[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.]
[She scrubs a hand over her face, huddling down into herself on the couch. She should, probably, answer, but she spends a moment listening to the faint sound of breath across a receiver.]
I-- [Need. Want. She does trip over the distinction briefly, growing quieter,] wanted to talk to you.
[It's slow, his breath, body still uncertain how awake it is. He checks the clock and isn't certain, either. And there are faint sounds besides: the clink of a glass, a rustle as he settles back again.]
[It's curled on the tip of her tongue to just say sorry and just stop. She doesn't have to do this, she could wake up Blonde, get him to distract her for a few hours. She could go out, find someone to fight. She exhales deeply.]
It's been too-- [Another trip. No, her thoughts are not in order, but she chooses a word quickly, if uncertain that it's quite right.] Peaceful, being back here.
[It's all day, and it's all night. It never stops, the barbs are always there, asking her just what it is she thinks she's doing. She can't live here. This place will tear her apart with all of its upheavals and games. She can't escape the promises she made, all the years imprinted on her, the desperate longing to go back to her sad little prison where at least she had the delusion of a caretaker. All the disgust she feels for that pitiful romanticism.
She just sounds dazed when she agrees,]
My skin is crawling. [She has been pulling at her hair to keep her hands away from her neck, something to fist her fingers into when there's nowhere else to bury them. It's always something.]
I-- [Want. Need.] want a date, with you and your needles, doctor.
[One way or another. While she still has her head together, or after she's gone too far, but... she's trying.]
[But he'd also assumed he'd get this call. He's not unprepared. The slow silence on his end of the line isn't intended to make her hang on his answer, it gives him time to piece together what can - could - be possible.]
I'll take a look. But I'm not making it a promise. It's a date, not a guarantee you'll score.
[So much depends on the state of her skin. On her control and whether this call comes before or after it slips.
[She makes a choked off little noise, half indignant that he would call it a score, but mostly just laughing at herself. (What will you give me, Baby Carla. What do you have left. What do you have left.)]
Then I'll meet you outside the hospital. Bring coffee.
[They've established that opportunism is part of Chase's make up. Now, surely she wouldn't expect something for nothing? But he's not her ladybird. His motive here is an open secret.]
[Not her ladybird, but Carla can see it in herself, the same jump to pay whatever is asked of her in order to get where she needs to be. She feels like she should have learned her lesson, but maybe not. Still acting on impulses.]
I can make it there in forty minutes.
[She's not humoring the actual question there--(She doesn't know. It depends, on what her thoughts do between then and now. How much she hates herself for letting him know she's falling again.)]
[Human is not strictly her nature. She was better, and then she was lesser. Now she is... This. Whatever this horrible, miserable thing is.
Carla hangs up on him without an answer, tossing the device onto the coffee table. The clatter wakes the dog, but she pulls away from Rex's curious snuffling. Put your hair up. Wear a low neck. Asshole. She stalks off to her bedroom to contemplate just how much her pride means to her.]
[The asshole has gotten out of bed and gone to meet her on yet another pre-dawn rendezvous, uniform of sweat pants and t-shirt a sign that he's here well out of working hours. He's not waiting outside, though. Through the glass doors he can be seen talking to the girl with the misfortune of night shift on reception.
From the way she catches her fingers in it, it looks like a compliment on her hair.]
[Inevitably, it takes her too long to appear. It's what happens when she's on her own. She had lost days during the first of her episodes here, had stared up at Blonde in confusion from their kitchen floor and asked him for the date. She had lost herself in the few minutes Chase had left her alone to get scissors.
She's late, but she appears. Buttoned up in a jean jacket with its collar turned up, and her hair pinned up; uncharacteristic for her, of course she wore her hair like a security blanket day to day. She comes through the glass doors at a sedate place. He's lucky she remembered the coffee, it was almost a lost cause in between the doubt and anger.]
[What a lucky day. As the girl pushes something under her glass screen toward him, Chase glances round to see who's pushing through the glass doors behind. He doesn't need to glance at the clock. Her hair - without the jacket it would be a better sign, but it's not a bad one.
His conversation comes to an abrupt end, although he does pocket what had been pushed across for him before going to redirect Carla toward the elevators.]
This must be the first time I've seen you remember a coat.
