exsiliumlogs | And all our troubles in the dark

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And all our troubles in the dark

Date & Time: Jan 21st
Location: Chloe and Charlie's cushy little flat
Characters: Charlie Cutter, Chloe Frazer
Summary: It's her birthday; she's not right
Warnings: MAGIC??? (and an initial lack of pants)

She feels better now. No questioning the how or why, no wondering about where she belongs: it's all as simple as common sense these days, right down to the tailored sweater she's taken to wearing round the flat or the expensive, unscuffed boots on her feet. She smells of sandalwood and magnolia, and the scent's a comfort she can't imagine living without - if there was ever anything wrong with her life before, Chloe has to suspect it had something to do with that. With the fact that she never went through all the routines or that they--

The thoughts clip there. Needle skipping across a record and she hardly notices. The sweater's on, jewelry off (save for the simpler one made of metal and leather, tucked away under a high collar) sheets tangled high around her thighs-- and her thighs round the broad bulk of his own-- and she's quick to nudge Charlie, voice low in his ear:

"Oi. Wake up, darling."

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Christ, he hates it when she gets like this - digs in her heels to prove something, as if she thinks he's dumb enough that he wouldn't listen if she just said it outright like a normal bloody person might.

"You're telling me all this rubbish isn't to rub how stupid I'm being in my face, then? Look, I know all this--" he makes a sharp gesture, clearly meant to indicate matters outside the flat, things like his beef with Saul Goodman, his steadfast picking at the network and other transports for some perceived 'greater good' "--is nonsense, alright? I already know you've a problem with it; you don't have to pretend to be something your not to get that through to me."

Clearly there's no getting through to him. So she stops-- mentally and physically, fingers still against the rim of her cup-- pursues a different tactic. "Just tell me what it is you'd like for me to wear instead, then, if it bothers you that much."

That makes him balk, shoulders going all sharp, chin snapping up. He sets his jaw then, inhales through his nose and frowns - slowly. What is she trying to get at with this? With any of this?

"You can wear whatever you damn well please. It's not up to me."

"Don't be absurd, darling. Of course it is." The sharp shift in his expression doesn't faze her in the slightest: it's like she's not even bothering to watch the road as she drives-- which for Chloe is a massive no. She's cautious, deliberate, and if she's not paying attention it's hardly ever because she wants to.

Unless its a front, of course. But even then.

No, it's really not. And it's something he has a hard time imagining her saying even at the most petty, so much so that its veering sharply into downright comical territory. So he breaks, frown easing - mouth pulling at a smile and a bark of a laugh kicking out of his mouth.

"Alright, you're veering into Stepford territory, darling. Don't pull a muscle."

"Sorry?" And it's not because she's only half-seen, half-slept through the movie once-- all right, maybe it mostly is, but there's a sincerity to it owing to the fact that there's no direct answer being given. That he's fussed and then chuckling and throughout the entirety of it he can't seem to tell her exactly what it is he'd like for her to do.

"I'm saying, you're trying too hard." He fetches his plate off the chest, setting it back across his thigh so he can finish sawing through the meat. "Pretty certain that's the first big no when it comes to conning anyone, much less you're bloody--" He stops. Then starts. Quick enough that is doesn't matter. "--the person you live with."

"Boyfriend." It's spat out plainly-- matter-of-factly, even-- because it's a simple thing to say these days. Easier to want and feel and breathe in without thinking of what titles might cost. The set of her shoulders doesn't even twitch to lock up or go relatively near it.

If anything was going to make him stop and seriously take account of things, it's that word coming out of Chloe Frazer's mouth. Because he doesn't even know how to call her his girlfriend - if that's what she is? Shit, he doesn't know. It sounds petty and childish in a strange way, like something only idiots a fraction his age use. It's not a word for the likes of them - for grown men and women who don't know where their next paycheck is coming from much less how long they'll be out of jail for. Girlfriend and boyfriend is for people planning to be something other than girlfriend and boyfriend eventually and both leave a schlocky, too-sweet taste in his mouth. It's all very secondary school.

