It isn't a smack in the head Newt gets for pushing his legs off the couch, but a kick to the shoulder, though there's no force behind it. There isn't any reason for there to be, even if Chuck doesn't bother trying not to make a face at having been moved when he'd been pretty comfortable. It's not like it really makes that much difference. Besides, if he winds up following through on this, which he already knows he's going to, they're probably not going to be just sitting around his apartment that much longer.

He can't really say no, after all, when Newt puts it like that. Though he's pretty damn far from the sentimental sort, it's kind of striking to realize that he's right, that at some point — probably around their second or third drink the night Newt showed up here — they became friends. Granted, he's hardly some kind of authority on what friends do or should do or whatever past grade school, having had very few in the years since then, but that, he thinks, isn't really the point. It just means a lot, having someone else from home here, someone who understands the kind of life he left behind, and who hasn't seemed to be all concerned about his emotional state where having died is concerned. He might never admit as much, of course, but it's true even so. He hasn't really got anyone else here, not even his dog anymore.

"Well, if it means avoiding clown shirts, then I guess I really had better go with you," he says with a shrug, all non-committal. "Just know that I might take you up on those motivational speeches." He doesn't actually need them, but it would be pretty funny to see Newt give them.