray cat pulled onto one knee, and from the purring and fingers catching behind one ear, both of them looking strangely familiar with each other.]

[It's certainly weird enough to draw her from the kitchen, arms folded again but not so severely, now. Seeing the cat doesn't surprise her, exactly-- if Cameron's inference skills were that poor she'd certainly be out a job-- but his tone... That she can't gauge. It's not the reaction of a stranger in a strange land.]

You remember my cat...?

[It's weirdly troubling.]

I own your cat.

[He'd say we own her, but there's this part of him that still won't say any of it out loud. That they lived together, owned things together, belonged to each other, if only for a little while. There's a quiet belief that it's the best way to protect her, though he already knows he's said too much for that.

The cat. It's the one thing he actually thought she might come back for.]

She'd been awol a couple of days... I was going to check the Princeton rescue. How did she end up here?

I don't know what you're talking about. Gray--

[It's an unsettling thought, and what's scarier is that she questions the logistics before questioning the premise. Too long in the City, obviously. She starts again, slowly, quietly.]

Having a pet helps with the ticking you hear when you're alone, here. I've had her for more than a year.

[Then again if people can come and go, who's to say animals can't?]

[If it's possible to exchange a knowing look with a cat, that's close to what passes between Chase and Gray when Allison calls her by name.]

Don't worry.

[And he lifts the kitty back onto the floor, where she bumps forehead with his leg before running to twine around Cameron's.]

I'm not going to make a custody claim.

[It's nearly enough to make her feel left out. She bends down to scratch the cat's head, wondering where Gray's timeline falls between their own. Had the cat come from the wreck of their marriage to find her? Or was that their shared future?]

That's for the best, I don't think she'd want to leave her couch.

[She can't even try to tell herself it's a coincidence. Standing, she takes a step back towards the kitchen.]

It'll just be another minute... We could put on a movie, if you'd like.

[It's an out she's planned to offer all along, a convenient substitute for conversation.]

As long as you don't ask me to pick.

[He knows how that works out. The lengthy process of his offering suggestions unified by being too sporty, violent, or too about aliens, until she finally makes the executive choice. And for a second the idea that he has some real familiarity with her overlaps here. He follows her into the kitchen.]

Can I help?

[Chances are the most violent thing on her shelf is Bambi-- admittedly, that's his fault-- but it doesn't make much difference what they end up putting on. It's all in the name of distraction.]

You could carry this in,

[she answers, sliding one warm plate onto the counter and putting the rest in to heat up. Without asking, she pours two glasses of water.]

That sounds manageable.

[Though he's watching her pour the water, a small act which seems pointed. He lifts the first, hot plate to balance along one arm and reaches to test the splay of his hand around the glasses.]

[Maybe later she won't mind the idea of opening a bottle of wine, but right now the water glass is a dare to make the wrong move. They can talk about it (or not) when he's got some food in him.]

I can get one. [She pulls one of the glasses closer to her, leaning back against the counter to wait out the microwave. But, belatedly;] Thank you.

[And for his part he doesn't question it, though he wants to. It itches at him. But he plays docile, something afforded by waiting out those two extra hours. No confrontation, no questions. She's not really the one he'd like to ask.]

Not a problem.

[And he ducks out of the room with the serving plate. This, too, is an odd echo. Dinner on their laps, the same choices most night of the week, when carefully matched shifts have left them weary. He helps himself to a bite of satay while it's still just the wrong side of hot, and speaks with his mouthful.]

You'll have to give me the number of this place.

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