if_inconvenient | (no subject)

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Right. Cal is due to arrive any minute now. Tony is downstairs in his workshop, playing with his cars. Sherlock puts away his violin and descends to the ground floor, pondering the choice of living rooms.

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"I could teach it to you as well, for that matter. As long as you don't expect to win very often."

Cal laughs.

"Sokay," he says, "I don't win stuff."

One last hit will finish off the small bowl. Cal takes it.

"No? Now I am certain you have never played poker."

"What, 'cause you thought I was making it up before?"

The pipe is going to need cleaning. Cal knocks the ashes out unceremoniously into a trash can and then puts it on his nightstand so he doesn't forget.

"I imagine you would be very good at it, that's all."

Cal brightens at this.

"Thanks."

"As Tony would say—" he imitates the voice perfectly "—I call it like I see it."

Cal flops back onto his bed.

"He doesn't seem to see much."

"He sees what he expects to. It is a common affliction."

"Yeah, I know. Especially when you've got someone helping you along."

Cal knows all about that.

From both sides, actually.

Still.

"I'll speak with him again."

He doesn't hold out much hope that it will work, and he's not sure it would be ultimately for the best if it did. Taking Stark Industries back from a hostile Stane would be hell; he expects taking Stark Industries back from a patronizing and obstinate Stane will be bad enough, contract or no contract.

"At least he didn't notice what a creep he was."

It's easier, as Cal had known it would be, to think about and talk about with the cloud of marijuana in his head, providing a safe and soothing cushion. It always works that way.

(Almost always.)

"That's probably a good sign."

"Yes."

If Obadiah managed to conceal that from him—

But no. Impossible, on any number of levels.

Cal studies him in silence for a moment, then says,

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

Cal switches his gaze back to the ceiling.

"It's a fucked up thing to have to worry about," he says. "Even if - probably nothing will happen."

Something else Cal knows a few things about.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome," Cal says quietly.

He takes a slow, measured breath. Thinking. Thinking.

Who tried to have Tony killed? Are they going to strike again? When? Tony will be vulnerable at university, without Sherlock, without Jarvis. But of course, an assassin would not think that way. Surely it must seem much easier to take him out now, in a small town in southern California whose death rate is already abnormally high.

Cal looks over again after a moment.

"The pot really does help," he says. He's pretty sure he'd lose his mind without it.

Sherlock rubs his forehead.

"I appear to have chosen analysis of that assassination attempt as my favoured distraction," he says wryly. "I don't doubt that your way is saner."

Cal laughs a little.

"The world really fucking hates your brother, doesn't it?"

He chuckles.

"So it would appear."

"Maybe I should send the pot to him instead."

Cal is a giver.

"He prefers to get drunk, but I am sure he will appreciate the sentiment."