as_damaged | ☎ voicemail

[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.

I'm sure I have an extra menu.

[She finally cracks a small smile at that, though it's more to do with the irony of her making his recommendation back than any increase in her comfort. Setting a few curried dishes on the coffee table, she crosses the room to pick out a film.]

Maybe The Pursuit of Happyness?

[Of course she's halfway to putting it in the DVD player already, it's something of a rhetorical question.]

[Chase eyes the side of the jewel case like an unexploded bomb. He won't say no, of course.]

Never heard of it. [It's helpful to have food to fill uncertain pauses.] Does pursuing happiness involve forming any kind of empowering sisterhood?

[Suspicious, suspicious.]

It's about a man and his son,

[She casts a generously doubting look in his direction, holding in a laugh. For a moment, this feels commonplace and manageable. Just dinner and a movie and nothing more. Remote in hand, she comes back to settle in a chair by the table.]

I don't think Will Smith is the sisterhood type.

[As soon as it's playing she'll dig in; Cameron's been waiting on her dinner, after all.]

Oh. Will Smith.

[That seems enough to get a look of genuine interest from a man who feels he's seen enough empowered women doing it for themselves (but never looking less than model perfect). As long as Cameron's never been the Desperate Housewives type, he's always felt he still had a good deal.

For a while it's mostly uninterrupted eating and viewing: the film turns out to have more moral value and less explosions than Chase could have hoped for and he pays some intense attention to his dinner as Will's wife walks out for less messed up pastures. After a while, though, he's almost invested.

A fork jabs towards the screen.]

I'm imagining he's doing this undercover for the MiB. The whole women's shelter thing - they really are from Venus.

[It earns him an old, familiar eyeroll as she chews a piece of tofu.]

I suppose we'll have to wait for a director's cut.

[But really, she's pleased-- and somewhat relieved that it's been enough to keep them interested enough not to make the evening worse. The problem with movies about empowered women doing it for themselves is that they usually end with a better job, a better life, and a better man; the last thing she wants to watch right now is a romance. On the other hand, Will Smith movies tend to involve more explosions than she'd hope for.]

Though, [she muses, keeping a straight face,] the Rubik's Cube thing makes more sense in that light.

Couldn't resist showing off. [Chase agrees, readily.] He'll have been pulled up on that in the debrief.

[It's companionable. This is why people who don't really know each other go on dates to the cinema. Besides the obvious mutual talking point, after long enough, just the proximity begins to effect a bond.

He finishes the last of his curry (more meat than new age protein) not long after, and grimaces faintly as he washes it down.]

[It's not such a bad comparison; sometimes they're strangers, other moments they know one another too well. This is the sort of thing she misses, from before everything fell apart. Quiet, companionable evenings without an expectation; something she could, arguably, have kept, though at the time she'd wanted (and she'd believed she had) more. But it's unquestionably nice.

Sitting up straighter, she puts her plate on the table.]

Have we missed midnight?

[Chase checks the time on his network device, leaning back to flash the digital display across at her. Five minute countdown, it could almost have been timed.]

Afraid not. Want me to rewind the last scene?

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