Charlie wrinkles his nose, turning slightly to give her a frank examination.

"What's got in your head?"

"Nothing, darling. Don't be ridiculous." It's not as if Talbot's running about on the loose-- and she feels fine. Absolutely fine.

Doesn't she?

His confusion's dismissed; Chloe swaps the cup for get utensils to polish off a few more bites, letting the silence settle till it's heavy and weighted. "Lovely work with the venison by the way."

There's something in it that chills him, sets him back on his proverbial heels and wipes his appetite out. Either this is a game or it isn't and the former stings, the latter--

The latter: "Who have you been talking to?" There's something dangerous and demanding in his tone, dead serious. "Anyone new? Or anyone new from home?"

"Sweetheart, just about everyone here is new, in case you haven't noticed." Chloe's grinning when she huffs it out, as if looking through the creases in his brow-- straight past them like he's hardly there-- or addressing some pale reflection of reality: all perception, no mass.

"No one else from home has turned up yet, though. Shame." Not really.

It's that last word that gets his hackles up, mouth thin and sharp. "You're talking about Elena Fisher, I'd hope." Because there's a few other likely suspects - given Exsilium's habit of repeating pulls and bringing certain people back multiple times - and most of them aren't people he'd be terribly found of seeing at just this moment.

"Who have you been talking to? Anyone odd? --More than usual, I mean."

"Aside from the pub crew?" Exsilium additions aside, these days she even considers the old contacts bad influences. Probably why they weren't phoned up to attend her little 'party'. "No, I've been keeping my nose clean, thank you very much."

After all, that's what he's concerned about, isn't it? Reputation while establishing ties with new, necessary allies.

It takes him a moment of earnest examination, studying the lines of her face - the too-expensive clothes and the turn of her hair about her ears. He sets his shoulders, setting his elbows against his knees--

"You're serious about this?"

It's a blank question, doesn't sound anything like the dig it actually could be.

"I should hope that's obvious." Dig it isn't, but she looks wounded all the same: brow furrowed and low over kohl lined eyes.

Which means there's just one more question he can really even think to ask at the moment:

"Why?"

Her mouth opens instinctually. She knows this, knows why the shift was necessary-- why wouldn't she? But the words don't come, fall flat on her tongue or against the back of her throat while her mind goes to static for a few brief beats. Before she decides to change the subject and see if he won't break it down into manageable details.

"--why what?"

"Why now? Why the clothes and the attitude adjustment, why any of it?" He doesn't even know if those are the right questions to ask and there's an impatient cut to the shape of the questions. This isn't her, he's certain of that much. She's fickle, but not like this - changes her mind because she's set on things instead of ideas.

He thinks. Maybe? Shit, maybe he hasn't any idea what he's talking about.

"I--" Static again. White noise in her ears where logic ought to be, too loud to ignore. It doesn't feel off to her senses, to her mind, despite the look of frustration that edges in on her expression. And then it all catches again on something sensible and she's fine.

It's fine.

"Darling I just want us to be happy."

"So you're curling your hair and playing at being a--" he makes a sharp hand gesture, clearly meant to indicate... whatever it is she's playing at. Housewife? Suburban mother? Christ's sake. "--the make us happy?"

A beat, then sharply: "You realize that's completely daft, don't you?"

"I'm not playing at anything." It's not defensiveness in her voice, it's certainty. "It's like this for a reason, you know. Couples."

There's something irritating about it - the way she won't rise to his goading now that he's picking at her directly. That's not supposed to happen; she's supposed to stab back at him. The carefully put together demeanor sets him off, prickling and sharp: "Like what? Total bullshit?

He casts his fork and knife down, cutlery loud against the glass plate. "Quit messing about."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand-- if I've done something to upset you I'll gladly set it right, but I am not 'messing about' right now." Chloe sets her own set down-- less noise, same positioning-- and rises to her feet to gather up her plate in addition to his, (making the assumption that if they're down he's done) jewelry jingling softly as all the fine bits of metal and flawlessly cut stones clatter against one another.

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And all our troubles in the dark

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