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[Knocking at his door; Saya said this one was the doctor.]
[There aren't many to choose from, Rosella's grounding in science being somewhat shaky. Chase expects the princess. Stops and tilts his head at an unfamiliar face in a well policed warehouse.]
Room service?
Room service?
Even considering the dearth of staff (slightly improved, now that people are starting to come through immigration, though the influx of dehydrated patients tends to balance that out,) Cameron's here long past the end of her shift. The long hours show; around the edges of her eyes, the way her hair is hastily piled up in a bun. She should head home-- her apartment is solid enough now that she doesn't need to crash on a couch in the break room-- but there's one stop she needs to make before she can leave.
She comes into the room quietly, setting the door shut with a gentle click before moving to the bed.
She comes into the room quietly, setting the door shut with a gentle click before moving to the bed.
He's quiet, still, but he's not asleep - staring silently at one blank side of a bedside cabinet - and there's no attempt to pretend as she gets closer. He doesn't look up, either.
There's not much keeping him company in the room. A single IV stand running saline through a port in his arm: he wouldn't necessarily need to be here if it weren't for the dehydration of the desert. Without any non-palliative treatment he'd have argued for dealing with the fever and the crippling muscle ache at home, alone. Access to analgesics has gone some way to helping with both, but it's time for a new round of pills and the effects of the others are wearing off: the shivers and the sweats coming back, the pain in his legs meaning he holds his jaw tight. But he keeps his eyes open.
There's not much keeping him company in the room. A single IV stand running saline through a port in his arm: he wouldn't necessarily need to be here if it weren't for the dehydration of the desert. Without any non-palliative treatment he'd have argued for dealing with the fever and the crippling muscle ache at home, alone. Access to analgesics has gone some way to helping with both, but it's time for a new round of pills and the effects of the others are wearing off: the shivers and the sweats coming back, the pain in his legs meaning he holds his jaw tight. But he keeps his eyes open.
[Excellent timing, that girl. By this evening he'll have worked out a way to get himself home.]
[It was almost easier to sleep in the desert. To feel drained and exhausted, pleased to have put something tangible into her own survival for the day. She misses that, and she remembers exactly what Chase had said to her, keeping his eyes from her, Angry it didn't take you out, first? Maybe. Maybe it would have been better to bleed out there than come back here and start to ache again.
It's harder to sleep, here and now, and it keeps getting harder, even with distractions, even when she isn't alone.
She fiddles with her phone for a long time before the breaking point finally comes, a blank state of mind where she presses the few needed buttons and waits for a connection.]
It's harder to sleep, here and now, and it keeps getting harder, even with distractions, even when she isn't alone.
She fiddles with her phone for a long time before the breaking point finally comes, a blank state of mind where she presses the few needed buttons and waits for a connection.]
[For once she's caught him asleep, though the instinct of years on call has the line answered before it rings twice. He rumbles sleep out of his chest before answering, and the roughness of it lingers in his throat, deepening his voice to a rasp.]
Yes?
Yes?
[A photo: black and white. Saya is nude, stomach down on a bed, her back arched and her elbows bent in front of her so that her hands are level with her eyes. Her hands are cupped, holding something; her legs are bent at the knee, feet in the air. She's still wearing jewelry. Three necklaces hang between her breasts, the pendants not quite visible. A large silver spider earring with a pearl for an abdomen is on the one ear visible to the camera. The sheets are tangled beneath her. She's looking at whatever is cupped between her fingers, her eyes fixed on it, her mouth slightly open.]
[Later, there's a doctor holding a plain white envelope. He hasn't purposefully been waiting for her to leave the room unattended, but it does make returning her property a simpler process than he'd estimated.]
[She's already half-convinced she's going to regret making this call.]
[It's answered quickly, with an expectation in the voice that obviously means he hasn't checked who's calling.]
This is Doctor Chase.
This is Doctor Chase.
