as_damaged | ☎ voicemail

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?

[He's got enough bad reports that he and the other woman won't be on speaking terms by tomorrow night. Not that, tomorrow night, he'll think it matters anymore. Hands clasped round the mug, he mulls over the possibilities.]

There's some hope yet. I'll have to lay off the paperwork a while.

[Which he's been doing inordinate amounts of, recently, in the vain hope she'll notice.]

[She's noticed, if only because her share has shrunk in proportion. She's not sure how to take it now, his attempts to curry favor; whether he's looking for forgiveness, or just trying to be nice. The former is unnecessary, the latter-- not quite what she expects. Not that Chase is a bad person, or that he can't be nice; but this sort of thing usually means he wants something, and she isn't certain what he wants from her anymore.]

I'm sure someone will pick up your slack.

[Probably her, though that's hardly a favor. Not to him, at least. Going through House's mail is admittedly less interesting here than it was at home, but it's become habitual.]

Maybe we'll have a quiet day or two.

[It's too much to hope. It's also the equivalent of talking about the weather, here. She doesn't have the strength for more serious topics, especially with the way those conversations have gone lately.]

Maybe. You know, I thought I saw a pig fly by on my way over.

[He couldn't put his finger on the reason for his extra efforts, either. It's not an apology. Maybe he picked a bad time to start dating someone else, but the fault there lies with both of them. It seems like an affront to someone to apologise for that. Then again, neither had he wanted to hurt her. It's still a strange and fragile feeling just knowing that he could.

The paperwork, quietly backing her up to House, it's all just a way of letting her know he's still there, as if sitting in her apartment past midnight with nothing more to show for it than a cup of tea he made himself isn't sign enough. He's not going to go until he's told, and then not until he's sure being alone for the night is really what she wants.]

Those war games the other week opened up a few new parts of the island. We could be due an influx anytime soon.

And it's been quiet, hasn't it? Less new arrivals lately. Since the-- since Halloween, more or less.

[Being alone for the night isn't what she wants, but she won't keep him. If she ignores what she wants long enough, the desire will go away. It has to.

She can't fault him for not wanting to wait for her. That doesn't mean she doesn't wish he had.]

I suppose it could be building up to something.

[If he'd thought there was something to wait for they wouldn't be in this mess. Not that there aren't alternative messes to take its place.]

Or they could be making room for some new beach resorts. That'd be worth fighting for.

[Given that, as far as she knows, they're over-- for good, this time-- she's inclined to romanticize the situation, imagine they'd be perfectly happy. Certainly happier than they would be, realistically.]

I'd hate to think of what strings would be attached to that.

[Wrinkling her nose at the thought, she puts her tea down and finally shrugs out of her coat.]

It's getting late...

[An out, if he wants it. Not an eviction, though she doesn't intend to spend the evening with someone else's boyfriend.]

[He pulls back his sleeve, lifting his wrist to tilt the display of his watch into the light.]

It stopped being late about an hour ago. It's getting early.

[No dice, also no girlfriend, even if she's not as married as he'd expected her to be.]

[Which, of course, she knows nothing about. As far as Cameron is aware it's back to business as usual, her ignorance a result of intentional avoidance. She'd prefer his relationship with Angela to be none of her business.]

Then it's early, and neither of us have slept.

[A slightly less subtle hint. She's in no mood to have to lecture you on your behavior tonight, Chase.]

[This he has to agree with, rubbing his hands together and giving into a yawn.]

Have you still got blankets for this couch? You'd be saving me a walk.

[This is the last place he should be spending the night; and for a second she tenses, on the verge of telling him so. It isn't her job to be his keeper, though. Cameron likes clear-cut issues; where right and wrong are obvious, unclouded by personal involvement.

Letting him stay would be nice, because it's the middle of the night and it'd save him a walk. It would be a mistake because he shouldn't be avoiding... whoever he's avoiding.]

In the hall closet.

[She's not sure whether it's a selfish offer, or a friendly one. Standing, she gathers her coat in one arm and stoops to pick up the tea.]

[He's not avoiding. Or if he is, he's doing it under the guise of staying nearby after she's had a bad night. He's doing a good thing. In the morning he'll make excuses to stop and get coffee so they don't have to walk in to work together. This doesn't have to be awkward.]

I'll get them. Thanks.

[He rearranges the cushions behind him rather than watch her head to the bedroom, for the first time feeling intrusive or just... odd. Maybe it's a little awkward.]

Sweet dreams.

[It's neither wholly good nor wholly bad, and therefore it's just... uncomfortable. Now that she wants him-- or, now that he knows she wants him-- he's less welcome here than before.

She pauses just before slipping out of sight, free hand on the wall, to nod back at him. It's a little awkward, but maybe if they both mean well (and she thinks she does,) that's forgivable.]

Good night.

☎ voicemail

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