[In fact he's barely even conscious, shifting slightly as the sound and faint beginnings of movement disturb him only to loop his arms around her waist. Some subconscious voice is letting him know that he's got the best blanket ever, and even in sleep he's reluctant to let a good thing go. There's probably carpet burn streaking his back into zebra stripes, but right now he's comfortable. Ignorance, as they say, is bliss.
He turns his head, pressing a sleepy kiss to something warm and curved that would prove to be a shoulder were he to open his eyes and look. He's not ready yet, as the slow smile that curls his mouth at the corners is testament to.]
[Also? Noisiest blanket ever. Chase starts to blink his own eyes open to find out what's causing the upset, the sudden tension he can feel in an otherwise soft and pliable body above. One hand strokes soothing circles over her back, the other pulls away to shield his eyes from that particularly ill-positioned ray of sunlight shining like an interrogation lamp across both their faces.]
Hey, shh. You're alright. [His voice is thick with sleep and miscomprehension, but still practiced in calm.] What's... what's up. [Though he loses some of his certainty when he's able to focus on the face looking back down at him.]
[Chase pushes himself up onto his elbows, giving her a faintly incredulous look before picking up on the naked part and quickly, carefully averting his eyes. The memories flooding back can fill in all the details he's not looking at, anyway. She hasn't forgotten. Nights like that you don't just forget.
He clears his throat awkwardly, drawing his knees up and to the side to provide himself at least the illusion of dignity, while casting furtive glances across the living room to try and figure out what the hell he did with his jeans.]
I... screwed up. [He fills in for her, finally. He'd come round with every intention of telling her to slow it down for both their sakes, and somehow all of this could be traced back to his lack of courage in his convictions.
There are his jeans. He holds out her top, tangled up with them, and still doesn't look.]
[All she did was tell him she was interested, and willing to hang on for him to be ready to return that interest. If he'd be ready. Well, apparently his libido took about as long to heat up as a microwave meal, because he'd sure held out on that one. And -ouch- the movement required to get his crumpled jeans pulled on and buttoned up confirms that yes, the friction burns he predicted are there in force. Rolling his shoulders feels like opening up a thousand tiny paper cuts.]
We can fight about it if you want. Rock, paper, scissors? [It's flippant, but the morning probably needs just a little touch of that to offset the impending gloom. Nice job, Chase (why do his mental reprisals come in House' voice?) you definitely cured her of that pesky fidelity problem. Fuck.]
Or I can make you coffee, your call. [It's still the morning after. He's not the type to just walk out.]
[It was a joke, and if it got her to stop arguing over which of them sinned worst then it had its desired effect. The last thing he wants is to fight with her now.
The first thing he wants is to pull her back down and hold her a while, but now, if ever, might be a good time to start practicing that self-denial they'd been so big on in Seminary. If he feels cold then it's because he should. She's the wrong place to be finding warmth when he can't control himself around her. Can't control himself for her.
That band was on her finger the whole time.
Shirtless, and aching in what he'd usually consider to be a good way, he pads through into the kitchen, fixing the coffee and taking a cursory look through the cupboards to see how she does breakfast. That might not be the best idea, involving lingering a little too long at the scene of the crime.]
Heads up. [He calls through into the next room rather than taking it through. She could still be half dressed.]
[No remarks about exactly how decent she really is follow. Maybe another day that would have been how their quips were traded, but that was before either of them really knew. Now it's not flirting, it's reminiscing, and that kind of thing really gets in the way of pretending things never happened.
He hugs his own mug close, waiting for the caffeine jolt to kick in. Black with a veritable mountain of sugar piled in, his staple work diet and main concession to poor habits.]
I should... get out of your hair. [He offers, caught in that strange place between not being kicked out and not quite being welcome. His shirt, who knows how, has hooked itself over a low hung picture frame, and he retrieves the thing to shrug it on apologetically.]
[At least on Robert's side, the 'other parts below' are too worn out to have anything more to say for themselves. Then again, he spent most of the night letting them do the talking; it's too late to be grateful now. He's glad, though, of the crumb of an excuse she gives him. Nods and checks the clock in the room.]
Always. [At least today he'll probably be spared a lecture about that.] Said I'd cover Wilson's patients while he's out, and there's a bloody epidemic's worth right now. And I should shower, first.
[Shower next door, obviously. He's just talking for the sake of putting an end to these awkward, clipped sentences. If this is how things stay, or stay for long, then he'll have to regret last night with more bitterness than he could have prepared for. Chase winces as he downs the last few bitter mouthfuls of his coffee, and looks at her as he sets down the mug.]