[The only reason Carla Morir is even somewhat amiable about this curse is the very simple fact that her leg is not broken and her arm is not sprained. She has four perfectly healthy limbs to work with here, and she is in the mood for gratitude: even if they are very pink. She is very pink, all over. There's even a thick stripe of it through her mane and that skull on her ass has pink hearts for eyes. More pink than she was interested in, really, but once she's gotten Rex to shut up already and stop barking at her like a maniac, she decides that she is going to go out and stretch her unbroken legs while she has the chance. Her mood is good, maybe she'll even harass a few people while she's out. Pony battling sounds fun...]
[Nature has even seen fit to equip Chase with his own pony-battling melee weapon, protruding through the floppy blonde hair which is the only outwardly familiar feature on today's form.
(One of the only familiar features. The other consists of five pale lines of scar tissue on what can only appropriately be described as his rump, and would be recognisable to a select few).
He doesn't look primed for battle, however. In the park, in the drizzle, resolutely thumping a hoof into a faintly reflective puddle, he looks like he might just be sulking.]
(One of the only familiar features. The other consists of five pale lines of scar tissue on what can only appropriately be described as his rump, and would be recognisable to a select few).
He doesn't look primed for battle, however. In the park, in the drizzle, resolutely thumping a hoof into a faintly reflective puddle, he looks like he might just be sulking.]
[There is a very naked spiderlady knocking on your door. She doesn't even have sheets, or heels, and her hair is kind of disheveled.]
[Well.
Chase answers the door not entirely sheveled himself, although there's a thick fictionalised history book on the American Civil War left with its spine bend backward on the bed implying that this isn't through anything untoward.
He pauses, because even living with Saya, naked women turning up unannounced is still an out-of-the-ordinary occurrence, then nods slightly and steps back to let her in.]
Chase answers the door not entirely sheveled himself, although there's a thick fictionalised history book on the American Civil War left with its spine bend backward on the bed implying that this isn't through anything untoward.
He pauses, because even living with Saya, naked women turning up unannounced is still an out-of-the-ordinary occurrence, then nods slightly and steps back to let her in.]
[ She's stuffed something under his door before leaving the warehouse for the weekend again.
Qu'avez-tu faites avec le sang que tu avez volé. ]
Qu'avez-tu faites avec le sang que tu avez volé. ]
[ The first time Carla had a drink was when she was thirteen years old. Isaac Crew pushed a beer in her hands and told her to drink. She did so without grimacing, but told him it was swill. So he'd taken her to a party and let her taste a little of everything. She never liked any of it, not the taste, not the effects, and her disdain for drunkards eventually reached a plateau where she simply refused to be one of them. No one ever minded for long. She hadn't needed to be plied with drinks to convince her to take her clothes off, to use her mouth. She was never the one waking up with a headache and guilty conscience.
She hasn't had a drop since then. Has weathered all of the bartenders giving her filthy looks when she asks for water, all the surprised would-be suitors wondering if she's one of those types. And if it had been up to her, she wouldn't have broken that today, but the choices had been drink nothing at all or drink champagne. She supposes she would have survived until midnight, but a little had turned into too much and she's irritated with herself. She's also dizzy and feels unpleasantly graceless as she tries to make her way quietly back in to the warehouse. If she were sober, she'd have the sense to just take off her heels. Instead, she's teetering along and quite possibly lost on the way to her room.]
She hasn't had a drop since then. Has weathered all of the bartenders giving her filthy looks when she asks for water, all the surprised would-be suitors wondering if she's one of those types. And if it had been up to her, she wouldn't have broken that today, but the choices had been drink nothing at all or drink champagne. She supposes she would have survived until midnight, but a little had turned into too much and she's irritated with herself. She's also dizzy and feels unpleasantly graceless as she tries to make her way quietly back in to the warehouse. If she were sober, she'd have the sense to just take off her heels. Instead, she's teetering along and quite possibly lost on the way to her room.]
[The headache and guilty conscience are the attraction of it for some people, the ones who drink to unlock the things that sobriety keeps caged. Others drink to forget the guilty conscience they live with already, and for the deserved distraction of the headache when culpability floods back in the morning.
