[ pain transmits differently up mechanical nerves. so does everything else but chuck spends a lot more time pinching the fake skin and digits than she does gently caressing her forearm. she's test driving, and you're not supposed to be gentle with a test drive; she's also bitter about the fake limb, and you don't treat things that insult you by their very existence kindly. what few techs they still have in the shatterdome keep fiddling with it, keep peeling back the plastic skin like newton geiszler peels back his shirt cuffs, and taking micro screwdrivers to the joints and — it's one of the most disturbing things she's ever witnessed, seeing her almost passable skin being removed. but the arm never felt right, so it wasn't that much of a shock every time it happened.
it hurt. her shoulder ached constantly, and sometimes she imaged pains in her elbows and fingers as well. the doctors say maybe she should rest and go back to the sling, but chuck's stubborn and refuses once they begrudgingly admit that her arm's not going to fall off if she keeps assalting punching bags. the hansens were never a weepy sort; they may have grown misty eyed and shed a few tears when they were saying goodbye (and hello), but other than that chuck's not cried since they first anchored the supportive plate in her bone, and refuses to cry or bitch and complain about residual aches. she refuses to even talk about them, and starts heavily favoring her left arm subconsciously. she suddenly understands raleigh becket's love for long sleeved sweaters, because every time she looks down and the tattoo of striker's logo isn't on her forearm, she feels a little sick.
she actually understands a lot more about raleigh becket. now. after. likes him a lot more, but it's different; it's not hero worship, and not just respect. there's a lot of respect, sure, because hey, thanks for (helping in) saving the world, becket. chuck's never been very good with emotions. no matter how much she was encouraged to use your words, charlotte as a child, that only went so far if your vocabulary was limited, so she doesn't know what to say to him a lot of the time, and doesn't know what to tell herself either. so when they talk, they talk about stupider things. like how much faster striker is (was) than gipsy right now, squished together on their sides in the bunk in her (and her old man's, but they've separate rooms and is never around anymore) quarters. they have their clothes on,and the lights on too, but they're talking quietly, hushedly; breathing in each other's faces. and she's laying on her right arm, otherwise she'd use that one to gently stroke the side of his face. but it's the fake arm she raises, and fake fingers that she pets his cheek with.
just as her faux nerves transmit pain differently, they transmit tickling differently too. but that doesn't mean she doesn't know he's got more facial hair than usual. for one, she can see it, and wrinkles her nose in distaste. ]
I know she's slower. I've seen ya fight, I watched your entire brawl with Leatherback from the top of Striker. Mako may have made some improvement, but she can't fix old fashion mechanics. And you should shave, mate.
[Striker Eureka was one impression Jaeger, don't get him wrong. He can admit that. He can even admit a little part of him wants to know what it was like to pilot her, to feel her speed and her force. But he's never going to really love another one more than he loves Gipsy. Gipsy is his girl. Gipsy is the one who was there with his brother and now Mako and those are the two most important people in his world.
Don't ask him where Chuck is on the hierarchy because he just doesn't know. Has no idea if it's tied for first with the others or sitting somewhere below that. Or even above it god forbid.]
[ that's the first thing out of her mouth when they step through the caution-tape entry queue and into the carnival. it's taking up a majority of the main drag, dozens of hastily erected food booths along the sidewalk and temporary paint splashed along the middle of the road to lead to the rides. there's a lit up ferris wheel and a merry-go-round that's blasting tinny, lyrical music that can be heard blocks away. children are running everywhere with sparklers and wax paper wrapped treats clutched in their hands, and men and women are running right along with them, delighted and reduced to the childhoods they were robbed of by the twelve year war.
and it'd been a long war. many felt the strain of it, but none quite so completely as the jaeger pilots, the ones who actually fought in it. everyone else survived, which was admirable in and of itself, but it was different.
they're war heroes, and to venture out in public and hope to experience the slightest bit of anonymity, they must go in civilian attire and wear dark sunglasses. chuck's even gone so far to shove most of her hair into a hood, and pulled a bulky scarf out of her old man's stuff, which is helpful because it's still late winter, and it's kind of still fucking freezing. but the celebration feels warm, feels fun, and for as subdued and stressed as everyone's been for so long, it's hard not to get a little giddy now that the threat of death and destruction has been lifted. it shouldn't be a surprise that hong kong had been rebuilt so quickly; people had learned to rebuild quickly, but now they wouldn't have to anymore.
chuck leads — as she almost always does — and they wind up at a shooting booth, firing darts at tiny tin targets that screech and flash a red light when struck. the gun doesn't shoot right, and chuck's entire body isn't nearly as functional as it once was, but she manages to hit a wide-eyed monkey enough times to be handed a small stuffed pig, which she squeezes experimentally, and then hands over to raleigh. ]
Here. For you. [ but, no, it's not a present. she's not that nice. ] ...to hold. I didn't bring a bag. Or we can give it to Mori when we find her again, she brought a bag, yeah?
