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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"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."

He likes the way her laugh sounds, and he's already trying to come up with ways to get her to do it again.

Oh God, he's in so much trouble.

"You tried," he says, brushing his thumb over her gloved knuckles, "but you failed. You'll have to come up with something better than that to throw me off permanently."

Yes he is, because Rhoda doesn't laugh like that for much. He's going to have to try really hard.

"Mm, don't tempt me," she replies, ignoring the looks they're getting from the tech teams that are close enough to realize what's happening. "I always was overly ambitious."

He feels a little bit like he's back on track now, and he grips her hand proudly, though the way he leads her doesn't resemble anything like he's showing her off, or that she's some sort of trophy.

"You and me both," he tells her with a little smirk, "I was piloting Jaegers when I was fifteen."

"I know." He may not be showing her off, but she's not really affording him the same courtesy. This is fun.

"You're more than a little bit famous, Charles." She's been aware of Chuck Hansen ever since she was still in high school. And his dad even before that. The Jaeger pilots have blown any other concept of fame out of the water.

"With good reason," he says casually, stepping over a large piece of metal and ignoring the tech's stare that's working on it. "Fought my way up through the Academy, all that jazz." Got saddled with his old man but they're a good team, despite it all.

"I didn't get where I am with my pretty face, now did I?"

She just smirks at the tech, refusing to look embarrassed about the fact that everyone is staring at her and Chuck Hansen holding hands in the hangar bay.

"Well." She gives him a conspiratorial look, her eyebrows lifting. "I don't think it hurt."

Chuck is just pretending the situation isn't happening at all. Like it's some kind of every day thing that he walks around the deck hand in hand with pretty scientists.

"You think I'm pretty?" He gives her a look that's a cross between a smirk and a leer, and he can't help but laugh a little, because wow this girl.

He laughs and she grins smugly, lifting her shoulders in an expressive shrug.

"Not as pretty as me," she replies, using the hand he isn't holding to toss her hair over her shoulder.

"Course not," he says, tone casual, like this, too, is something he does all the time -- toss out compliments. "Dunno anyone that could compete."

To kill some of the awkward, he pulls her over to the side, over another metal girder and towards the lift doors that are nestled by Striker's foot.

It's pretty clear that this is somewhat out of Chuck Hansen's depth, but that doesn't stop her from smiling at him, pleased even though she knew what he was going to say before he said it.

"You think I'm pretty?"

Teasing is always worth it.

"Have to be blind not to think so."

He jabs at the button with his hand, idly wondering if he should let her hand go, or just...keep holding it and pretending like it's nothing.

He's not inept at this sort of thing - but he really doesn't engage in it. She doesn't seem to be bothered, so he is just going...keep holding her hand.

It's nice, not having someone look at him like he's some rockstar, and it's equally nice to just...kind of allow himself to be.

"You flatter me, Charles."

Not really, she's well aware she's pretty, and she's well aware he knows she thinks she's pretty. Still.

Yes, there is a little part of her that's more than a little excited to have caught the attention of Chuck Hansen, one of the greatest pilots on the planet, but Rhoda is somewhat used to being around famous pilots now, and besides. She's too composed to allow herself to fangirl over someone. Celebrities are people too, and sometimes people just want to be...people.

“Chuck.” He flashes a scowl in her direction – no one calls him Charles anymore, not even his old man.

“And it’s not flattery.”

It’s just the truth. Chuck doesn’t have time for lies, for flattery. He’ll grudgingly give credit where it’s due, though he has a lot of trouble admitting when he’s wrong. He just thinks people need to prove themselves – he had to, why shouldn’t everyone else? He worked his ass off to be a pilot, because that’s all he’s ever wanted, all he’s ever allowed himself to want. He’s not of the mindset that everyone is inherently ‘good’ or other stupid shit like that. He’s not going to buy into the fact that just because a tech says they’re good, then they are. No.

No. Prove your damn self, and don’t fuck up his Jaeger. There’s a reason Chuck does some of the repairs himself – it’s because he doesn’t trust these fuckwits to do it right.

“Here,” he gestures when the lift doors open, letting her walk in first and finally dropping her hand so he can slide on in behind her and jab the up button.

She hums a little when he corrects her, not conceding his point but not pressing hers, either.

They reach the lift doors and he lets go of her hand; she slips her camera off her wrist and tucks it into his pocket, lifting her eyebrows at him in silent challenge as she slips by him and into the little elevator.

"I'm always a little amazed by how big they are," she murmurs, watching as the lift slides up and up and up.