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Chert settled back carefully and swiveled his head to one side. The memory inspired a little bit of shame in retrospect, and he realized he'd never actually tried to properly explain the whole incident. The fight had been yet another of the island's misfortune's he'd mentally buried, but it dimly occured to him that since Antony wasn't privy to his thought procceses, maybe she deserved a bit of clarification.

"The man thought-" he said, kissing the curve of her cheekbone, "-that he was one lucky sonnuvabitch."

Apparently there were no hidden treasure troves of flowery prose locked inside his head, but the sentiment was sincere.

"Hhnn. Wasn't in a particularly stable state of mind," he admitted with a lop-sided grin, examining the lines of her face. As rare as it was, he'd decided he quite liked her smile- it lit up her features in a way the smirks failed to, although perhaps (and he was loathe to admit it) those might have been growing on him, too. After a moment he let his gaze wander back up to the ceiling. Would he have joined her originally if they'd met under less stressful circumstances? It was doutbful; a part of him was surprised he was lying in bed with her even at that moment. But she had a strange way of creeping around his defenses, almost like a river working slowly to circumvent a boulder, and he was beginning to think that maybe going with the flow was better than trying to stand up against the tide. It was an odd feeling.

After a moment he looked down again, and realized he'd been subconciously waiting for something. For her to push him off-balance again, maybe. But strangely enough she seemed happy to rest where she was without any further activity, so he used an arm to gently shift their positions back onto seperate parts of the bed. Maybe someday he'd figure her out ('maybe' being the keyword, his pessimistic tendencies reminded him). For now, simply resting in her company was pleasant enough.

Although Antony had forgotten she was shirtless, Chert had not, and he enjoyed their close proximity even as he made a face. "Maybe there are advantages to being stuck on an island," he teased. If it meant never having lay eyes on another wonton, he owed Moreau a favor. Assuming Moreau would be able to accept any favors after being throttled at length. Changes are slim, Chert thought almost cheerfully.

The lack of culinary comforts was easy to sympathize with, though. Despite the wide range of foods available in the cafeteria, there was nothing that compared to the familiar tastes of home. A lifetime of bland, mass-cooked meals was not something to look forward to. "We could always trying bribing the lunch lady," he suggested, quirking an eyebrow.

Chert snorted indignantly and tried to shoo her hand away. "There's nothing wrong with insects," he insisted, trying not to look offended at her barely supressed giggles.

They were hardly his area of expertise, but he did enjoy collecting the occasional deceased specimen when the voracious detritivores of the jungle hadn't gotten to it, first. Besides, butterflies were supposed to be people-friendly! The winged bugs had good PR, hanging around in old women's gardens all day with the songbirds and perching innocently on flowers and posing obligingly for those homey paintings people liked to put in their kitchens. Or something.

"Who knows? Maybe I could trade a rhino beetle for a real hamburger."

The tickling caused Chert to twitched away from her hand and grumble without shifting his position too much. In a contest between Antony's warm presence and the discomfort of a slight pinch, there was only one obvious winner. "I wouldn't feed those pasty things they call burgers to a dog," he sniffed, but the words seemed to fall flat in the air. A glance to the side revealed that a strange expression had stolen across the woman's face. Although there was an undercurrent of grief in the scowl, it seemed raw and angry to Chert, like an inflamed wound that hadn't been allowed to scab over completely. The loss of Home- of all the places and people one incorporated into oneself- was bound to leave a pretty goddamned big hole.

So he was glad when she opened her eyes and launched a more serious tickle-attack, instead of continuing to lie there wrapped up in her thoughts. Contemplations of that sort only built up pressure until either you broke or you went out and broke something so that you didn't.

Chert yowled testily, like a cat that had just had its tail yanked by a particularly cheeky child, and tried to protect his midsections from Antony's fingers. "You play dirty!" he choked.

Chert arched his back slightly and rose up to meet her. Perhaps a part of him realized that the kiss was an escape tactic, just like his daily forays out into the wilderness, but it was difficult to care. He could either be here in the room with the beautiful woman that was inexplicably willing to tolerate him, or tromping through the trees picking up ticks and trying fruitlessly not to think of how much he hated scaley, naked rodent tails.

Slow and deliberate, Chert's kisses trailed over her jaw and down her neck, while one hand went off to do litte exploring of its own. Earlier he'd been trying very hard not to think of the rat book, which meant of course that it hadn't been far from his mind. Now, all but the very back of his mind would have asked blankly, "What rat book?"