[Really though, they're not to the point of giving each other tiny stuffed pigs anyway. So it's better to add that qualifier, though actually why on earth would he have to hold her shit for her if it wasn't a gift and maybe he's just going to stop thinking about this now.]
I think so, yeah.
[She's over by the ferris wheel right now, his Mako senses are tingling to tell him that. The way that pilots are just aware of each other and where they're at and what they're feeling, that's no different with him and Mako. He stands there with the pig for a moment before he nods in that direction.]
Come on, I'm not holding your shit all night long.
[ she doesn't go from being an only child to being a stepsister very well, and makes a point to be more of an awkward cousin than the new baby.
half the year, chuck stays in australia with her uncle (more aptly her grandparents, but she spends as much time around scott as she can because she knows it pisses off her dad), but when her old man's not on one tour or another, and when he's actually in alaska playing house, she's dragged along for the bumpy, unpleasant ride. not that the beckets are horrible people, but they're already their own family, with their own sad story and their own complex relationships to traverse. dominique is sick, and chuck's started a few unsavory long distance phone calls with so is your wife dead yet? over the past couple of years.
the only part of the becket family home that chuck likes is the living room. it's sort of an ugly green color, with old fashion furniture that looks like it was collected over the span of several years and inherited from tasteless nuns, but it was always warm. warm, and the first time they'd flown over together, when chuck was eleven and a pipe had burst and flooded the basement bedroom that was supposed to be hers, they'd made her a bed on the lumpy forest green sofa and everyone'd actually given her space and treated it like a bedroom — a bedroom with a big television in it, yeah — which was nice. the next seven years are plenty of time to get the plumbing fixed, and they also paint her room green, and by the time she's eighteen, it's covered in posters and she actually keeps clothes in the drawers as opposed to living out of her suitcase for several months at a time.
but the living room remains her favorite room. it's where she's hanging out, sprawled across the carpet and thumbing through one of the many comic books scattered around the house (with her thermodynamics textbook underneath it) when the doorbell rings. she half expects it to be raleigh or jazmine, who had lost their keys again or something, and she hasn't even completely pulled the earbuds out of her ears when they try to address her.
turns out, she should have left them in her ears. and cranked up the music.
again, the living room is where she is when raleigh gets home. her headphones are still playing soft, warbling songs about loss that seem oddly fitting, but her phone is on the cushion next to her and chuck's not even paying attention anymore. she's picking at her nail beds, and looking over her shoulder when she hears him trudging through the entryway. ]
[Of course she fucking asks that when he's got his mouth full of apple and he has to take a dozen seconds to finish chewing before he can answer. And he's Raleigh Becket so he's not the most observant of people, he doesn't realize that she's being distant, off, close to crying maybe because he's irritated with her.
She plans shit like that. Ask questions when people are chewing. He swears she does it on purpose.]
Uh-- [Okay, final swallow. He's apple free, leaning against the back of the couch behind her.]
The doctor? I think-- I don't know she and Jaz went somewhere. What's up?
[Safe to say, Raleigh hits rock fucking bottom and then some after his brother's death, after he's dishonorably discharged (a fucking favor from Pentecost), after he stops giving a fuck about anything. He's not drinker, doesn't feel the appeal or drugs, falls into hooking because he's starving and some woman offers one night and apparently, even though he's a disgrace to the program, there are still people who adore him, the flies still stick to him and they'll pay a lot for the chance to say they slept with Raleigh Becket.
So that's what he does. That's how he survives and you would think that he would feel ashamed of himself, or guilty or like he's letting his brother's memory down-- but that would require that he feels anything at all.
He has a spot in a bar. The same corner on the same nights drinking the same thing and that's how people find him. That's what people talk about and spread rumors about and it works. It keeps food on his table and he's somewhere between buzzed and too drunk to get it up all the time and that works for him. He doesn't think anything of it anymore, when someone slides into the stool next to him. Just assumes they're there for him.]