[If she were a little more level-headed, she'd make a note to herself to see which of them could work that poor girl over faster. Instead, she just goes to the elevators, her shoulders are up and tense, still pushing herself through despite reservations. Perhaps harder than she should, but she was never very good at doing anything by halves. Barbet had been willing to admit that it was something beautiful about her, her intensity. Clearly a double-edged sword when that intensity directed itself inward.
She fiddles with that collar, picking at the seaming, even on the short trip upstairs.]
Rather than answer his question, she just unbuttons the jacket, slipping it off. There's not much under there, a thin cloth bra and all of her scarred skin, the marks livid white after the desert darkened her tone. But there is nothing new, and she has proof enough of that, since he made it so clear he wanted it.]
[He wanted an answer, not indecent exposure, and while the halls are more likely to be populated by cleaners than his colleagues, the hospital and certain fast-food places are the only truly 24-hour establishments in the city. While he can appreciate the lack of new rips in her skin (the desert would have fostered infection well) the quicker response is to slam his palm on the close doors button and move to help her back on with the jacket.]
Coming out of an elevator with you like that will do nothing for my reputation.
[Of course he has one. As yet, it's almost undeserved.]
[She's already shrugging it back on, nonplussed by his reputation. She's proven what she needs to, and 'indecent exposure' has never bothered her. Although it would be a terrible lie to say it didn't amuse her when people squawked over exposed skin like it merited notice. Currently, there are other things on her mind, however.]
The night watch already has it on surveillance.
[She opens the doors herself and steps out, waiting with her hands in her pockets.]
[She gives him an amused look, a little drawn underneath but she had made no secret about what her mind was doing to her. Still, she's not sure inculpable is the word she would use, but she keeps that one to herself and makes her way to the treatment room.]
[No, given the nature of this out of hours visit, inculpable may not be the word. At least if he'd stopped to run this idea by anyone but the girl who'd strip off her own skin for comfort they might have pointed out that he's only trying to hook her up with a lesser devil. But sometimes, the nobler side fails to present an option.
He leans over her to unlock the treatment room door with the keys he'd charmed from reception, opening it and ushering her through in a single gesture.
It's not spartan as far as clinic rooms go. There are two chairs, a desk, a bed, a screen.]
You know they say that 'literally' is the most frequently misused word in the language? I think it's more likely to be 'fine.'
[Pointed, just a little. Here they are before breakfast with coffee and a shoulder bag packed with needles. Somebody isn't fine.]
It's a perfectly acceptable description for a number of situations.
[Her voice is dry in response. 'Fine' is exactly as noncommittal and dismissive as she needs it to be. Carla lets him motion her in without glancing over her shoulder, but she does look up at him when she sits back in one of the chairs, legs crossed at the knee. She would be hard-pressed to think up a better adjective besides. Her focus is on the prize, on whatever will help her settle into her wasted body. She had thought the heartbeat would be enough, the breath, but they're drowned out too often.]
It's not a description. Description implies something specific and definable: orange, oblong, obese. It's a perfectly acceptable way of avoiding describing something.
[His manner becomes more businesslike in these surroundings, closing the door and laying out the needle kit from his bag on a cart next to hospital issue equipment with the quiet concentration of habit. All things in their proper place, checked, and checked again. His voice softens as he continues, and he spares glances for her, caught in this dual focus.]
Last time, it took part of your soul going walkabout to make you rip your skin off. Why do you think you're close to the same point now?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
too early;
Yes?
too early;
I-- [Need. Want. She does trip over the distinction briefly, growing quieter,] wanted to talk to you.
too early;
I'm here.
too early;
It's been too-- [Another trip. No, her thoughts are not in order, but she chooses a word quickly, if uncertain that it's quite right.] Peaceful, being back here.
too early;
You've got too much time to spend in your own head.
too early;
She just sounds dazed when she agrees,]
My skin is crawling. [She has been pulling at her hair to keep her hands away from her neck, something to fist her fingers into when there's nowhere else to bury them. It's always something.]
I-- [Want. Need.] want a date, with you and your needles, doctor.
[One way or another. While she still has her head together, or after she's gone too far, but... she's trying.]
too early;
[But he'd also assumed he'd get this call. He's not unprepared. The slow silence on his end of the line isn't intended to make her hang on his answer, it gives him time to piece together what can - could - be possible.]
I'll take a look. But I'm not making it a promise. It's a date, not a guarantee you'll score.