Tonight, Chase drank because it was there, and because it was fun. Communal social lubrication in a party birthed from circumstance - usually the best kind. He hasn't drunk to excess, just to the point where a headache is edging in at his temples and his skin is still flushed pink though he stepped out of the shower five minutes ago. He's sugar dizzy himself, and the shirt slung over his arm is sticky with it, handprints from some nondescript bar.
He's making his way to his own room when he hears the clatter of heels, too high to be the princess, and lacking Saya's grace. It's too late to use his own barefoot advantage to avoid her altogether, so he waits as if he chose to, leaning against the wall until she appears along the corridor that leads to her room.]
What time do you call this?
Tonight, Chase drank because it was there, and because it was fun. Communal social lubrication in a party birthed from circumstance - usually the best kind. He hasn't drunk to excess, just to the point where a headache is edging in at his temples and his skin is still flushed pink though he stepped out of the shower five minutes ago. He's sugar dizzy himself, and the shirt slung over his arm is sticky with it, handprints from some nondescript bar.
He's making his way to his own room when he hears the clatter of heels, too high to be the princess, and lacking Saya's grace. It's too late to use his own barefoot advantage to avoid her altogether, so he waits as if he chose to, leaning against the wall until she appears along the corridor that leads to her room.]
What time do you call this?
[She's coming into the ICU, where Wilson suggested she might find Dr. Chase.
It's odd for Saya to feel anything more than apathy, and it's even odder for her to develop any emotional connection to someone beyond fuck or food. It isn't easy to pinpoint, for her, why Chase being upset at her matters. She didn't do anything wrong, and his problem is not really her problem, is what the logical spider-side tells her.
But there is an odd anxiety. It's not pervasive or deep, it doesn't drive her to extremes. But considering she usually feels nothing, it's irritating, and she wants it to go away.]
Robert?
[She's standing a few feet away. It's clear she is not looking at the bloodbag hanging from the IV stand, but at him]
It's odd for Saya to feel anything more than apathy, and it's even odder for her to develop any emotional connection to someone beyond fuck or food. It isn't easy to pinpoint, for her, why Chase being upset at her matters. She didn't do anything wrong, and his problem is not really her problem, is what the logical spider-side tells her.
But there is an odd anxiety. It's not pervasive or deep, it doesn't drive her to extremes. But considering she usually feels nothing, it's irritating, and she wants it to go away.]
Robert?
[She's standing a few feet away. It's clear she is not looking at the bloodbag hanging from the IV stand, but at him]
[Though there is a blood bag, and Chase finishes checking on the transfusion before turning to her, pulling the curtain back around the patient's bedside.]
You're not supposed to be in here unless you need a bed.
[Speaking of which, his has been empty for a couple of nights, as if to prove something. He'd have shown back up, eventually, now he's caught unsure what to say and unsure, really, why she's here. He lowers his voice.]
Is something wrong?
[Still the first, most important thing.]
You're not supposed to be in here unless you need a bed.
[Speaking of which, his has been empty for a couple of nights, as if to prove something. He'd have shown back up, eventually, now he's caught unsure what to say and unsure, really, why she's here. He lowers his voice.]
Is something wrong?
[Still the first, most important thing.]
[She's slid an envelope under the door of his office.
Well, it's the envelope.
Maybe she will go over to the gallery, just to look, but she has no one she would want to take with her, so a pair of tickets do her no good. Perhaps Dr. Chase can take one of the nurses with him instead.]
Well, it's the envelope.
Maybe she will go over to the gallery, just to look, but she has no one she would want to take with her, so a pair of tickets do her no good. Perhaps Dr. Chase can take one of the nurses with him instead.]
[ The ocean is more comforting to her than she ever realized. It was marred, for a time, by the nightmares used to be there. A shared and instinctual fear amongst all the Reanimates, a communal memory that one could see in any of their faces as they gazed down the alleyways and sloping streets towards where the water touched the city. Even still, its languid roll had created a sound in the dead of night, a gentle susurration that made the darkness less empty. Even still, the nightmares had made her feel something less than dead. Perhaps that was why they had offended Barbet the way they did. Or was it her crying. Her need for consolation.
