americas_son | (no subject)

(no subject)

There was one and only one thing about this that was lacking:

It wasn't a meal. It was barely a snack. And it definitely wasn't about eating.

Now it's well into nighttime, and Cal is hungry.

Time to go do something about that.

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"I know precisely what the differences are between myself and that charming fellow back at the house," he murmurs. "I do remember being someone not unlike him."

"So," Cal says. "Same difference. You-with-a-soul is not going to be you, and I don't feel like watching him try."

There's a brief pause before he adds,

"That would just be embarrassing for everyone."

"You know," he remarks, "you're such fun sometimes I find myself making the unforgivable mistake of forgetting you haven't known me since May. I can be whoever the hell I feel like, with a soul or without it. Me—Tony—my better half—Howard fucking Stark if the mood takes me. It's all of a piece."

"Yeah?" Cal says. "Is you-with-a-soul gonna wanna come back and kill dinner with me sometime?"

"In a city this size, having seen the things I've seen, I am quite sure that with minimal effort he could find someone he would not be ashamed of killing. Though you've no idea how it tempts me to lie and say of course he wouldn't."

"Right."

Sorry, Sherlock, Cal's not buying what you're trying to sell.

"And now we have come full circle," he says with bitter irony; "I am contemplating not killing anyone to spite you."

Cal rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, that'd really show me," he says.

"You're not required to understand."

Cal flicks him a derisive glance.

"Then what's the point? If the person you're spiting doesn't get it, you're not doing a very good job."

"Then I will explain," he says, looking back at Cal with very nearly no expression whatsoever.

"If the only thing you value in me is my taste for murder, I am wrong in calling you a friend."

Cal - doesn't stare at him, because crashing the car would be a pain in the ass. But he would if he could.

"I'm pretty sure I'm not the one who doesn't get it," he says after a few seconds.

Softly: "No? Then enlighten me."

"Are you gonna take everything I say as literally as you possibly can?" Cal asks first. "Because that'll get old really fast."

"No."

"Good," Cal says. "Because if you think it's actually just about murder, you're a moron."

Just so they're clear.

"No," he repeats. "I don't."

"Good," Cal says again. "Then don't act like it is."

"I'm sorry."

Somehow, Cal hadn't been expecting that.

"- Okay."

"It's just that I see so very little difference between who I am now and who I would be with my soul back. A few rearranged priorities. I could decide to act that way on a whim, if I get bored enough. So it brings me no joy to hear that if I do I may as well be dead."

"You wouldn't be you," Cal says firmly. "You wouldn't be the same. If I want a Sherlock with a soul, I know where to find one. I don't need the one that'll take your place."

More to the point, he doesn't want that one. At all.

"All right then."

Not that he is remotely happy about it. Because he isn't.

Cal shrugs.

He doesn't think he should have to spell it out any further than that.

He can't help pushing.

No, that's not right; he could stop himself, but he chooses not to.

"And yet, I will still care about you," he murmurs.