Dr. Rob Chase

He was both awake and drowsy as he scuttled around the room, probably not really staying true to the whole Saturday-Morning-Lazy-Lie-in, but he was planning to release all the copies of the study (well, abridged at least) on Wednesday and he kept thinking that he was going to read over them and discover he'd insulted everyone at large and he couldn't stop worrying.

"Gwen, what if there's backlash?" he asked, voice strung with panic as he gaped up from a copy, standing at the foot of the bed with one foot on the floor, one knee on the covers.

He had told the Doctor that he should go, find the others, see if everyone was okay. Of course he hadn't meant a word of it, had really meant stay, please don't leave me, please, please, please. But then, when recently engaged and rescued from dinosaurs, exhausted with low blood sugar and a wound on his hip deep enough to earn its own name (the Grand Chase Canyon), he really wasn't in the best headspace.

So he had pushed the Doctor to go do his things, because he had to learn sometime. And anyway, he was wrapped in massive blankets, only his eyes and forehead and hair peeking out from under, half-asleep and swathed in protective cotton and linens.

It felt nice.

Even if he didn't want to close his eyes too much, for fear he'd be yanked right back to Mr. T-Rex.

He'd tugged a lot of things along with him that Sunday morning. After booting the Doctor out of the room with a playful foot to his behind, he'd gotten Gwen, the cookies, muffins, and some crossword puzzles from Sarah Jane before settling in for the morning, locking the door for privacy and keeping the little terrace door open.

It was lazy, as per usual, but Chase liked to think he only worked in lazy. Except for the fact that instead of doing his crossword puzzle, he kept straining his neck to memorize definitions from the psychiatric textbook he had on the bed, a couple feet from Gwen.

"So, you still avoiding me?" he teased, barely glancing up as he fed Atalanta several crumbs of the muffin.

He'd told the Doctor he would be down at the beach to swim and he meant to keep the promise. He just didn't think he could move just yet. He was sitting on the roof of the Compound, legs dangling over the edge as he smoked a self-made cigarette, weed inside, lit with the stove downstairs and using a defunct chart as the joint.

He was just staring out at the path, watching the sun and thinking about why it felt so empty inside. Why he couldn't even feel hurt, so much as nothing?

He took a deep inhalation, exhaling it thoughtfully, elbows resting on his legs. If he just let it come through, he knew it would hurt, but he wasn't strong enough for that. Not yet. So he remained numb.