You shouldn't- [Punish yourself for this. He bites his lip and swallows the words.] I'm- [Sorry.]
Just page me if you need anything. [And he's stepped forward,
( ... )
[That situation, as sneaky Ms. Anonymous knows, is one Chase can at least partly identify with. For now he's going to make a strategic retreat from option A, and try to be more grateful that option B wouldn't look twice at him if he was dying by the roadside. Or perhaps that it would take his being half dead to make option B interested. Maybe he should spend more time hanging out with Cameron. That never fails to remind him what a jackass he is.
Some kind of penance. He needs to do some kind of penance for this. Trouble is that kind of thing got a lot harder after he ruled out praying the rosary as a means to repent.]
Iron clad immune system. [He reassures, relenting and giving her a small smile in return.] And I'd rather be treated by the robot doctors. More sympathetic.
[He nods at her, letting himself out and remembering for a second the doubts he'd had about coming in, last night.] Take care. [And he's gone.]
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[In fact he's barely even conscious, shifting slightly as the sound and faint beginnings of movement disturb him only to loop his arms around her waist. Some subconscious voice is letting him know that he's got the best blanket ever, and even in sleep he's reluctant to let a good thing go. There's probably carpet burn streaking his back into zebra stripes, but right now he's comfortable. Ignorance, as they say, is bliss.
He turns his head, pressing a sleepy kiss to something warm and curved that would prove to be a shoulder were he to open his eyes and look. He's not ready yet, as the slow smile that curls his mouth at the corners is testament to.]
Mmm.
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Hey, shh. You're alright. [His voice is thick with sleep and miscomprehension, but still practiced in calm.] What's... what's up. [Though he loses some of his certainty when he's able to focus on the face looking back down at him.]
Angela? [Oh. Oh, God.]
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He clears his throat awkwardly, drawing his knees up and to the side to provide himself at least the illusion of dignity, while casting furtive glances across the living room to try and figure out what the hell he did with his jeans.]
I... screwed up. [He fills in for her, finally. He'd come round with every intention of telling her to slow it down for both their sakes, and somehow all of this could be traced back to his lack of courage in his convictions.
There are his jeans. He holds out her top, tangled up with them, and still doesn't look.]
Here.
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We can fight about it if you want. Rock, paper, scissors? [It's flippant, but the morning probably needs just a little touch of that to offset the impending gloom. Nice job, Chase (why do his mental reprisals come in House' voice?) you definitely cured her of that pesky fidelity problem. Fuck.]
Or I can make you coffee, your call. [It's still the morning after. He's not the type to just walk out.]
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The first thing he wants is to pull her back down and hold her a while, but now, if ever, might be a good time to start practicing that self-denial they'd been so big on in Seminary. If he feels cold then it's because he should. She's the wrong place to be finding warmth when he can't control himself around her. Can't control himself for her.
That band was on her finger the whole time.
Shirtless, and aching in what he'd usually consider to be a good way, he pads through into the kitchen, fixing the coffee and taking a cursory look through the cupboards to see how she does breakfast. That might not be the best idea, involving lingering a little too long at the scene of the crime.]
Heads up. [He calls through into the next room rather than taking it through. She could still be half dressed.]
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He hugs his own mug close, waiting for the caffeine jolt to kick in. Black with a veritable mountain of sugar piled in, his staple work diet and main concession to poor habits.]
I should... get out of your hair. [He offers, caught in that strange place between not being kicked out and not quite being welcome. His shirt, who knows how, has hooked itself over a low hung picture frame, and he retrieves the thing to shrug it on apologetically.]
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Always. [At least today he'll probably be spared a lecture about that.] Said I'd cover Wilson's patients while he's out, and there's a bloody epidemic's worth right now. And I should shower, first.
[Shower next door, obviously. He's just talking for the sake of putting an end to these awkward, clipped sentences. If this is how things stay, or stay for long, then he'll have to regret last night with more bitterness than he could have prepared for. Chase winces as he downs the last few bitter mouthfuls of his coffee, and looks at her as he sets down the mug.]
You shouldn't- [Punish yourself for this. He bites his lip and swallows the words.] I'm- [Sorry.]
Just page me if you need anything. [And he's stepped forward, ( ... )
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(The comment has been removed)
Some kind of penance. He needs to do some kind of penance for this. Trouble is that kind of thing got a lot harder after he ruled out praying the rosary as a means to repent.]
Iron clad immune system. [He reassures, relenting and giving her a small smile in return.] And I'd rather be treated by the robot doctors. More sympathetic.
[He nods at her, letting himself out and remembering for a second the doubts he'd had about coming in, last night.] Take care. [And he's gone.]
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