She's taken up one of many apartment that faces the water; near to the boat. There is food in the cupboards, but the rest is bare except for where the wood soaked in her blood and left a stain, a large blot that runs out into the middle of the main room, illuminated at all times by whatever light comes in through the tall windows that face the sea. The rooms would not be so different from the vapid safety of the ward, if it were not for that. There is no scar left from the episode, the angel took it from her and there was an unexpected relief to that: to have a burden lessened. She feels no need to recreate the scar, there was nothing there to commemorate.
There is still nothing here to commemorate, and she can only spend so long staring at the floorboards before she loses faith again. There is a line between giving up and giving in, and she heads down to the water in bare feet, kicking off her jeans to make it easier to swim. It's getting darker earlier and earlier each day, visitors driven off the beach by the colder nights. It doesn't trouble her, and she wades out. She feels a brief spark of terror that does not drive her back up onto the sand, and then she strikes out. She's giving up for tonight. No more questions or uncertainties, she'll hide underwater and swim until she's tired, then she'll try to let the ship rock her to sleep. ]
She's taken up one of many apartment that faces the water; near to the boat. There is food in the cupboards, but the rest is bare except for where the wood soaked in her blood and left a stain, a large blot that runs out into the middle of the main room, illuminated at all times by whatever light comes in through the tall windows that face the sea. The rooms would not be so different from the vapid safety of the ward, if it were not for that. There is no scar left from the episode, the angel took it from her and there was an unexpected relief to that: to have a burden lessened. She feels no need to recreate the scar, there was nothing there to commemorate.
There is still nothing here to commemorate, and she can only spend so long staring at the floorboards before she loses faith again. There is a line between giving up and giving in, and she heads down to the water in bare feet, kicking off her jeans to make it easier to swim. It's getting darker earlier and earlier each day, visitors driven off the beach by the colder nights. It doesn't trouble her, and she wades out. She feels a brief spark of terror that does not drive her back up onto the sand, and then she strikes out. She's giving up for tonight. No more questions or uncertainties, she'll hide underwater and swim until she's tired, then she'll try to let the ship rock her to sleep. ]
[It might be no coincidence that his routine has shifted by small but definite degrees since the prow of the Iris first hove into view, nudging up against the jetty and casting its shadow over the few clustered smaller boats that bobbed in moorings around it. Small, definite degrees, arcing his footprints across to where the sand meets stone at the harbour wall, until each day now takes him past the boat, along that quiet street by the water's edge, not too far down from where he, still, keeps a house on the beach. As an investment, a security. As a memory. It's less rough edged up here where the skyline bleeds into the cracks between apartment buildings, identikit lego blocks stretching to the skyline. The views from inside, at least, must be great.
Chase watches the water and not the road. He doesn't count the apartment lights as they start to flicker on to stare down the encroaching evening. He casts glances out towards the boat, searching for a light there, and watches the moonlight spill white across the water alongside her.
He's seen the light, once or twice. And run by.
This time it's the shadow across the moon he catches, and it stops him long enough to watch the water disturbed by long, reaching arms just under the surface, cresting the small breakers that lap the boat before pulling down again, another swimmer's stroke.
This time he doesn't just watch and go on. He waits for the silhouette to rise and he whistles, a long piercing tone in two dischordant keys. It's a sailor's whistle, a signal to souls lost at sea.]
Chase watches the water and not the road. He doesn't count the apartment lights as they start to flicker on to stare down the encroaching evening. He casts glances out towards the boat, searching for a light there, and watches the moonlight spill white across the water alongside her.
He's seen the light, once or twice. And run by.
This time it's the shadow across the moon he catches, and it stops him long enough to watch the water disturbed by long, reaching arms just under the surface, cresting the small breakers that lap the boat before pulling down again, another swimmer's stroke.
