suicidemission | (no subject)

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He’d told her nine and abruptly left, fleeing the situation like it was a hive of bees chasing after him. He’d promptly gone back to his room where he’d taken a cold shower, drank a gallon of water to free himself of the warm, lingering buzz that he’d obtained from either the alcohol or her presence (he couldn’t be sure what was truly the cause), then sat on his bed and vented at Max for several hours – Max, who very patiently sat there and listened to all of it.

He didn’t have a lot of input, though.

When Chuck had at least some of his sense back, he takes a proper shower and puts on clean clothes and finds an ancient bottle of cologne stuffed in the bottom drawer of his dresser that, on further inspection, expired about three years ago but still smells okay, and shoves what he’d had on and his previous, soaking wet set into the laundry chute.

He kills more time by walking Max through the ‘Dome and ignores most people that talk to him, allowing only Miss Mori to pet his dogs head before he swings by his old mans room, pawns the animal off on him with barely a word (save for insistent pestering as to her name - Rhoda, it suited her), then doubles back to her room where he raps on the metal twice and waits, hands behind his back, face affixed with the usual, surly look he was so often seen with.

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She chuckles quietly and turns her head so she can press her lips to his cheek.

"Consider yourself forgiven."

Well done, Chuck.

She tucks herself back in against his side, her head resting back against his shoulder, and starts to point out each constellation as it wheels slowly above them, pointing up to the stars as she describes the stars and the stories behind them.

Heat rises in his face, but he doesn't say anything because anything he might say would either cheapen the moment or come out awkward as fuck and it'd just be awful.

So he accepts the kiss, the forgiveness, and lets her ramble to him about stars and constellations and the history behind him.

And he actually listens. He doesn't fake interest or yawn or count the minutes. He just listens to her, enjoying her voice, her enthusiasm, and her presence.

It's...really nice.

Chuck's a warm weight pressed to her side, and he's silent but in that encouraging kind of way that just has her prattling on and on about the random things she knows.

Eventually, she peters off, feeling almost embarrassed.

"Sorry," she mutters, tucking her hair behind her ears. "Stars are kind of my thing."

There's a long beat of silence before she sighs and continues, fiddling with one of the seams on the back of her gloves. "My parents died when I was six and I put into foster care. I moved around a lot; nobody really wanted to adopt me." Not with all the medical attention she needed, the help moving, eating, dressing. She'd been more trouble than she was worth, basically, the little burned girl who wouldn't talk to anyone. "But no matter where I was, what family I was living with, I could always look up and and see the stars and they would be the same."

"Don't be sorry. I'm not complaining."

And he's not, really. He's listening, he's interested - as much as a Jaeger pilot can be interested in astronomy - and definitely not complaining.

Her words have him sighing a little, but he doubts she wants pity and he's shit at that anyway. Instead, he slowly curls an arm around her and carefully pulls her in closer to his side.

"Mum died in 2014." His voice is pretty distant, not sure why he's saying all this. Maybe it's because she got personal, maybe it's because he hasn't gotten 'personal' with anyone, ever. His Dad knows everything he knows, but this is different. He likes this.

"Kaiju attack, Sydney. Dad raised me."

She goes willingly enough, tucking herself closer against him, nestling into the warm curve of his arm.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, sliding her arm around his waist and squeezing him a little.

"Is that why you became a pilot?" she continues, just as quiet. "Because of your mom? ...Or because of your dad?"

"Not your fault." No, he blames his dad for that - along with a multitude of other things. But that's another discussion for another day.

"Grew up in a cockpit." He lifts one shoulder. "Pretty organic flow, don't you think?"

Luckily Rhoda isn't privy to that knowledge, or she'd try to start a conversation she can't finish and it would ruin the lovely flow they have going right now.

"Mm, seems like it."

He's really rather comfortable, the supple leather of his bomber jacket soft beneath her cheek, the smell of his cologne mixing with the sweat-oil-metal smell of his skin. Deciding to push the envelope, she changes the subject and shivers.

"I'm cold," she murmurs, quite obviously hinting. Let her in to your jacket, Hansen.

That's one thing he's not really willing to share - not with anyone. Only one who knows all the real beef with his dad is is dad, and maybe Stacker. That's enough, in his book. Too many, actually.

"Yeah?" He's distracted enough by her comment to let that stream of consciousness go for now - and he's glad. It brings up a lot of bitter memories, a lot of arguments, and a lot of anger and resentment.

He shifts a little and looks between her and him, and sits up straighter and holds his jacket out. It's an invitation for her to scoot in as much as she can - admittedly, Chuck takes up most of the room in that jacket, but she can try.

If she doesn't fit, well.

He'll just have to shrug out of it, won't he?

She watches him offer to let her in closer and hums, tapping her chin with her fingertip as she considers this.

"Hold on."

And she gets up into a crouch, skittering closer and forcing him to splay his legs out a little so she can settle down between them, her side pressed to his chest and her legs tucked over one of his. It lets her slide her arms around him underneath his jacket and settle her head on his shoulder.

