americas_son | (no subject)

(no subject)

It's been a few days since - well. Everything. Cal's been at home, focusing on his obligations there, giving Sherlock and Tony space to deal.

(Tony knows he can come talk to Cal if he wants. Cal told Jarvis. And he hasn't cut off all contact with Sherlock, either. He's called a couple of times.

He just. Doesn't want to get in the way.)

He's been keeping an eye out for Milliways, though. He did make a promise.

So when a door shows up, he takes it.

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He spreads his hands in a careless shrug. "Do with it what you like."

The symbolic gesture, the deadly weapon—either one, really.

Think, Cal. Stop getting caught up in stupid shit and think.

He looks back up at Sherlock.

"You know I couldn't," he says. "He wouldn't have anywhere to go back to once they cast the spell."

"There is that. I assume you also know what my better half would think of that logic, if your life were in danger."

"If I were just worried about myself, I would have left," Cal says.

He puts the laserpointer in his pocket. He can leave it with Bar, for Sherlock to pick up after the spell kicks in.

"Touché. We seem to be at an impasse, then."

"Bullshit," Cal says bluntly. "You wouldn't have to kill me to get me out of your way."

An impasse requires that both parties have equal power, and Cal isn't about to kid himself on that front.

"If I wanted you out of my way. Which I don't. Since my impulse control is quite capable on all subjects not related to Cal Chandler, and we seem to be operating on the premise that I would rather die than hurt you."

(What would - ?

No.)

Cal takes a deep drag from his cigarette.

"You wouldn't have to," he says, exhaling smoke as he speaks. "You'd just have to move faster than I can toward someone far enough away."

"Which, again, I do not intend to do. Because, again, I don't look forward to what I would think of myself after I reacquire my soul."

He pauses, considering.

"Well. Unless some version of Obadiah turns up, in which case violence will ensue and be damned to the consequences."

"But none of the other guys," Cal says, thinking of the variety of Stane-a-likes that he'd seen the other day. They can't all have been versions of Stane, regardless of differences in universe.

. . . otherwise, there's a very good chance that Cal would suddenly remember something important he had to do somewhere else. There are some people it's not worth martyring yourself for.

"Others? Ah, yes, the Milliways propensity for doubles. Don't worry. Unless they are similarly loathsome individuals I'll keep my fangs to myself."

Cal studies him as he takes a slow drag from his cigarette.

"All right," he says.

The problem with coming barrelling out with very little leverage is that he can argue all he wants, but, in the end, there's not much he can do except take Sherlock's word.

Unless, of course, he has something Sherlock wants.

He shrugs.

"Settle in, then. We may be out here a while."

But that would have come up already. Wouldn't it?

He didn't imagine the way Sherlock looked at him when he first came in, he knows that.

It could all be a game. Letting Cal think he's accomplished something. Or maybe Sherlock is really just preoccupied with being Bound when he's right in the middle of - something.

Paranoia has a tendency to get complicated quickly.

Well, telling him not to fret would be counterproductive in the extreme.

Sherlock lights a second cigarette instead, turning away to look out over the lake.

With Sherlock turned away, Cal allows himself the luxury of closing his eyes for a couple of seconds.

He should ask.

But he can't bring himself to do it.

How completely useless of him.

For a few minutes, the only sign that he has not turned to stone is an occasional plume of smoke.

Cal finishes off his own cigarette and lights another without thinking about it. This one really does tremble between his fingers.

Just the adrenalin.

Sherlock can hear it.

The pause between one breath and the next is rather longer than usual.

Cal draws from the cigarette and exhales, deliberately slow, trying to keep the stream of smoke steady and to calm himself.

(It doesn't work very well.)

Sherlock seems to be ignoring him.

He's okay with that for the moment.

He inhales again only when his cigarette is in danger of going out. Cal smells a dozen kinds of lovely. Sherlock wants...

Sherlock refuses to think about what he wants. He can't have any of it. Not a single thing. Dwelling on the subject won't change that.

Sherlock can be the one to speak next, Cal decides. He needs more to go on than what he has.

Which - is nothing, basically. Maybe he's overthinking this whole thing, making himself anxious for no reason.

In this instance, though, he'd rather overthink than underthink. Sherlock can pretty much do as he chooses, either way, but Cal would rather not be caught off guard. Even if being on his guard won't do him any good.

(Another slow breath, shaky exhale. He only has a couple cigarettes left. He should have grabbed a new pack when he found Milliways.)

Should he have just lied? He could have faked his way through that conversation with little difficulty.

He could have—

Forget the imminent return of his soul. There are some things Sherlock finds genuinely abhorrent regardless. The thought of coaxing anyone else into bed with charm and lies is exciting; for it to be Cal would be an act of painful self-destruction.

Cal doesn't often smoke two cigarettes in a row, at least not this quickly. The smoke is starting to burn his throat; soon the nicotine build-up will be making him a bit dizzy.

There's still the tiniest bit of reassurance to be found in the familiarity of the act, so he keeps going.

All right, perhaps a little idle conversation will slow down all the things that are wrong with this silence.

"School hasn't started for you yet, has it?"