It's fifty for an hour. Two hundred for the whole night.
[ bad news travels fast. the entire world knows about yancy becket before the remains of the drive suit are pried off his brother's body, and the entire world is invited to partake in his funeral via live news feeds and intrusive press photos. raleigh becket doesn't attend, and rumors travel faster than bad news. her father keeps it from her for a while, or tries to. like she's not sixteen, and surrounded by people older than her. like she wasn't raised in a military family, and didn't go to public school. like he can actually keep things from her in his own head once they start drifting. but he tries anyway, because his kid daughter had posters and novelty blankets, imitation bomber jackets, and an autographed postcard. and for a time chuck doesn't believe it, but everyone starts whispering the same things. and pictures start showing up everywhere with scandalous, rag-mag titles splashed across them. but even discounting the trashy attempts to garner viewers, the pictures are... suggestive.
and sad.
because he's always alone. and maybe, when she's nineteen and on leave, and tracks him down, a part of her just wants to fix him with her company. a very, very small part, because mostly she kind of wants to see for herself if it's all true. and hit him. smack some sense into him.
but she's dumb struck when she finally finds him, slips into the stool next to him, and he —
fifty for an hour. two hundred for the whole night.
it takes chuck a long time. a good long time to formulate a response to that, and when she finally opens her mouth, it escapes her again. so she haltingly digs into her pocket, and pulls out her wallet. which isn't filled to the brim or anything — the ppdc isn't nearly as wealthy as it once was, but the jaeger pilots still get the best pay, and she'd just visited the currency exchange kiosk — but has a few hundred. she fishes out two. then four. then smacks it on the sticky wood in front of him, and when he doesn't really look at her, gruffly adds. ]
[He'll take what he's due. That's it. Two hundred at the most, unless she comes back tomorrow night. He has some pride left, tattered rags of it in any case and this is where his dignity won't let him fall any further. No charity, no hand outs, he'll work for it. Fuck for his money because that's really all he's good for anymore.]
[ they've got bunk beds. they've always had bunk beds, and they'd been the fucking bees knees when they were little kids, and hers half was painted blue and his half was painted red, and the ladder had been covered in dinosaur and race car stickers like most items of furniture in their room. when they'd been nine, they'd decided they wanted separate rooms, and the bunk beds were detached and his had been hauled into the room across the hall. and then when they'd been ten, and scissure ripped sydney into bits, their mirror bedrooms with the detached bunk beds had been destroyed. the shelter beds had been little more than camping mats, and there'd been no bedframes at all, let alone double deckers. but once their father had been scooped up by marshal stacker pentecost, and the two of them dragged along in hand. and in the shatterdome, there's bunk beds. concrete, cut into the wall, with thin mattresses.
but they adjust.
and while there's no stickers anywhere, and they don't get to paint, they get matching standard issue ppdc clothing. for a few years — until she hits puberty, and him shortly after — they look really similar, like little twigs drowning in sweatshirt grey shirts and cargo pants. but charlotte gets minimal curves, and charles gets muscle definition. she still stakes her claim on the top bunk, and right now is dragging herself back from jockeying in the kwoon. limping is more accurate than dragging, really, because someone — names will not be named, hu wei — smacked her on the ankle, like she wasn't the right pilot in the newest and improved striker eureka, and didn't have to get suited up and go kick some kaiju ass any given day now. she can't climb the ladder and haul herself into her own bed, so she bypasses him in his desk chair and sprawls across his, pulling on the of the drawers beneath their beds open and rooting through clothes. ]
[ her back hits the mat with an almighty thump, the kind of thump that pushes all the air out of her lungs and leaves her gasping for a few seconds in a way that has nothing to do with the arm over her chest or the body weight being held precariously above her. her head might have hit the ground a little too hard, too, and for a second chuck is just staring at the ceiling with stars sparkling behind her eyeballs. ]
Okay.
