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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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?"

Cal's gaze had begun to wonder, without him realizing it. Now it snaps sharply back to Sherlock's still figure.

"- No," he says. His voice is slightly raspy from the irritant of the smoke. "Another month or so."

"Who's the werewolf?"

This time, the question doesn't come as a surprise.

"Tina," he says. "She got bit a couple months ago."

"Of course. Sometimes, my dear fellow, I really suspect that the multiverse does not like you very much."

Cal shrugs a little.

"As long as m - as our Sherlock doesn't get turned, I don't care."

The things that happen in his world seem to be the only things he can do anything about. And even that only sometimes.

"I hope he doesn't."

From the Sherlock with a soul, Cal believed that without hesitation.

From this one, he doesn't buy it. Vampires obviously love being vampires. Why should this one be any different when he doesn't have anything yet to make him be different?

He takes a last, searing drag from his cigarette and drops it to grind it out, not bothering to even try and hide his skepticism.

"It was not a pleasant few days. On balance, I appreciate the opportunity to express my contempt for Obadiah, but yours can do that well enough without all the rest."

(It occurs to Cal that it should probably have worried him more when he realized that the blood had not, in fact, been animal blood.

If it had belonged to anyone else, it would have.)

He takes out his cigarette pack and considers it, aware of the burn in his throat.

"He'll probably kill him if he does come back."

"Good."

"And if he doesn't, I will."

Cal hadn't realized that until this moment, but.

It's been true all along.

He smiles at the lake.

"I know."

Cal takes out another cigarette.

(Killing Stane would be easy. He might expect Sherlock to try something, if he expects anything at all, but not Cal. Never Cal.

And killing someone who should be fucking dead doesn't even count as murder.)

He coughs on the first inhale.

"Don't hurt yourself," Sherlock says dryly. "I was under the impression that mortals needed their lungs more or less intact."

Cal swallows, wincing. It is starting to feel kind of like scrubbing his throat and chest with steel wool.

"I'll live."

"I know you will, or I would be taking that away."

Cal snorts softly.

Whatever.

"I can't imagine you doubt that I would."

"No," Cal says quietly, "but I can doubt your motives all I want."

"If I wanted you dead—and I don't, but I hardly expect you to take my word for it, and my most compelling argument is in your pocket—you may be sure I would do it myself."

"For all I know, you're just playing with your food."

Pretending to care, whether Cal believes it or not, because he's bored or because he thinks he can wear Cal down or just because he can.

At that, he goes quiet.

Cal draws from his cigarette.

Now the nicotine is getting to be too much, and he shudders.

"It seems my better half has been remiss."