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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"No, I haven't."

The lift pods, just like anything around and dealing with the Jaegers, are pretty much off-limits to anyone but maintenance crews, mechanics, and the pilots themselves. Just like Rhoda gets extremely pissy when someone comes into her workspace without permission, she understands why someone else would feel the same.

She smiles a little and nudges her shoulder against his bicep.

"If I say yes, will you protect me?"

“First for everything.”

He likes the journey up – it’s like he’s going home, heading to where he’s supposed to be. It’s probably sad that he’s most at home when he’s inside of a Jaeger, when he’s piloting with his old man. It’s the only thing he’s good at, unleashing all that pent up fury on a kaiju via machine.

“Guess I could,” he concedes, allowing his lips to quirk slightly. “Part of being a pilot, I reckon. Protecting the general populace.”

Rhoda isn't actually afraid of heights, but that doesn't stop her from continuing with this teasing banter.

"Mm, my hero," she murmurs, staying perhaps a little too close to his side.

She wants to see how he'll do when she invades his personal space.

"It's what I am," he drawls, smirking over at her and rolling his shoulders. He wonders why she's pushing so close, but he's not complaining.

He's just a little confused.

He's a handsome young man. Is it really such a wonder she'd want to be close to him?

"So you've only just been stationed here too, haven't you?"

She's well aware of where Striker Eureka was stationed, everyone in the whole world was. But she's attempting to make conversation, because so far this isn't proving to be a very loquacious outing.

Yes. Yes it is, because he's not a pleasant young man.

"Yeah. Dad and I came from Sydney, few days ago. Just took down a kaiju in Striker, saved the city again."

But they'd almost failed, right? The opera house had been nearly decimated and the kaiju had been bigger than the others.

"Lucky we were still there."

He's pleasant enough to her.

"Well done." She knows. "It looks like my transfer was well timed, then."

Mostly.

"Yeah? Where'd you come from before this, then?"

He walks side by side with her, arms folded over his broad chest and ignoring the looks they're getting. Instead, he just pays attention to her, leading her down the halls towards the hanger where the lifts to the pods were.

And even when he's not, she's more amused than offended. Most of the time.

"Lima, didn't I tell you? I'd only been there a year, though. Before that I was in college, Columbia, getting my masters in biology." She's only twenty, but yes, Rhoda has a masters. It's not unusual for kids these days to accelerate through schooling. The world is ending, lives are getting shorter. It stands to reason other things are shortening too.

Plus, even she can admit she's objectively brilliant. She's a member of MENSA, after all.

"Lima was beautiful but my Spanish was never very good. My Cantonese is worse, of course, but beggars can't be choosers."

"You mentioned Lima. Nothing else." He hadn't really asked, though. He's not great at holding a conversation that isn't about mechanics, robotics, piloting, fighting, strategy, or combat. It's just how his mind was trained to work. Maybe in another life, he'd be better at this, better at talking to people and girls and maybe he'd have a better relationship with his dad, too.

Then again, maybe not.

"I don't speak a lick of it." Cantonese, Spanish - none of that.

"Did I? Silly me."

Chuck is very tall and powerful and clearly used to swaggering down hallways like he owns them, but Rhoda isn't having that much trouble keeping up, all things considered. She's good at being fast.

"Well, no offense, but I'm not really surprised, you're Australian."

"You did."

He ushers her out into the hanger, but he takes her alone the side of it, so there's less chance of being seen. Not that anyone would question him using the lift by his jaeger, but he doesn't feel like dealing with people. Not now.

"The hell is that supposed to mean?" The way she puts emphasis on the word has him looking over at her, suspicious and automatically on guard again.

She's just as glad for the privacy, because it means she can turn to him and give him a knowing little smirk, her eyebrows waggling a little.

"Your accent, honey."

As if that explains everything.

He pauses and she keeps walking, and he glares after her, brow furrowing.

"The hell is wrong with my accent?"

"Don't get me wrong, I like it, it's very sexy."

She lifts her shoulder.

"It's just not very...shall we say conducive to a foreign language. At least, that's my experience with it anyway."

...Sexy. She thinks his accent is sexy.

He's not sure how he feels about that, but he goes after her anyway, still frowning a little bit.

"You have an accent," he points out, tipping his head a little.

He should feel great about that. C'mon, Chuck.

She grins at him over her shoulder, tossing her hair back, and winks.

"Not to me, I don't," she counters, as if that makes any real sense at all. It doesn't. Whatever.

"I don't have one to me either," he retorts, though his irritation is tempered by the comment she'd made previously.

Sexy.

No one has ever called him that before, not like this, anyway.

"Over here," he says, reaching to touch her elbow to make her pause. "You're going the wrong way."

"Then it looks like we're at an impasse," she says, lifting her eyebrows. She's clearly trying not to laugh, though.

Oh, he's plenty sexy. Rhoda's interested in accidentally catching him sparring, maybe she'd get to see him shirtless. She bets he looks really good with no clothes on.

She huffs a little, pretending to be annoyed. "Well, if you were leading instead of following..."

Rolling her eyes dramatically, she slides her hand into his, slotting her gloved fingers between his. "There. Problem solved."

"Well if you hadn't kept--what are you doing?"

He's stopping again and staring down at their entwined fingers, face heating. She keeps throwing him for loops, sending his head and sanity into crazy tailspins that leave him crashing and burning.

"Preventing myself from getting lost," she explains slowly.

His perpetual deer-in-the-headlights look is so incredibly endearing, it's taking all she has not to laugh in his face. Or kiss him again.

The kissing can come later, he's still got to take her stargazing.

Fucking shit she's doing it on purpose. There's no way that she's not. His face heats again and he finally gives a brisk nod, because okay, fine, two can play at that game.

"Right. This way, then."

If she wants to talk through the Shatterdome holding his hand - of all people, seriously - then fine. Have at it.

She's looking forward to hearing the stories tomorrow. Besides, rumors are already floating around about them; she did kiss him under the mistletoe, after all. And she heard he didn't wipe off her lipstick until much, much later.

"Besides," she adds, pulling on his hand until he leans over so she can whisper in his ear. "Maybe I just want to hold your hand."

If people other than his old man could actually tolerate him, he probably would've been teased and clapped on the back about it. Instead, he's getting talked about behind his back -- her too, probably. People are probably wondering if she's mental.

He knows he's wondering, anyway.

"Couldn't blame you," he says, mustering his swagger again and giving her a wink, "You are with the best damn pilot in the building."

She laughs musically, shaking her head a little.

"There you are," she murmurs, squeezing his hand. "I was wondering if I'd thrown you off too much for you to recover. I was almost starting to feel bad for a moment there."