[ it's been five months since graduation, and three months since her first drop. statistically, it'd been a roaring success and the fastest kaiju take down on record. but walking out of the conn-pod had left her (and her old man, maybe, they haven't really talked) an emotional mess. all the training and test drives in the world couldn't prepare her for a full fledged drift with her father. sure, they'd run simulations before, but they'd been simulations and herc had successfully reigned in his emotions and memories, and she'd reigned in her hate. but distracted by the battle, which may have been brief but was incredibly fierce, neither of them could keep secrets. blaring light was shone on the darkest recesses of their minds; chuck discovers vivid memories of her birth and warm and of love, and herc discovers a deep seated desire to have had him perish in scissure too. at least then she would have been an orphan.
so naturally they're not talking.
and naturally she's glued herself to dean winchesters side as a result.
chuck can't put into words why she likes him so much, she just does. maybe it's his equally awful attitude and bleak outlook on life that complimented her sour one. maybe it was his history that was charted with just as much — if not more — loss as hers. maybe it was that he had pretty eyes, and life experience which had led them here. to the kwoon, with chuck on her back and trying to catch her breath. ]
Okay. You were right. [ first time for everything, right? and that's the first time chuck's said you're right with complete candor since she was eight and had messed up the pancakes. she wheezes. ] I don't have enough, ow, upper body strength. For that move.
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FIRST
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i'm attached to this robotic arm idea okok
it hurt. her shoulder ached constantly, and sometimes she imaged pains in her elbows and fingers as well. the doctors say maybe she should rest and go back to the sling, but chuck's stubborn and refuses once they begrudgingly admit that her arm's not going to fall off if she keeps assalting punching bags. the hansens were never a weepy sort; they may have grown misty eyed and shed a few tears when they were saying goodbye (and hello), but other than that chuck's not cried since they first anchored the supportive plate in her bone, and refuses to cry or bitch and complain about residual aches. she refuses to even talk about them, and starts heavily favoring her left arm subconsciously. she suddenly understands raleigh becket's love for long sleeved sweaters, because every time she looks down and the tattoo of striker's logo isn't on her forearm, she feels a little sick.
she actually understands a lot more about raleigh becket. now. after. likes him a lot more, but it's different; it's not hero worship, and not just respect. there's a lot of respect, sure, because hey, thanks for (helping in) saving the world, becket. chuck's never been very good with emotions. no matter how much she was encouraged to use your words, charlotte as a child, that only went so far if your vocabulary was limited, so she doesn't know what to say to him a lot of the time, and doesn't know what to tell herself either. so when they talk, they talk about stupider things. like how much faster striker is (was) than gipsy right now, squished together on their sides in the bunk in her (and her old man's, but they've separate rooms and is never around anymore) quarters. they have their clothes on,and the lights on too, but they're talking quietly, hushedly; breathing in each other's faces. and she's laying on her right arm, otherwise she'd use that one to gently stroke the side of his face. but it's the fake arm she raises, and fake fingers that she pets his cheek with.
just as her faux nerves transmit pain differently, they transmit tickling differently too. but that doesn't mean she doesn't know he's got more facial hair than usual. for one, she can see it, and wrinkles her nose in distaste. ]
I know she's slower. I've seen ya fight, I watched your entire brawl with Leatherback from the top of Striker. Mako may have made some improvement, but she can't fix old fashion mechanics. And you should shave, mate.
i love it
[Striker Eureka was one impression Jaeger, don't get him wrong. He can admit that. He can even admit a little part of him wants to know what it was like to pilot her, to feel her speed and her force. But he's never going to really love another one more than he loves Gipsy. Gipsy is his girl. Gipsy is the one who was there with his brother and now Mako and those are the two most important people in his world.
Don't ask him where Chuck is on the hierarchy because he just doesn't know. Has no idea if it's tied for first with the others or sitting somewhere below that. Or even above it god forbid.]
You don't like my beard? I think it's manly.
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intentional duck there
duck duck goose
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[ that's the first thing out of her mouth when they step through the caution-tape entry queue and into the carnival. it's taking up a majority of the main drag, dozens of hastily erected food booths along the sidewalk and temporary paint splashed along the middle of the road to lead to the rides. there's a lit up ferris wheel and a merry-go-round that's blasting tinny, lyrical music that can be heard blocks away. children are running everywhere with sparklers and wax paper wrapped treats clutched in their hands, and men and women are running right along with them, delighted and reduced to the childhoods they were robbed of by the twelve year war.
and it'd been a long war. many felt the strain of it, but none quite so completely as the jaeger pilots, the ones who actually fought in it. everyone else survived, which was admirable in and of itself, but it was different.
