americas_son | (no subject)

(no subject)

It's been an odd couple of days. Cal has kept his focus mainly on Tina, and hopefully that's helped keep the weirdness on his end at a minimum.

When she's ready to go home, though, he promises with a glance at Sherlock to come back once he's dropped her off. With any luck, Tony won't ask too many questions until then.

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...Yeah, he's just going to... cling for a while now.

Cal shifts in his chair, bringing his knees up to his chest. He wraps his arms around his legs and waits.

(While he waits, he thinks about the upcoming months, about preparing for Stane's possible return.

He hopes, with a cold calm that should probably worry him, that they end up having to kill Stane anyway.)

This is the point where it occurs to him that he forgot to get pissed off at them for not telling him sooner.

...He can, he decides, keep right on forgetting.

Maybe, Cal thinks, they've only increased the chances that they'll have to kill him. Stane is unlikely to respond well to Tony telling him to go fuck himself.

But at least Tony will know why.

He closes his eyes and presses his face into Sherry's stomach. Here is one thing in the world that is not completely fucked up, is still just the same as it was. He loves Sherlock and Sherlock loves him. That's a constant. He can hold onto that.

Cal half-watches them as he thinks, forgetting to keep his eyes averted as he probably should.

Is there anything else they should tell Tony? That he should tell Tony? Those were pretty much the highlights. He even remembered to be honest about Connolly. Maybe he should just leave it to Tony to ask, if there are details he wants.

Sherlock runs his fingers gently through Tony's hair and leans against the chair's armrest to keep himself steady. The potential for minor disasters here is the furthest thing from his mind; his attention is wholly concentrated on Tony.

Tony isn't thinking about it either. Tony is not really doing anything that could be described as thinking.

Which is how his head ends up dropping a little farther, and he hardly notices the difference, because it's all Sherlock, and the thing that is on his mind right now is whether or not he is about to start crying.

. . . Cal blinks.

Now he remembers to avert his eyes.

Not that there's any reason to. He's just thinking wrong because of what they've been talking about. That's all. Quit being gross, Cal. He hopes Sherlock is too wrapped up in Tony to notice.

The answer is yes.

Yes he is.

And Sherlock—well, he notices on any number of levels, but it is hardly the main concern here. He very much needs to be closer to Tony. There is room for two in that armchair, if they are a very comfortable two. Sherlock tucks himself into the available space and lets Tony sob silently against his chest.

Of course. He was just being gross. (He's cried in Sherlock's arms himself before.) Cal pushes all those thoughts firmly away.

He's not really sure he should be here anymore, but he doesn't think he should just leave, either. He compromises as best he can, resting his cheek against his knee and closing his eyes.

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