[ he doesn't take the bait, but it's for a number of reasons. chuck isn't afraid of the fight that could break out between them- there'd been enough over the years, and whatever it was that held them together (shared history if nothing else) kept the balance well enough. they don't sync up, not the way they had when they were small, but there's a kind of understanding chuck shares with her that he keeps with no one else. it isn't trust so much as a mutual awareness. swords forged in the same fires.
in many ways they are the sun and moon to eachother- opposites in every way, and held in place by gravity. they will always be constants to one another, but the same force that locks them together will forever keep them from touching.
he'll wait for her to turn back around, do whatever the hell it is she's doing, making friendship bracelets for her and becket or whatever (that's more raleigh's style and he knows it, but the grit to his teeth is there all the same. chuck's gaze returns to the window out of sheer spite. he'll throw the nearest object (a drab looking pillow no bigger than his forearm) as soon as she isn't looking. cheap shot. ]
[ Chuck doesn't rise to the challenge and maybe that's a disappointment but Mako knows better than to take his attempt to look back out the window as anything personal. (That's just Chuck.) She knows that as soon as she turns her back on him again, he'll retaliate with something a little less than dignified. His father had a reputation for sucker punches and dirty brawls, a habit that's apparently passed onto his son. Whether it's nature or whether it's nurture, they'll never know, but Mako can feel his own impulses almost as tangibly as she does her own.
That's why he's the only one who can get a real rise out of her, who can barrel roll his way past the quiet reservedness of so many of her defenses. Chuck had watched her build those walls inside of herself, and when they were children had even helped her lay the foundation of so many, passing her brick after brick, his hands lingering and then not and then pulling away until there was nothing left for Mako to do but finish what they'd started on her own.
It doesn't make her bitter or angry or sad. It just makes her close to him in a way no one else is. A way that will never be closer (they'd tried it and it was awkward but maybe it was special too; Mako doesn't know).
Rather than give him the satisfaction of turning back to the little notepad she's been doodling in, Mako swings herself round and out to dangle, the motion graceful and near-balletic as she deposits herself into the narrow aisle of the camper feet-first. There's a flash of pale leg (not long, but lithe) as she does so, then the undeniable push of her hand as she tries to shove Chuck's feet off the bench across from him in an attempt to make room for herself.
He might be stubborn but she is too and Mako's never (never) walked away from anything. Never in her entire life. ]
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in many ways they are the sun and moon to eachother- opposites in every way, and held in place by gravity. they will always be constants to one another, but the same force that locks them together will forever keep them from touching.
he'll wait for her to turn back around, do whatever the hell it is she's doing, making friendship bracelets for her and becket or whatever (that's more raleigh's style and he knows it, but the grit to his teeth is there all the same. chuck's gaze returns to the window out of sheer spite. he'll throw the nearest object (a drab looking pillow no bigger than his forearm) as soon as she isn't looking. cheap shot. ]
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That's why he's the only one who can get a real rise out of her, who can barrel roll his way past the quiet reservedness of so many of her defenses. Chuck had watched her build those walls inside of herself, and when they were children had even helped her lay the foundation of so many, passing her brick after brick, his hands lingering and then not and then pulling away until there was nothing left for Mako to do but finish what they'd started on her own.
It doesn't make her bitter or angry or sad. It just makes her close to him in a way no one else is. A way that will never be closer (they'd tried it and it was awkward but maybe it was special too; Mako doesn't know).
Rather than give him the satisfaction of turning back to the little notepad she's been doodling in, Mako swings herself round and out to dangle, the motion graceful and near-balletic as she deposits herself into the narrow aisle of the camper feet-first. There's a flash of pale leg (not long, but lithe) as she does so, then the undeniable push of her hand as she tries to shove Chuck's feet off the bench across from him in an attempt to make room for herself.
He might be stubborn but she is too and Mako's never (never) walked away from anything. Never in her entire life. ]