americas_son | Sunnydale AU: careful of the curse

"Sounds like a plan."

And a lot better than sitting around doing nothing except waiting for Tina to wake up.

He puts the empty pot in the sink and steps out into the hall.

Cal follows him upstairs.

He doesn't feel as tired as before. The sugar and caffeine from the soda are helping. He'll crash hard later, but that's later. Right now, he's fine.

When they arrive, Sherlock surveys the room.

He knows which one it was, of course, but he has not actually been here in some time. This and that have conspired to keep him away. Dust is starting to collect on the desk, which never happens in this house.

Behind him, Cal inhales, thinking of the last time he was in this room. There's no lingering smell of cologne this time, of course; just slightly stale air.

The chair at the desk is still askew from when Tony pushed it back to follow Cal out of the room. He must have just come back to get the paperwork later, to deal with it somewhere else.

"Is it just me, or has this year kinda sucked?"

"It is not," he murmurs gently, "just you."

"Not all bad," Cal says, "but - a lot of it."

He walks over to the desk, tracing his fingers through the dust.

("Or we could get drunk.")

"I miss my dad," he says abruptly.

Sherlock puts a hand on Cal's shoulder.

"There isn't that much to miss," Cal mutters, looking at the desk. "We didn't even talk that much after - we stopped smoking up together. But I miss him being around."

Reed Chandler had been the liveliest member of the family. The liveliest, and easily the happiest. He could fill up a room with his personality, especially in a quiet, empty place like the Chandler compound. With Grahame gone to LA, and Mother spending so much time in Sacramento being the new Senator Chandler, Cal is beginning to realize just how empty it is.

Really, the only thing Sherlock can do here is... keep being here.

So he does.

Cal rubs his hand over his face, leaving a small smear of dust on his forehead.

"I thought - I just kept thinking this morning, 'I can't do this again.' What if -"

He squeezes Cal's shoulder.

"What if what?"

When he answers, it's a whisper.

"I had to kill my dad."

Most of the time, reminding himself that Reed Chandler was long gone from that body helps.

Sometimes, when he's tired or it's been a rough day or something has his mind chasing itself in circles, it doesn't.

Oh.

Oh, Cal.

Sherlock hugs him again.

"It is not at all the same," he murmurs.

"No."

There are no words for the relief he'd experienced when he'd realized that. He doesn't even bother to try to find them. Instead, he says, still near a whisper,

"But I was so scared it would be."

Holding him will not, Sherlock is well aware, make everything better.

But it is extremely preferable to the alternative.

Cal leans into him, eyes closed hard.

"It's not so bad," he says quietly. "It could be worse. But I don't know how to tell her that without sounding like an asshole."

No one likes the guy who goes around telling people things could always be worse, especially when he's not the one they're happening to.

"Oh, yes. It could always be worse. But sometimes knowing that does not particularly help."

"I know."

Cal can think of ways in which every one of the shitty things that have happened could be worse.

(if he hadn't had his laserpointer, if he'd been alone in New York that night, if he hadn't stopped Tony in time to keep him from reaching the seal -

If he hadn't decided to go to Angela's party that night . . .)

It really doesn't help.

So, hugs.

Cal holds on to him, thinking of how Sherlock held him as he finally cried for his father.

(He hasn't cried over it since.

He doesn't know if he'd be able to stop.)

He's nowhere near tears this time, though; he breathes carefully for a moment, composing himself, then says,

"The furniture's not gonna move itself."

"All right."

Sherlock lets go and steps back.

"Can you manage the desk if I take the chair?"

Cal eyes it.

"Let's find out."

It turn out that he can, more or less, pushing it toward the door. It's lighter than he would have expected.

"It'll fit in nicely at the end of the hall, I think. I'll relocate the chair and then come back to give you a hand."

He does exactly that. The vaguely office-like room at the end of the hall is small, but sparsely furnished; the desk will indeed fit just fine.

When they get the desk into the little room, Cal leans against it to get his breath back.

He doesn't really get a lot of sustained exercise.

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