as_damaged | ☎ voicemail

Nodding, he pushes his free hand into his jeans pocket, looking anywhere but in her direct although the grip of his hand in hers tightens. He still thinks it's all in his head. He could be here a year, or ten, or twenty and he's not sure that perception will ever change. He's not sure he'd want it to: what that would say for or about him. Every so often he'll file away another point of proof that this is his creation, a too-familiar face, or some echo of his real world seeping through. Sometimes he wakes from dreams convinced he heard the beeping of cardiac monitors in his sleep.

But he has accepted it. From the start he's worked well within the boundaries of this being a construct -- learned not to tell imaginary people that's what they are, and treated life here like life as if (in case) it's all he has left. There aren't too many people with enough insight to know his game. She's one, and he's suddenly caught in a burst of gratitude that almost leaves him gasping.

"I don't hate it. I don't believe in it, but I didn't believe in... Star Wars and I liked that. There are good things here." He laughs suddenly, incongruously, and if he wasn't looking down, at the knit of their hands between them, she might see that his smile is far too painfully sharp. Tilting his head, he hesitates like he's trying to get his mouth around the phrasing. "I've been wondering what there is to go back to."

Her fingers curl in return, and she fixes him with an inexplicably sad look, briefly. What is there to go back to? Bad times, good times, worse times. She knows more than she wants to, wants to know more than she does. What she needs is a reassurance, more than the thin and gleaming promise that he'll fix things.

But here, now, there's nothing to fix; Cameron would worry as much about the future without the hints she's heard, she knows she shouldn't get ahead of herself. It's cold, but it's a beautiful night. It doesn't matter what happens a year from now, two years, because what will happen in the next ten minutes is a mystery, still within her sphere of influence. She takes a sharp breath.

"I try not to think about it," she answers, truthfully. "What happens here can't logically influence reality. Our reality. Home. Real or not... I don't know what I believe, but I think the best we can do is treat it as its own experience." A pause. "The good and the bad."

She knows more than he does, even without those little future glimpses the City offers. There's no promise of a wedding band from her, just a casual fling and a bad break up. No matter how things turn out here, he goes home to try and fail again. He's miles away from a future in terms of the two of them, and yet it's hard not to cling to this little moment between the misunderstandings.

If it can't influence anything, rationally there should be no point to it at all, but her hand is warm on a cold night and it feels like it's worth trying. For now, if the future can't be planned. When he lifts his head, his expression is softer.

"Good way of not thinking about it. I'm sorry, this was a terrible conversation starter for a date."

"I'm not sure what we're supposed to talk about." The admission is touched with a slight laugh, letting loose some of the tension she feels. Perhaps it's selfish but she prefers him having to work for this; and in a sense, maybe this is all they have. No future unions or partings should dictate what happens in the City; neither of them are who they will be, after all. She knows that without entirely comprehending why.

"There are things I like here, too. I hated it at first." She tilts her head, considering. "Maybe I've just gotten used to the insanity. But making the most of it has been the best strategy I've come up with."

"Small things," he tells her, on the subject of what they should be talking about, "conversations don't get serious until after the third date. Before that you stick to safe subjects, like where you go on holiday, or what you saw on TV last night. Admittedly it's a wider field somewhere the watercooler topics are more along the lines of what animal you turned into last week, but the principles apply."

He sounds like an authority, but the sidelong look he shares with her is amused. They've been past this point for years. He knows she doesn't really date, at least not outside of that weird one-way affair with House, and she knows his dates rarely go beyond the first night. For both of them the effort put in with each other, if only here, is enough to stand out from the rest, and going back to handholding once past a certain point is always going to be tricky. Even if, for them, the handholding part was skipped completely.

Chase likes it, having her on his arm as they approach the restaurant over a pretty oriental bridge that will be laced with cherry blossoms sometime in spring. For all the care to arrive by the back route, there's something about this small public acceptance that has pride pressing against his ribcage.

"Making the most of it," he repeats, faux-thoughful, "Your way of warning me you'll be ordering the lobster?"

Small talk isn't really her strong point. What wines they like, what movies they hate. Being reluctant to start anything without knowing it's serious makes it difficult to pretend it isn't; but at the same time they've had any number of the serious conversations already. A nice, normal evening might be the most abnormal thing for both of them at this point, but it's a worthy goal.
"Thai fusion lobster? Who wouldn't?" His glance gets a wicked little smile in return. He's stuck around through worse things than the priciest option on the menu, after all.
"It'll be a year for me, next month."

"If they can overprice it, they'll serve it," Chase laughs, matching her grin and letting go of her hand only to let his settle at her waist just long enough to guide her the last few narrow steps before they're welcomed into the warm pools of light surrounding the restaurant. The air is rich with ginger, lime and spice, and whatever they order - in Chase's opinion at least - the signs look promising that it will be good.

All things considered, his face falls only a little when she tots up her anniversary. He's counting his down, too, although not as urgently as he had the first few weeks.

"Someone told me if you make it more than six months here, you're in it for the long haul."

☎ voicemail

heart skipped a beat and when i caught it you were out of reach.

heart skipped a beat and when i caught it you were out of reach.

heart skipped a beat and when i caught it you were out of reach.

heart skipped a beat and when i caught it you were out of reach.

heart skipped a beat and when i caught it you were out of reach.

heart skipped a beat and when i caught it you were out of reach.

heart skipped a beat and when i caught it you were out of reach.