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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"And yet, I judge that I should not have contributed."

(And yet, he can't make himself regret it.)

"Fine." Cal doesn't want to argue about it. "That doesn't make me any less fucked up."

He hesitates, then confesses,

"I just don't get it. It doesn't make any sense." It's embarrassing to admit that out loud, that he doesn't understand something that's so obvious to everyone else.

But then, what else is new?

"Would you believe me if I said that neither do I?"

"No offense, Sherlock," Cal says, "but there's kind of a lot of stuff you don't get."

Or don't care to get. Whichever.

"True," he acknowledges. "Despite my best efforts I am still not quite able to pass for—ordinary."

Human. No, let's not make this conversation about that.

Cal is deeply skeptical of the idea that Sherlock actually puts his best efforts into that department. He flicks Sherlock a look that says as much, but doesn't go any further into it than that.

"But even if I don't get it, I should still be able to not do it. But I guess I'm just a shitty boyfriend." Despite his own best efforts. Which obviously suck.

All right, Sherlock has absolutely no useful advice at this juncture.

Cal takes his silence for agreement. What else could it be? Cal's right. Anyone would think so.

He sighs.

"I'm sorry."

"As ill-considered as it was," he says softly, "I don't think I can entirely regret it."

Cal swallows, staring up at the ceiling.

On second thought, maybe he'd rather dwell on what a shitty boyfriend he is some more.

"—Sorry." He looks away.

Cal shifts uncomfortably on the couch, still not looking at Sherlock.

"I'm not like that," he says.

He knows he could be phrasing this better, but in order to do that, he'd have to think about it, and he can't.

He hadn't thought Sherlock was either, for that matter.

"I'm not," he says. "I'm sorry."

He opens his mouth.

He closes his mouth.

"I don't require you to be."

Something about the way Sherlock put that sends a quiet shudder down Cal's spine.

(Not the good kind. He trusts Sherlock completely, but all the same he doesn't need to hear about requirements for that.)

"Good," he says stiffly, "because that's my call."

That's the second time he's been a thoughtless idiot in the last hour. Sherlock does not like this trend.

"I know."

He knows Sherlock knows that. He takes a breath.

"Okay."

Most of him wants this not to have happened.

It's having to work a lot harder than he'd like to drown out the part of him that wishes it hadn't stopped happening.

Sherlock falls silent.

There are so many things he wishes he could say, but he doubts that any of them would be helpful.

With anyone else, Cal would say something about how he should go, and then do just that.

But this isn't anyone else, and he doesn't want to fuck up anymore than he already has.

(He can make this make sense. He just . . . he just wanted something pleasant, is all, after the day spent with Stane so much on his mind. And who better than Sherlock?

That's all it was. That's all.)

"We probably should've just gone to sleep." He means it to sound like a joke, but it falls flat.

Dryly: "I believe we concluded it was impossible."

(And then Sherlock offered him a hand up from the couch, and - no. No, what did he just decide? Put it away now.)

"We suck," Cal decides.

He laughs.

"I can't argue."

Should he tell Tina?

Would there be a point? It was only this once. (He'll only let it be this once.)

Fuck it. He'll think about it later.

"Maybe we should order some pizza or something." Eating might help, and he's not about to ask Sherlock to cook.

"If you'd rather. I prefer to cook."

...well, there's that.