Chloe knows that itch, feels just as pent up when she's down for a few days with a cold-- were their places swapped, she'd be climbing out the bloody window just to get a lungful of fresh air; it's not a hard concept to understand, much less sympathize with.
The tea bag's dragged out, dripping water all over stained counter top on its way to the bin. Chloe dumps the half-steeped cup's contents down the drain a few seconds later. A sort of non-verbal sign that she's committing to the idea against her better judgment.
She's already lost Nate. No reason to go adding Charlie's name to the list of friendships strained on account of butting heads over reckless behavior.
He doesn't expect her to agree, certainly doesn't think she'll drop what she's doing to put up with his bullshit so he's not even remotely ready to get back onto his feet even though the sounds in the kitchen suggest it might be in his better interests. He has to lever himself up slightly to even get a look over the back of the sofa; there's a pinch low in his back from it.
"My jacket's on the hook over there, darling." Diplomatic enough - he's doesn't dare push his luck now.
Much as she tries not to grin about it, she does. Years after Nepal and Borneo and Nate's ridiculous jokes and she still can't stop herself from reacting when a charm's involved; some habits never fade. And that usual leather jacket of his is strung up just where he said it'd be, but Chloe bypasses it, moves it aside for the thick winter coat hidden away on the lower hook. Charlie might love his leather, but with snowfall thick as anything and his flesh all stitched up under that cast, he's wearing wool.
"Here you go." Coat held up on display in her hands the way a matador holds their cloak.
"Oh," he groans, lip curling gently. "Come now, it's hardly cold enough for that. What do you think I am, an old gran?"
Which might be a better argument if he weren't taking a thousand years to claw his way back to a sitting position and get his good leg under him. Charlie reaches for the crutches where he dumped them beside the sofa; it takes him a bit longer to get those righted, to sway his weight the proper direction and get up onto his feet. Six weeks with these, they tell him optimistically. Then another six months at least with a cane.
And while he may be a goddamned invalid, there's something to be said for a bit of upper body strength. As much as his leg gives him trouble, he manages to get over to her alright with the crutches. Getting into the coat from there is more of a challenge, but to hell with it. They're leaving the flat and that's all that matters.
"You're not going to insist on a scarf and earmuffs as well, are you?"
"Give me ideas and you might not enjoy the results." It's huffed out with a laugh down into the buttons of his coat as she does them up for him; straightens out the thing with a few tugs till the seam falls into place and she can take a step back. "There we are. Good as new-- long as no one looks down. C'mon."
It wasn't the initial plan, staying in London for a few weeks while Charlie gets himself poked and prodded and stitched up like a toy that's lost all its stuffing. The leg was a mess. He's lucky there was anything to repair-- a point the doctors reiterated time and time again, both before and after the surgery was done and dealt with. Calling in to say she'd be dropping out of the job in New York was a shame: she likes the snow better over there. Plaza all lit up with the ice rink and the music.
Chloe never told him that bit. Didn't think it necessary. Poor bastard would've split his leg open again on the third day in, hobbling about the house for the sake of ignoring the pain over a hot cup of tea. Or a book. A movie. Possibly a snack. Which of course was after her initial decision to stay long enough to see him through his surgery.
Something to do with the look on his face during a lengthy flight home from Syria. Unsettling, how quiet he'd been back then.
Chloe tugs open the front door. "I'm picking up a coffee on the way back."
"Ha ha, very charming." It's three parts sarcasm, a very small sliver genuinely charmed. Amazing how the promise of getting off the couch can lighten the mood a bit. It feels like he hasn't been out of the flat in ages, and here she is proposing coffee and making a proper trip of it. It's-- pleasant, crutches notwithstanding. There's a lot of things he can find room to complain about lately, but that fact that she's chosen to stick around and dirty his place up a bit isn't one of them.
"Fine, but I'm demanding a biscuit while we're there. Because I haven't gotten fat enough already." Under better circumstances, he'd give her a pinch on the way out of the door. As it is, he has to forgo the temptation so he can crutch his way to the freight elevator at the end of the hall.
She more than makes up for it with a light pat on the rear as he hobbles past, turning the latch to lock it while he gains a head start. By the time the lift hits their floor she's behind him, and by the time the doors slide open in the lobby she's in front, aiming to clear a path for him to follow less out of concern than it is practicality: anyone skirting out of her way is less likely to clip the edge of his crutches.
And the snowfall's picking up once they're well beyond the first few steps outside, tugging out the realization that the less time they take getting their errands run, the less likely the chances are of Charlie losing a toe or two thanks to a cast with little in the way of insulation.
"How far off is the shop again?" She asks, as if she doesn't already know. The start of applying a little pressure to spur them on at a quicker pace-- without breaking his neck on the ice.
Putting the screws to him about hurrying anywhere at this point is asking for a lot and while it'd usually be something to put him in a fouler mood, being outdoors in the brisk winter weather for once means he can take it reasonably in stride. "About fifteen minutes this way," he says, turning up the road. Granted, that's a solid fifteen minutes without your foot in a boot, but optimism is officially the new word of the day.
Still, navigating the sidewalk with crutches and one good leg is asking for a lot of positive thinking. He manages to get as far at the first curb before he has to draw up, pausing to evaluate the step down.
Much as she tries, she's no Elena Fisher. There's no inherent maternal instinct that tells her to mind the cracks or notify him of any slick looking patches. Charlie's a grown man that's navigated worse than a city street; she trusts him to pay attention to how he puts one foot-- crutch-- down after the other.
So at the intersection when they've got the all clear to slip across, Chloe moves ahead a good three paces before she realizes he's stuck frittering at the edge.