[So much depends on the state of her skin. On her control and whether this call comes before or after it slips.
But his guess is before. And that's impressive.]
And I'll expect payment.
too early;
Fine.
[Pathetic, desperate little bug.]
too early;
[They've established that opportunism is part of Chase's make up. Now, surely she wouldn't expect something for nothing? But he's not her ladybird. His motive here is an open secret.]
Can you make it forty minutes?
too early;
I can make it there in forty minutes.
[She's not humoring the actual question there--(She doesn't know. It depends, on what her thoughts do between then and now. How much she hates herself for letting him know she's falling again.)]
too early;
That's a start. Put your hair up. Wear something with a low neck. [Keep busy.] Espresso roast, six sugars. See you then.
too early;
Carla hangs up on him without an answer, tossing the device onto the coffee table. The clatter wakes the dog, but she pulls away from Rex's curious snuffling. Put your hair up. Wear a low neck. Asshole. She stalks off to her bedroom to contemplate just how much her pride means to her.]
too early;
From the way she catches her fingers in it, it looks like a compliment on her hair.]
too early;
She's late, but she appears. Buttoned up in a jean jacket with its collar turned up, and her hair pinned up; uncharacteristic for her, of course she wore her hair like a security blanket day to day. She comes through the glass doors at a sedate place. He's lucky she remembered the coffee, it was almost a lost cause in between the doubt and anger.]
too early;
His conversation comes to an abrupt end, although he does pocket what had been pushed across for him before going to redirect Carla toward the elevators.]
This must be the first time I've seen you remember a coat.
too early;
[If she were a little more level-headed, she'd make a note to herself to see which of them could work that poor girl over faster. Instead, she just goes to the elevators, her shoulders are up and tense, still pushing herself through despite reservations. Perhaps harder than she should, but she was never very good at doing anything by halves. Barbet had been willing to admit that it was something beautiful about her, her intensity. Clearly a double-edged sword when that intensity directed itself inward.
She fiddles with that collar, picking at the seaming, even on the short trip upstairs.]
too early;
He leans back against one mirrored wall of the elevator, the buttons lit up to 5, and watches her fidget in three reflected angles.]
So, am I here as a preventative measure, or to do damage control?
too early;
Rather than answer his question, she just unbuttons the jacket, slipping it off. There's not much under there, a thin cloth bra and all of her scarred skin, the marks livid white after the desert darkened her tone. But there is nothing new, and she has proof enough of that, since he made it so clear he wanted it.]
too early;
Coming out of an elevator with you like that will do nothing for my reputation.
[Of course he has one. As yet, it's almost undeserved.]
too early;
The night watch already has it on surveillance.
[She opens the doors herself and steps out, waiting with her hands in her pockets.]
too early;
[He used to be so easy to fluster. Now (perhaps his ex-wife's work) he shrugs it off momentarily, and follows her out, half amused.]
Down the hall, there's a treatment room just past my office.
[She hasn't managed to put herself in his OR, yet. There's that.]
too early;
I think you'll be fine.
too early;
He leans over her to unlock the treatment room door with the keys he'd charmed from reception, opening it and ushering her through in a single gesture.
It's not spartan as far as clinic rooms go. There are two chairs, a desk, a bed, a screen.]
You know they say that 'literally' is the most frequently misused word in the language? I think it's more likely to be 'fine.'
[Pointed, just a little. Here they are before breakfast with coffee and a shoulder bag packed with needles. Somebody isn't fine.]
too early;
[Her voice is dry in response. 'Fine' is exactly as noncommittal and dismissive as she needs it to be. Carla lets him motion her in without glancing over her shoulder, but she does look up at him when she sits back in one of the chairs, legs crossed at the knee. She would be hard-pressed to think up a better adjective besides. Her focus is on the prize, on whatever will help her settle into her wasted body. She had thought the heartbeat would be enough, the breath, but they're drowned out too often.]
too early;
[His manner becomes more businesslike in these surroundings, closing the door and laying out the needle kit from his bag on a cart next to hospital issue equipment with the quiet concentration of habit. All things in their proper place, checked, and checked again. His voice softens as he continues, and he spares glances for her, caught in this dual focus.]
Last time, it took part of your soul going walkabout to make you rip your skin off. Why do you think you're close to the same point now?
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