as_damaged | ☎ voicemail

i can handle it, if you need the help.

i'm coming. i'll see you soon.

[rings through to voicemail and is hung up.]

[And someone is hammering on Cameron's apartment door. He doesn't have an axe, but he's willing to take it off the hinges if he has to.]

[For a moment there is no sound, no answer from inside. And then, quietly-- wavering, just a little--]

Hold on...

[And a few seconds later, the scrape of the peephole, followed by the slow succession of the locks clicking open. She looks shaken, cracking the door to look at him. Safe and whole, but troubled.]

[For a moment, as the door opens, Chase appears to have learned something from Wilson in the art of flailing. There's a mixture of concern and disbelief battling for dominance over his expression.]

Did you drop your phone? Because it's a hell of a time to start screening your calls. I was expecting you in ICU hours ago. What the--

[And he catches the outburst on a hook of concern, gaze flicking past her to the empty apartment behind.]

What's wrong?

I'm not...

[She's disoriented. It could have been seconds or years ago that she headed out the door, and halfway down the block she noticed... something. Not right. Frowning as she tries to put things back in their proper sequence, she looks away, letting the door inch open a bit further.]

I don't know where I was.

[A soft, intermittent bleeping punctuates her words. He looks around for the source, puzzled when he thinks he's got it.]

Can I-

[He gestures toward her coat pocket before reaching to fish the phone out of it. The display is lit up with missed messages, and the little bleep of notification sounds again in his hand. Tilting his head, he watches her for signs of disorientation.]

Maybe you should go and sit down.

[She can't do much more than blink at him and at the telephone, nodding at his suggestion. Her fingers don't leave the edge of the door until it's in his hands, and she backs up without turning for a few steps.]

There was a statue...

[She remembers that much-- an unfamiliar carving set along the street. She'd turned to look a few steps after passing it and found it too close. And then...

Shuddering, she sits, not bothering to take off the coat.]

How long was I gone?

[Cold? For a moment something just as icy grips him, and he crouches in front of her, pressing fingertips to her brow. There's no relief like the kind that comes when her skin is still warm to the touch, a thin sheen of cold sweat but no pallor like the kind that comes with death in the city.

He stays on bended knee, resting his hands either side of her on the couch.]

You told me you were headed over a few hours ago. I told you I couldn't get away.

[But it's probably not the time or place to lay blame on her.]

You're shaking.

I was on my way.

[Things are starting to fall back into their proper place in her mind. She doesn't brush him away, the touch a welcome measure of contact, grounding her back in the present.]

Every time I looked back it was closer, and--

[A pause. The right words are eluding her, if they exists, and she finally bursts out with the first thing that does occur to her, half laughing at how ridiculous it sounds.]

It was like a bad movie.

I've had nightmares like that. [He wrinkles his nose and grins, correcting] Nuns, not statues. Usually meant I hadn't done my homework.

[It might be a white lie, the kind he tells to make people feel better. Though the laughter shook a little of the tension out of her, she still looks like she needs it.]

It's okay now. You're fine.

[The joke elicits a weak smile, true or not. It isn't what she meant-- more the stupid life-before-your-eyes cliche, though even that felt more real than a soundless montage of highlights.

Time at home has the decency to keep to one direction. Reliving the past, glimpsing the future, takes a toll on a person; and that's what's left her shaking.]

I'm fine. [She nods a little. She is. She isn't dead, or even injured; just a little bit lost. Here that counts as normal. A few deep breaths do a lot to restore her calm.]

You didn't have to come.

[That means thank you.]

[He shrugs, noncommittal, and takes his cue from the little furry creature who's decided to climb into Cameron's lap before Chase can attempt it. He can't blame Gray for being possessive.]

Just wanted to check somebody fed the cat.

[And, conceding the territory, he stands up, shoving his hands into jean pockets and wandering into the kitchen a moment to do just that. He still knows where everything's kept, and it doesn't seem intrusive to pour a handful of food into a bowl, check the fridge for a half-opened bottle of wine.

This latter he holds up to her, unsure.]

I could get you sweet tea for the shock, unless you'd rather...

[Truth be told she liked their noncommittal domesticity. Primarily because it was noncommittal. Having someone around to feed the cat was nice; and she doesn't really mind him messing around in the kitchen.]

Something warm, definitely.

[She's not exactly chilled, but tea sounds comforting. And wine is the last thing she wants with an already muddled mind.]

I'll put the pot on.

[It's the sugar in both he's thinking of, she's not trembling with cold. If it was up to him, after the few hours he's had, he'd pick the bottle every time. Still, as the lady wishes, and a couple of minutes later he's bringing out two cups of hot, overly sugared tea, handing one off to her and taking a seat on the couch himself. He shakes his hands out. rubs at his forearms.]

And that's the last thing I'm using my wrists for tonight.

[Composure regained, he gets a tight, sympathetic half-smile at that as she takes her tea. She really would have liked to have helped.]

That bad?

Keeping someone bagged for fifteen minutes is bad. When you've been sitting on the guy's chest for an hour, that doesn't come close. I could lose my fingers. I like my fingers.

[This is demonstrated with jazz hands before he leans forward to reclaim his cup. Maybe the tea wasn't such a bad idea - the warmth works it's way though aching joints and he leans back against the head rest, looking over at her. Most of the fuss is for her benefit.]

You thought your night sucked.

You'd never play piano again.

[She stretches, the tension in her shoulders starting to unravel. The tea helps, the company helps. The absence of soulless, sentient statues in the immediate vicinity helps too.]

You've never heard my chopsticks.

[It might be the first time in days he's started to relax, too, which is why he doesn't ask what he'd like to about what happened when the statue caught her up. It's why he's not planning to mention Angela being back, though someone's bound to bring up the arse he made of himself over that eventually.]

I'll need spoonfeeding. Sponge baths. It's going to be hell.

Poor thing. The world doesn't know what it's losing.

[Sarcastic, but not nasty. She doesn't envy him his evening, even if hers wasn't pleasant.

This is nice. She won't be the one to spoil it, and she certainly doesn't want to talk about Angela. Nor will she give him a bad report, on the very, very off chance that the other woman asks. She's too involved as it is.]

No chance you'll pull through, somehow?

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☞ action [five past midnight

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