maskormenacelogs | this is fine.

WHO: Dr Chilton & Miss Wynne-York.
WHERE: Maurtia Falls housing.
WHEN: After noticing he hasn't been at work.
WHAT: Essentially this.
WARNINGS: TBD.

It's been a while, and Gwen is not - like, great at people, but there are a few for whom she's inclined to make some manner of effort. So when it becomes apparent that she's having trouble getting a hold of Frederick at the office because he hasn't been showing up to the office...

...probably the polite thing to do would be to call first. On the other hand, she's now called first several times and been put off by harried staff-members, so, now it's more a question of following up or minding her own business. And she isn't good at other people's feelings, and not turning up to work unexplained usually does involve someone's feelings at some point, so -

Not knowing what's happened but guessing, presumably, that something has: she spares him a visit from her enormous dog. It's just her, on the doorstep of his Maurtia Falls home, knocking and changing the bag she's carrying from one hand to the other. She doesn't do talking about things very well, but she can definitely do buying someone's affection or at least a laugh, and if it's the thought that counts then she definitely thought hard about the contents of the bag she's come bearing.

“Open your fucking door,” she sighs. To the door.

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"No," said the door in response. Or rather, the man behind the door -- who was Chilton, soaking in an emotional repose of isolation and self-pity. How he was so quick to reply remained a mystery: was he lingering by the door? Was it as passing chance to be obstinate, irresistible to Chilton even in this state?

"What is it?"

His peephole peering wasn't visible, but it was probably evident by the resonance and closeness of his voice. If he was surprised by Gwen's presence, it didn't leak into his tired yet hostile tone.

The long pause on this side of the door mostly consists of Gwen staring hard at the peephole, visibly weighing her options. What she would want, if she were...whatever this is. Which is to be left alone, mostly, but occasionally not, and no one's a fucking mind-reader, least of all her-

“I don't know what's up,” she says, finally, assuming optimistically that he's still standing there, “but you haven't been at work. So I brought you things. I've got, um-”

She looks down into the bag again.

“Some scotch, some dinner in case you hadn't made any, it's from that restaurant we had lunch at, they were very nice and I said it was all for me, some...pictures...” Nude fanart from the dating sim, in case it might cheer him up. “And a sweater.”

She considers the closed door. Bounces the bag in her hand and then grimaces, because that's a stupid thing to do with food and liquor and things.

“I can leave it on the porch if you'd rather.”

The door cracked. A hazel eye peered out -- his real one, not the clever bionic lens that Tony Stark had made for him at Raina's request. He preferred to witness with his real eye, especially during such vulnerable moments.

"Hello, Gwenaëlle."

Such a simple yet intimate phrase. He had always preferred her full name. His eye glanced down at the promised gifts.

"What sort of sweater?" It was the natural question falling from his mouth, before he could stop himself. Before he could restrain a more proper emotion, his curiosity practically crawled out the door to sniff at her hands. He didn't know why she had brought him a sweater, why dinner had come and why she graced his house. She had said she came looking for him, but to Chilton that didn't immediately translate into concern.

But here she was, and he slowly allowed the door to creak open. His dress shirt, a dark blue with thin, gold vertical stripes, was unbuttoned halfway. He had a five o'clock shadow to indicate a couple mornings without shaving, and a tousled look to his hair.

Concern is not exactly something she wears particularly naturally; there's not much about her that would be readily described as 'nurturing', her (surprising, to some) affection for children notwithstanding. She still looks a bit awkward, without the peep-hole between them - sweeps a look from his feet to his face, taking in how much less put together he is compared to what she's grown used to, presses her lips together.

She's not very good at the thing people do, where their face doesn't betray every reaction.

“One of those soft sort of ones with a v-neck,” she reports, offering him the bag. (It's in a second, smaller bag with the artworks to protect it from the food and drink.) “I thought it'd look nice on you. It's sort of a violet-ish blue.”

Good for casual Fridays. Are those a thing? This is a very casual whatever the fuck day it is.

A head tilt, as if he were analyzing the properties. In truth, Chilton rather enjoyed the consideration -- the detail of violet-blue. He was overtly fond of blue, its versatility and gravitas suiting his self-image nicely. As he opened the door for her, he did so without announcement -- a quick and flustered head throw around the door was necessary for scouring the scene.

All clear.

"Come in, then." A murmur edging towards a hiss. The door was quick to be locked behind her.

Chilton wasn't wearing his usual polish; disheveled hair, an unbuttoned dress shirt, black socks against his navy blue slacks. It was clear by the distracted darting of his gaze that something else clouded his mind, devoured his focus.

"Get you something to drink? Water, or otherwise?"

Almost an afterthought.

“I could make some tea.”

Chilton isn't exactly looking like he's at the top of his host game, right now, and Gwen didn't exactly come over expecting him to be - and, tea is what people have in these situations, in her experience. In literally all situations, when as many of your relatives are British as are hers. Case in point: “We could put some of the scotch in it.”

She could ask what the fuck is going on. She thinks this is probably the space where somebody else would, and can't quite decide whether or not she thinks they're wrong or she is-

but she doesn't want to press him. He could say yes, that's a great idea, and here's fucking why or he could decline or he could say yes and not explain and - any of those things would be fine.

She's here to be here. If he wants.

"Wasn't thinking tea, necessarily." But he followed her lead nevertheless, walking behind her like a ghost haunting his own home. At her suggestion of scotch in the brew, he nodded -- that was up his alley.

"I think Raina has some stashed somewhere. Teas, I mean, I certainly have the scotch. She prefers -- oh, oolong, green, black tea. What would complement best?"

Adrift. He spoke without looking at her, a man lost at the sea of his own emotions, swallowed and ready to drown. He needed a mermaid more than ever. Helplessly, he glanced at her, and finally made eye contact.

"Not much help, am I?"

this is fine.

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