Chase knows he's autistic. It wasn't hard to figure it out, and even though it took him until he got that upgrade from Douglas, updating his internal database organization system and adding an absurd amount of information, as well as that same hotspot that Marcus had which allows him to pretty much google anything in his head on a whim. It took him two days to pour through all of the new information, at some point coming across the new database on mental and physical illnesses. It took five minutes to diagnose himself and move on.
The point of explaining this is so that you understand the level of mental pain he experienced just now. He's helping Douglas reorganize a storage room in Mission Command and he grabbed something only for it to feel like it was sticking to his skin and ripping it off. Felt like he was never going to get that feeling off.
It was barely a second of contact before he audibly reacted and threw it across the room, where it hit the wall and shattered. Chase barely even realized he was flapping his hands and humming until he stopped to try and wipe away the feeling.
And despite the lingering yuck on his skin, he pauses to look up at Douglas with wide eyes because crap he's not supposed to stim around other people- he's not supposed to stim at all, he's been effectively (not really) reprogrammed and trained out of it by Mr. Davenport.
Yet, when he looks at Douglas who's looking between him and the invention he just destroyed, he doesn't look irritated. In fact, the confusion Chase saw at first morphs into understanding after a moment of staring, "Yeah, same," he hums, "It's why I put you over there. Well, I'll make Bree do it, then."
He's grinning like he's told a joke, one that Chase should understand, yet the second youngest Davenport continues to stare at his father in confused panic. Surely he should be getting yelled at, right? Mr. Davenport would be lecturing him to death and back for that. And yet, Douglas looks more concerned than anything else.
"You can go wash your hands if ya' need, I'll be here."
"What?"
Douglas looks back to him, having returned to start pulling machines and boxes off the shelf like nothing was wrong, "It's the fabric he's got on the bottom, right? The like, sticky stuff," he rubs his fingers together as if he was demonstrating, "Feels like it's trying to rip my soul out, you can go wash your hands to get it off. Or just work over there." He mock shivers when he explains the exact thing Chase just experienced, then gestures towards another section in the room, "I checked, none of them have it. Just the newer stuff."
"You're not mad?" Chase brings himself so he's standing properly, still tingling uncomfortably hand going ignored.
His father/uncle shrugs, "Eh, I wouldn't have thrown it like that, but I still don't wanna touch it. The point is I get it, kid. Why would I yell at you?"
"Mr. Davenport yells at me when I react to textures, he hates it," Chase hums, shaking out his hand again and rubbing it on his pants in the hopes the texture of his jeans would feel rough enough to get it off.
Douglas rolls his eyes, "Yeah, 'course he does, he's an allistic dickhead," he shrugs, returning to pulling a box off the shelf that he's visibly struggling to lift, "Doesn't get it, he used to get after me because I wouldn't stop moving. 'Douglas won't stop whining!' this and 'He keeps hitting me!' that. He was my sensory wall for a while, but he kept yellin' at me when I grabbed him."
Chase scans through his knowledge on Autism in search of the term Allistic, finding its definition as basically equating to 'not autistic.' It's a good, brief, distraction to the knowledge that his father's autistic and that Mr. Davenport might be in the wrong in trying to train Chase out of it. "Why does it bother him?" he's gotta ask, because surely there's some sort of reason, right? He doesn't mentally torture his brother and kid for no reason, right?
"Maybe because you remind him of me, or he's just an asshole. That's my best theory. Neurotypicals baffle me," Douglas looks back to him from over a shelf, glancing at the stimming he's doing with the hand that touched the invention and causing the discreet stimming to stop, "Seriously, Chase, go wash your hands. I'll call Bree down to help."
Chase glances around, he barely made a dent in his portion of the room- they started maybe half an hour ago and he feels bad just. Giving up, especially over the feeling of a fabric, "It's fine, I can keep working."
"Chase, go wash your hands."
"Douglas, I'm fine. It wasn't that bad," he wipes his hand off one last time, then reaches for the next thing on the shelf.
It's got the same fabric on the bottom, and the moment he's grabbed it with both hands he feels the same way he feels when he's about to have a panic attack. It feels like his entire body is preparing for a fight and he's letting go of it with an involuntary grunt of discomfort to wipe his hands off in his pants again.
"Chase," Douglas sighs, leaning around the shelves, "Don't make me get all dad mode on you."
Chase opens his mouth to reply, but instead he makes another grunting sound and shakes out his hands, staring at the offending machine. It feels so much worse than the first time, like they're stacking on top of each other in the most uncomfortable and emotionally painful way possible. He wants to follow Douglas' advice, somewhere inside, yet the rest of him is determined to keep helping. To prove that he's not so pathetic he has to stop because the texture of something bugged him.
He knows Douglas is watching him instead of continuing to work, can't hear the sound of boxes moving or Douglas' footsteps. Yet, he reaches back up and grabs the machine off the shelf, refusing to drop it and carrying it across the room to its new designated spot.
The feeling has crawled up his arms, his brain is screaming that he's in danger and his chest is twisting painfully. But he did it, he did his job. Why does Douglas just look disappointed?
Bree's in the doorway, watching him with furrowed brows and glancing between him and their father, "Upstairs, now. We'll talk later," Douglas points, and it's not the reaction Chase expected even remotely. Mr. Davenport almost always replies with a 'Now was that so hard?', or just an irritated sigh and an eye roll.
It doesn't make sense, but he goes anyways.
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Textures
Fanfiction"It was barely a second of contact before he audibly reacted and threw it across the room, where it hit the wall and shattered. Chase barely even realized he was flapping his hands and humming until he stopped to try and wipe away the feeling." or, ...