they're war heroes, and to venture out in public and hope to experience the slightest bit of anonymity, they must go in civilian attire and wear dark sunglasses. chuck's even gone so far to shove most of her hair into a hood, and pulled a bulky scarf out of her old man's stuff, which is helpful because it's still late winter, and it's kind of still fucking freezing. but the celebration feels warm, feels fun, and for as subdued and stressed as everyone's been for so long, it's hard not to get a little giddy now that the threat of death and destruction has been lifted. it shouldn't be a surprise that hong kong had been rebuilt so quickly; people had learned to rebuild quickly, but now they wouldn't have to anymore.
chuck leads — as she almost always does — and they wind up at a shooting booth, firing darts at tiny tin targets that screech and flash a red light when struck. the gun doesn't shoot right, and chuck's entire body isn't nearly as functional as it once was, but she manages to hit a wide-eyed monkey enough times to be handed a small stuffed pig, which she squeezes experimentally, and then hands over to raleigh. ]
Here. For you. [ but, no, it's not a present. she's not that nice. ] ...to hold. I didn't bring a bag. Or we can give it to Mori when we find her again, she brought a bag, yeah?
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I think so, yeah.
[She's over by the ferris wheel right now, his Mako senses are tingling to tell him that. The way that pilots are just aware of each other and where they're at and what they're feeling, that's no different with him and Mako. He stands there with the pig for a moment before he nods in that direction.]
Come on, I'm not holding your shit all night long.
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half the year, chuck stays in australia with her uncle (more aptly her grandparents, but she spends as much time around scott as she can because she knows it pisses off her dad), but when her old man's not on one tour or another, and when he's actually in alaska playing house, she's dragged along for the bumpy, unpleasant ride. not that the beckets are horrible people, but they're already their own family, with their own sad story and their own complex relationships to traverse. dominique is sick, and chuck's started a few unsavory long distance phone calls with so is your wife dead yet? over the past couple of years.
the only part of the becket family home that chuck likes is the living room. it's sort of an ugly green color, with old fashion furniture that looks like it was collected over the span of several years and inherited from tasteless nuns, but it was always warm. warm, and the first time they'd flown over together, when chuck was eleven and a pipe had burst and flooded the basement bedroom that was supposed to be hers, they'd made her a bed on the lumpy forest green sofa and everyone'd actually given her space and treated it like a bedroom — a bedroom with a big television in it, yeah — which was nice. the next seven years are plenty of time to get the plumbing fixed, and they also paint her room green, and by the time she's eighteen, it's covered in posters and she actually keeps clothes in the drawers as opposed to living out of her suitcase for several months at a time.
but the living room remains her favorite room. it's where she's hanging out, sprawled across the carpet and thumbing through one of the many comic books scattered around the house (with her thermodynamics textbook underneath it) when the doorbell rings. she half expects it to be raleigh or jazmine, who had lost their keys again or something, and she hasn't even completely pulled the earbuds out of her ears when they try to address her.
turns out, she should have left them in her ears. and cranked up the music.
again, the living room is where she is when raleigh gets home. her headphones are still playing soft, warbling songs about loss that seem oddly fitting, but her phone is on the cushion next to her and chuck's not even paying attention anymore. she's picking at her nail beds, and looking over her shoulder when she hears him trudging through the entryway. ]
Hey, Ray. Where's your mom?
sorry this is short :c
She plans shit like that. Ask questions when people are chewing. He swears she does it on purpose.]
Uh-- [Okay, final swallow. He's apple free, leaning against the back of the couch behind her.]
The doctor? I think-- I don't know she and Jaz went somewhere. What's up?
how dare you write short tags, dishonor on you
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idk if aussies get their flag when they die but
but what
but it's happening in this verse
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not as good as the first time i wrote it ;__;
its still beautiful
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continued from that tfln cause i liked it so
it's a good tfln
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10 minutes later
thirty minutes after that and a phone call later
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bite him like she does when they're adopted siblings
lmfaosdfag
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So that's what he does. That's how he survives and you would think that he would feel ashamed of himself, or guilty or like he's letting his brother's memory down-- but that would require that he feels anything at all.
He has a spot in a bar. The same corner on the same nights drinking the same thing and that's how people find him. That's what people talk about and spread rumors about and it works. It keeps food on his table and he's somewhere between buzzed and too drunk to get it up all the time and that works for him. He doesn't think anything of it anymore, when someone slides into the stool next to him. Just assumes they're there for him.]