This time he doesn't just watch and go on. He waits for the silhouette to rise and he whistles, a long piercing tone in two dischordant keys. It's a sailor's whistle, a signal to souls lost at sea.]
[She finds him after work; she's already showered, and the nurses are watching her as she sits and waits near his office. She's dressed slightly more elegantly than usual, slightly more sharply.]
[Which is, in and of itself, a feat. Chase isn't sartorially minded enough to notice the finer details, but he notices the effect. She makes it look as effortless as always.
He's holding two red folders when he emerges from his office but, after looking her over from across the hall, hands them off to a nurse.]
I didn't know I had an appointment waiting.
He's holding two red folders when he emerges from his office but, after looking her over from across the hall, hands them off to a nurse.]
I didn't know I had an appointment waiting.
[She's coming home from work, and the first thing she does is go say hello.]
[He's curled in a chair with some coffee, the two-day scruff on his chin evidence of overtime.
He doesn't hear her, as such, but he hears the door open and tips his head back with a smile.]
Hey.
He doesn't hear her, as such, but he hears the door open and tips his head back with a smile.]
Hey.
I'd like to see you when you have time.
Edited 2012-11-05 14:15 (UTC)
[ She's left the apartment number to the flat on the beach in his voicemail. She doesn't feel like trying to explain over the phone. The problem will make itself apparent. ]
[He's had that for some time. But the voicemail is enough to make him show up, trying not to wonder what minor disaster has befallen now.
And picking up said minor disaster when it greets him, yapping, at the door.]
Hello?
[This is to the puppy. He hasn't looked up yet.]
And picking up said minor disaster when it greets him, yapping, at the door.]
Hello?
[This is to the puppy. He hasn't looked up yet.]
[There's a Thanksgiving sandwich sitting on the counter of the kitchen, wrapped in plastic, with a post it note with Chase's name on it. Saya is at the garage working odd hours in her office, Stiles' jeep mounted up on the lift after she makes it and leaves it for him, for whenever he comes to look for her her.
On the other side of the note is written Garage.]
On the other side of the note is written Garage.]
[She has no call or reason to work odd hours, but Chase appreciates it when she does, and they match up well enough with the ones he works by duress and necessity for him to only need to quiet his footsteps around the areas of the warehouse earmarked for sleeping princesses. The garage is far removed from that description. He lets himself in still suited from work, biting down on the second half of the sandwich - the other corner of his mouth reserved for that small upward quirk it seems to be picking up as a habit around her.
He doesn't quite finish chewing before he speaks. It's a sign of sandwich appreciation.]
Happy holidays.
He doesn't quite finish chewing before he speaks. It's a sign of sandwich appreciation.]
Happy holidays.
[He's fixing his tie in his office, fingers tugging the knot up tight and neat; his suit is so clearly tailored expertly, making him look both fashionable and fit.
It's hunting day.
He reaches for his scarf when he hears the door open and looks up.]
It's hunting day.
He reaches for his scarf when he hears the door open and looks up.]
[Chase knocks a second before turning the handle. No familiarity has yet overridden manners and broken him of the habit - and after today it's unlikely that it will. But he does open it without permission - with a smile and a sprig of something green-leaved, white-berried caught between middle and ring finger.
The smile is the first thing he drops, like a light flicking off.]
Sorry, my mistake.
[His jaw is infinitely tighter when he turns to go. Though, he catches himself before he does.
Saya's not there with him (which must make it good timing of some sort, it's better to walk in on someone fastening his tie than someone taking it off), but it's a curious level of trust. So he looks back, a half turn over his shoulder.]
Is there anything I can help you with?
The smile is the first thing he drops, like a light flicking off.]
Sorry, my mistake.
[His jaw is infinitely tighter when he turns to go. Though, he catches himself before he does.
Saya's not there with him (which must make it good timing of some sort, it's better to walk in on someone fastening his tie than someone taking it off), but it's a curious level of trust. So he looks back, a half turn over his shoulder.]
Is there anything I can help you with?
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