And instead of offering her arm, she doubles back only one step (hand half-raised so as to be discreet and not overwhelmingly hennish), waiting for him to cue her in.
"Well I'm not an old grandmother, now am I?" He snips back at her, mildly enough over the solid wrap of the scarf around his neck and chin as to be non-offensive (possibly). Still it takes him some moments before he figures out how to navigate down off the icy curb - where to jam the end of one crutch and where to brace the other. Once he's managed that much though, he's off: making relatively long strides to make up the distance between them.
He doesn't pause as he gets level with her, instead brushing straight past her and making for the next curb up. "Come on then. Don't drag your feet."
"Yes, gran. " Chloe chips in cheerfully from over his shoulder as she easily matches his...hobbling stride. Lucky for them the streets aren't all that busy this time of day: too many kids still stuck in classrooms and few mothers do their business on these blocks, though the closer they get to the shop, the more pedestrians she counts.
And it's not all that noticeable how protective it makes her (she passes it off as a better point for conversation-- her voice will carry well enough for his ears to catch) when Chloe doesn't care to trust the shuffling crowds to mind their feet. She walks more in front, angled wide across where his left crutch tends to fall: if someone slips up they'll do it on her toes long before they reach him.
"Next job's not for a while now. Honestly I thought we'd be busy lending a hand with Nate for a lot longer than what we wound up with."
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no subject
The tea bag's dragged out, dripping water all over stained counter top on its way to the bin. Chloe dumps the half-steeped cup's contents down the drain a few seconds later. A sort of non-verbal sign that she's committing to the idea against her better judgment.
She's already lost Nate. No reason to go adding Charlie's name to the list of friendships strained on account of butting heads over reckless behavior.
no subject
"My jacket's on the hook over there, darling." Diplomatic enough - he's doesn't dare push his luck now.
no subject
Much as she tries not to grin about it, she does. Years after Nepal and Borneo and Nate's ridiculous jokes and she still can't stop herself from reacting when a charm's involved; some habits never fade. And that usual leather jacket of his is strung up just where he said it'd be, but Chloe bypasses it, moves it aside for the thick winter coat hidden away on the lower hook. Charlie might love his leather, but with snowfall thick as anything and his flesh all stitched up under that cast, he's wearing wool.
"Here you go." Coat held up on display in her hands the way a matador holds their cloak.
no subject
Which might be a better argument if he weren't taking a thousand years to claw his way back to a sitting position and get his good leg under him. Charlie reaches for the crutches where he dumped them beside the sofa; it takes him a bit longer to get those righted, to sway his weight the proper direction and get up onto his feet. Six weeks with these, they tell him optimistically. Then another six months at least with a cane.
And while he may be a goddamned invalid, there's something to be said for a bit of upper body strength. As much as his leg gives him trouble, he manages to get over to her alright with the crutches. Getting into the coat from there is more of a challenge, but to hell with it. They're leaving the flat and that's all that matters.
"You're not going to insist on a scarf and earmuffs as well, are you?"
no subject
It wasn't the initial plan, staying in London for a few weeks while Charlie gets himself poked and prodded and stitched up like a toy that's lost all its stuffing. The leg was a mess. He's lucky there was anything to repair-- a point the doctors reiterated time and time again, both before and after the surgery was done and dealt with. Calling in to say she'd be dropping out of the job in New York was a shame: she likes the snow better over there. Plaza all lit up with the ice rink and the music.
Chloe never told him that bit. Didn't think it necessary. Poor bastard would've split his leg open again on the third day in, hobbling about the house for the sake of ignoring the pain over a hot cup of tea. Or a book. A movie. Possibly a snack. Which of course was after her initial decision to stay long enough to see him through his surgery.
Something to do with the look on his face during a lengthy flight home from Syria. Unsettling, how quiet he'd been back then.
Chloe tugs open the front door. "I'm picking up a coffee on the way back."
no subject
"Fine, but I'm demanding a biscuit while we're there. Because I haven't gotten fat enough already." Under better circumstances, he'd give her a pinch on the way out of the door. As it is, he has to forgo the temptation so he can crutch his way to the freight elevator at the end of the hall.
no subject
And the snowfall's picking up once they're well beyond the first few steps outside, tugging out the realization that the less time they take getting their errands run, the less likely the chances are of Charlie losing a toe or two thanks to a cast with little in the way of insulation.
"How far off is the shop again?" She asks, as if she doesn't already know. The start of applying a little pressure to spur them on at a quicker pace-- without breaking his neck on the ice.
no subject
Still, navigating the sidewalk with crutches and one good leg is asking for a lot of positive thinking. He manages to get as far at the first curb before he has to draw up, pausing to evaluate the step down.
no subject
So at the intersection when they've got the all clear to slip across, Chloe moves ahead a good three paces before she realizes he's stuck frittering at the edge.
And instead of offering her arm, she doubles back only one step (hand half-raised so as to be discreet and not overwhelmingly hennish), waiting for him to cue her in.
"Got it?"
no subject
He doesn't pause as he gets level with her, instead brushing straight past her and making for the next curb up. "Come on then. Don't drag your feet."
no subject
And it's not all that noticeable how protective it makes her (she passes it off as a better point for conversation-- her voice will carry well enough for his ears to catch) when Chloe doesn't care to trust the shuffling crowds to mind their feet. She walks more in front, angled wide across where his left crutch tends to fall: if someone slips up they'll do it on her toes long before they reach him.
"Next job's not for a while now. Honestly I thought we'd be busy lending a hand with Nate for a lot longer than what we wound up with."