"Much better."

He's not really sure what the hell she's doing, but he lets her shuffle in and settle there right against him.

"Comfortable?" Shit, he hopes so. She sure just made herself at home with him, but he's not going to bitch about it. Not when he's got a pretty girl tucked in right there against his chest, making him warm all over his body with a heat that is rising from his core to his cheeks.

"Mhmm." She's sure he can hear her self-satisfied smile in her voice, even if all she did was hum her response.

Chuck is surprisingly comfortable, and even if her butt is going a little numb from sitting on the hard steel plating beneath them, the rest of her is comfortable enough, so she's happy.

"You smell good."

Time to push at his boundaries a little.

He's not sure what to do with hands, so instead he just keeps them behind him and propping himself up so that he can support her weight.

"Do I?" Cologne - thank God it hadn't turned - leather, oil and metal, he always smells a little bit like metal and ozone because of the time he spends in and with Striker Eureka, and he's so used to it now that he doesn't even register it anymore.

"I make an attempt at hygiene, you know."

Either by the grace of god or some other miracle — or some memory he got from his father about moderation — the cologne Chuck is wearing hasn't been slathered on, it's just heavy enough to settle into his scent but light enough not to overwhelm it. He smells nice. Solid. Real.

"I never said you didn't," she murmurs, huffing out a little laugh against his collar.

"I like it."

Probably a memory from his dad, one of those little tidbits that he's retained over the years; one of those life lessons that you just really shouldn't ignore, so Chuck didn't.

He might've pretended to ignore his dad, but he heard and saw everything.

Everything.

"Good." He shifts a little so that he can wrap one arm around her, hand coming to a rest lightly on her arm, fingers tracing a light path over the material. "I'd hate to be offensive."

Part tease, because he is such a prick to everyone else, but part sincere, because he likes her.

She smiles when she feels his arm settle around her. That's the spirit.

That makes her laugh again, and she swats him lightly on the back. "Please, you love being offensive." She knows what he means, though, because she rather likes him too. More than she was probably supposed to. "I love it too."

He can feel his mouth tugging into a little smirk.

"Maybe I do. A little bit." He shifts and drags her closer, taking a chance and burying his nose into her neck. "Next time," he growls playfully, "I'll swim in it. Then I'll really rattle your cage, won't I?"

She shrieks out a surprised laugh, squirming when he tucks his cold nose against her neck. "Oh, yeah. You should totally do that." She struggles playfully in his arms, not trying very hard at all to get away from him. "See how close I'll let you get then."

He slings his other arm around her and leans forward, effectively pinning her there in his grasp, chuckling a little as he happily presses that freezing nose of his against warm skin.

His hands are cold, too, and those are hunting for bare skin, just to see if he can get that laugh out of her again because he loves it. He loves it and he wants her to do it again and again and again. He wants to make her smile, make her laugh, make her his.

"Oh, I dunno, I might have a bit of luck." He grins crookedly. "You never know."

She's still giggling as she beats on his chest with her open palms, her face a little flushed from the chilly air, her lips stretched wide in a bright red smile.

"Yeah, that's what you think." She can feel his hands slide down her spine and she spares a brief moment to be thankful that she put on a camisole under her sweater, one extra little layer of protection for her skin, something she tucked into the band of her leggings so that there was no hope her skin would show even if she bent over. She doesn't want to ruin the moment by talking about why her skin feels like that.

"Maybe you should convince me ahead of time," she murmurs instead of trying to stop his hands, her face close to his. Maybe this will distract him.

Chuck is adequately distracted. His hands pause in their trek and he locks in on her face, eyes fixing to hers.

"Yeah? And how does one convince a pretty girl like you?"

"Well." Her lips curl in a little smirk and she makes a show of thinking before she continues. "A kiss would be a good start."

"I think I can handle that."

He doesn't wait nearly so long or make as much of a show about it; he leans right in once he's got permission and kisses her gently.

He's nervous as fuck; the butterflies that have been lingering in his stomach turn into airplanes that are doing barrel rolls and loop-de-loops and his hands might tremble, just a little, when the lift to cup her face.

He doesn't need to be nervous; his welcome here is assured. Rhoda's fingers curl in the neck of his shirt as her eyes flutter closed, the press of his lips to hers making warmth spread through her right to her fingertips.

It's still tentative, like he's not sure if he's doing it right but he's trying anyway because this is amazing, it's fantastic and he feels a little bit like he's dreaming.

Hell, maybe he is. Or maybe he's died and gone to heaven. All viable options.

She shifts a little in his arms, her legs pressing against his, and slides her hands up along his shoulders, under the fuzzy collar of his jacket.

It's Rhoda who pushes the kiss to be something a little more, parting her lips against his and letting her tongue dart out to lick at the seam of his lips, coaxing him to let her in as her fingers curl against his shoulder.