It's fifty for an hour. Two hundred for the whole night.
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and sad.
because he's always alone. and maybe, when she's nineteen and on leave, and tracks him down, a part of her just wants to fix him with her company. a very, very small part, because mostly she kind of wants to see for herself if it's all true. and hit him. smack some sense into him.
but she's dumb struck when she finally finds him, slips into the stool next to him, and he —
fifty for an hour. two hundred for the whole night.
it takes chuck a long time. a good long time to formulate a response to that, and when she finally opens her mouth, it escapes her again. so she haltingly digs into her pocket, and pulls out her wallet. which isn't filled to the brim or anything — the ppdc isn't nearly as wealthy as it once was, but the jaeger pilots still get the best pay, and she'd just visited the currency exchange kiosk — but has a few hundred. she fishes out two. then four. then smacks it on the sticky wood in front of him, and when he doesn't really look at her, gruffly adds. ]
It looks like you need it more than I do.
[ oh how the mighty fall. ]
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[He'll take what he's due. That's it. Two hundred at the most, unless she comes back tomorrow night. He has some pride left, tattered rags of it in any case and this is where his dignity won't let him fall any further. No charity, no hand outs, he'll work for it. Fuck for his money because that's really all he's good for anymore.]
Two hundred is just fine.
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fucking twins, no
[ they've got bunk beds. they've always had bunk beds, and they'd been the fucking bees knees when they were little kids, and hers half was painted blue and his half was painted red, and the ladder had been covered in dinosaur and race car stickers like most items of furniture in their room. when they'd been nine, they'd decided they wanted separate rooms, and the bunk beds were detached and his had been hauled into the room across the hall. and then when they'd been ten, and scissure ripped sydney into bits, their mirror bedrooms with the detached bunk beds had been destroyed. the shelter beds had been little more than camping mats, and there'd been no bedframes at all, let alone double deckers. but once their father had been scooped up by marshal stacker pentecost, and the two of them dragged along in hand. and in the shatterdome, there's bunk beds. concrete, cut into the wall, with thin mattresses.
but they adjust.
and while there's no stickers anywhere, and they don't get to paint, they get matching standard issue ppdc clothing. for a few years — until she hits puberty, and him shortly after — they look really similar, like little twigs drowning in sweatshirt grey shirts and cargo pants. but charlotte gets minimal curves, and charles gets muscle definition. she still stakes her claim on the top bunk, and right now is dragging herself back from jockeying in the kwoon. limping is more accurate than dragging, really, because someone — names will not be named, hu wei — smacked her on the ankle, like she wasn't the right pilot in the newest and improved striker eureka, and didn't have to get suited up and go kick some kaiju ass any given day now. she can't climb the ladder and haul herself into her own bed, so she bypasses him in his desk chair and sprawls across his, pulling on the of the drawers beneath their beds open and rooting through clothes. ]
Where's the ankle wrap?
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i said what what in the butt
hehehe butt
Okay.
[ it's been five months since graduation, and three months since her first drop. statistically, it'd been a roaring success and the fastest kaiju take down on record. but walking out of the conn-pod had left her (and her old man, maybe, they haven't really talked) an emotional mess. all the training and test drives in the world couldn't prepare her for a full fledged drift with her father. sure, they'd run simulations before, but they'd been simulations and herc had successfully reigned in his emotions and memories, and she'd reigned in her hate. but distracted by the battle, which may have been brief but was incredibly fierce, neither of them could keep secrets. blaring light was shone on the darkest recesses of their minds; chuck discovers vivid memories of her birth and warm and of love, and herc discovers a deep seated desire to have had him perish in scissure too. at least then she would have been an orphan.
so naturally they're not talking.
and naturally she's glued herself to dean winchesters side as a result.
chuck can't put into words why she likes him so much, she just does. maybe it's his equally awful attitude and bleak outlook on life that complimented her sour one. maybe it was his history that was charted with just as much — if not more — loss as hers. maybe it was that he had pretty eyes, and life experience which had led them here. to the kwoon, with chuck on her back and trying to catch her breath. ]
Okay. You were right. [ first time for everything, right? and that's the first time chuck's said you're right with complete candor since she was eight and had messed up the pancakes. she wheezes. ] I don't have enough, ow, upper body strength. For that move.
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have a thing - lets make it beautiful