The silence has persisted so long it's beginning to seem an inviolate part of their prison, as sturdy as the stone walls they're leaning against. There are two narrow ledges-- not quite benches, the tomb isn't built for comfort-- to sit on. Cameron's leaning against the wall, Chase's coat pulled tight around her shoulders, looking at nothing. Chase's elbow rests on the scuffed corner of Cuddy's desk, his fingers occasionally dipping to pick at a splintering edge.

"I don't need more shoes."

"Said that already," he answers, oddly annoyed.

Cameron leans forward and unfolds, the open sides of the jacket falling loose as she places her hands on either side of her, the heels of her palms on the edge of the bench. She pushes off and stands, sits again on the desk, crossing her ankles, folding her arms.

"Do you think we're going to die?"

"I don't know." He doesn't even meet her eyes, but adds the only thing he knows to be true, here. "I don't want to die."

"I don't either."

There's a funny edge to her tone that he can't place, and he looks up now, trying to read it in her face. The shadows falling from the curtain of her hair swallow what little sourceless light there is.

"I'm sorry," he says, managing to procure the apology from a mouth gone suddenly dry.

She leans in, too close, and he comes to a half-sick realization of what she wants, how she'd like him to make up for his slights.

"Come on, Cameron," he argues softly, near enough to feel her slow breaths. "In a tomb?"

"Pretend we're still in Cuddy's office," she answers, more amused than she ought to be given the fact that they're probably going to suffocate, to die of dehydration if they don't suffocate, starve if dehydration doesn't finish them. She shrugs the coat off and lets it fall behind her on the scuffed surface, scooting back a little, the predatory curl of her lips becoming visible as she lifts her chin.

"I cannot believe the things you get off on," he mutters, which isn't a refusal. He doesn't understand how they can still want each other. He's never quite processed the revelation that she does want him, as more than a good fuck with no strings attached, though he doesn't doubt that she meant it when she said it.

The tomb falls silent again.

"It isn't that," she whispers, at length. She's leaned back again, her face turned away from him. Incomprehensible as ever; it's like they don't speak the same language, and suddenly he feels guilty. Like he's missing something obvious.

"Things aren't supposed to end like this. For us. Between us." She hesitates. "I'm afraid that everything's all wrong and there isn't a chance anymore."

For what?, he wonders, even as he stands, leaning on the edge of the desk as she straightens to meet him. He wants her and she wants him and really there isn't any reason not to, even if they're dying, even if this isn't real. If they get out of this he'll worry about the consequences then; there isn't any room for a protest between their parted lips as as she starts to tug at his shirt.

He still can't believe the things she gets off on.