if_inconvenient | (no subject)

In this house, Cal is lucky that there is a remote.

Sherlock does not sprawl like a teenage boy. Sherlock sits tucked neatly into his corner of the couch, taking up no more space than necessary.

Which would be why Cal's sprawl quickly becomes a little more - sprawling than usual. He is providing an example.

Relaxation starts with the physical.

"I should think you'd have had enough of my Tony impression by now," he says obliquely.

"You look like you're sitting in class," Cal says. "Is that even comfortable?"

Comfort is key.

"Of course it is. I am not a masochist."

Well, not usually. But Cal really doesn't need to hear that.

Oh, look, they're finally past all the logos. A boxy spaceship tumbles in front of a field of stars—more logos—an incongruous lens flare—the title of the movie, at last—flashing lights and voiceover narration.

They say most of your brain shuts down in cryosleep. All but the primitive side. The animal side. No wonder I'm still awake.

The man's voice is not bad, Sherlock decides.

Cal has his doubts, but he is not here to criticize how Sherlock sits. Criticism is kind of the opposite of relaxing. He just mentally chalks it up as being a Sherlock thing (that's become an actual list in his head as of late, beginning at around the time he stopped thinking Sherlock Holmes? Really?) and turns his attention to the movie.

Or, most of it. It doesn't exactly require intense focus, and he isn't going to insist on sitting through the whole thing if Sherlock really does seem bored.

Sherlock smiles as the blindfolded narrator describes the people around him using every sense but sight. The hints about the setting are intriguing enough to keep him interested.

A long time for something to go wrong, says the prisoner, and a series of smoke trails rip through the air as unseen projectiles rip through the hull—and through the ship's captain, before he can be released from his cryogenic coffin. Sherlock can't help a laugh; it's a little overplayed, but amusingly so. Something interesting is probably about to happen.

And then the doorbell rings. The actual doorbell, of this actual house.

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

Sherlock seems to be into it, or at least not be bored, so Cal starts to concentrate more on the movie just as the doorbell rings.

Remembering that he himself hadn't even had time to touch it before the door unlocked itself, he glances over at Sherlock just in time to catch his reaction.

"Surprise guest?" he asks.

"Yes, and I expect I know who. Take heart; I might be wrong."

Then he grins and shakes his head, hopping off the couch. (The movie pauses by itself. Thank you, Jarvis.) "Oh, ignore me. I'll just be a moment."

Before he reaches the door, the bell rings again. He unlocks and opens it; the rectangle of light from the doorway is reflected in the darkened TV screen. "Afternoon, Obadiah. Another of your surprise visits?"

"You know me," says the slow, warm voice of Obadiah Stane; the man himself is silhouetted in the door's reflection as he steps inside. "I just get so worried about Howard's little boy. He never calls, you know. Is that him watching a movie in the living room?"

"No," Sherlock answers, "that would be me. Tony's downstairs."

Either he doesn't want to introduce Obadiah to Cal, or he's Sherlock and he doesn't know he should. Even odds.

Cal makes an incredulous face at the television. He knows that voice.

No, not that specific voice, but he knows the tone. He hears it a lot at those parties he was talking about not long ago. Fake, fake, fake. Fake and doesn't like Sherlock, fake and doesn't really give a shit about Tony, fake because he has to fake it anyway.

The name is vaguely familiar - Obadiah would never have been at any of those social affairs, of course, because they're not the type of affairs the second-in-command gets invited to. Not when the Starks were alive and certainly not now that they're dead. But his name still came up occasionally, the way Uncle Grahame's does in discussion of Dad, because - well, more or less the same role, right?

Except even Uncle Grahame could give this guy a lesson or six in how to sound like you actually care.

Naturally, Cal is curious now. He wipes his face and body language clean of anything except casual inquisitiveness and and gets up to go have a look.

"And who's this?" Obadiah asks, smiling at Cal. He is pretty good. The overall effect is patronizing but apparently well-meaning—apparently to Tony and Sherlock, anyway.

"Cal Chandler. Cal, this is Obadiah Stane. He runs Tony's company." Sherlock is not above taking a few jabs of his own, and unlike Obadiah, he wastes no effort pretending to be nice. Polite, yes. Nice, no.

"You should've introduced us sooner, Sherlock." It's amazing how much subtle contempt he can pack into two syllables. "But then, you never have been any good at these things, eh?"

(Sherlock knows that there are two reasons why Obie has never revealed his secret: no one would believe him, and Tony would be horrified. He suspects, rightly, that the first one takes precedence.)

Before Obadiah has finished drawing breath to ask his question, Cal is wearing his Chandler family persona. Reed and Violet's son, with his father's warmth and charm and his mother's sweetness, and so friendly and polite too, what a credit to his parents he is!

This Cal, the Chandler boy, is completely different from the real Cal, wielding his natural charisma in a way he doesn't bother with in everyday life. The only reason it's merely effective instead of devastating is because he's always been taught to play the supporting role, not the lead actor.

(And if there's a little subtle mockery blended into the persona this time around, well, he can't help it with this particular audience, and it's nothing that could be pinned down if anyone tried to call him on it.)

He smiles engagingly and steps forward to shake Obadiah's hand.

"Mr Stane," he says, "it's good to meet you. You know, I remember my mother saying once that Mr Stark was lucky to have such good back-up in running his company. I'll make sure to tell her you're still loyal as ever."

A remarkable transformation. Sherlock actually smiles.

Obadiah, on the other hand, gets a little bit faker. "That's me," he agrees, shaking Cal's hand firmly but letting go a little too fast. "Howard was the genius; I just run the place."

"I'm sure Tony will be delighted to see you," Sherlock points out. No, it is not meant to be subtle.

"I'm not embarrassing you in front of your friend, am I?" Obadiah asks, and what he means is, you have a friend? Sherlock, who is still a little surprised at this turn of events himself, doesn't take offense at the implication.

"Well, you know what they say about the power behind the throne," Cal says. His look is slightly conspiratorial - remember, Obadiah, Cal's family is in politics, he knows how these things really work. (He overplays it just a little, but that's part of the game, too, playing along with the patronizing undertones in Obadiah's comments. He couldn't possibly be fucking with you; he is just a kid, after all.)

He steps back to stand next to Sherlock as he speaks, mirroring the way Sherlock is standing, deliberately creating a physical presentation of a united front. Yes, Obadiah, Sherlock does have a friend.

Damn, Cal is good. Sherlock is impressed by his attention to detail. If Sherlock had to be completely honest, he would admit that he is also a little touched by the solidarity.

"I'm more like the power in front," Obadiah jokes, all innocence (but that, too, is a little overplayed). "Public relations was never Howard's specialty."

He never talks about Howard this much in front of Tony. Sherlock supposes that is a form of kindness.

It's not strictly true, though. Howard Stark was pretty good at PR. He left it to Obie for convenience more than anything.

Putting forth the right image is all in the detail. That's just one of many things Cal has been drilled on from childhood. Saying things, or pointedly not saying them, isn't enough by itself.

There might be a very telling reason why the real Cal, so rebellious in private, doesn't seem to know how to control his body language as convincingly as this one does.

"That must be why Mother took an interest," he says brightly. "She does a little of that herself."

Violet would, in fact, approve of that phrasing. She prefers that her role in keeping Reed's career well-oiled be downplayed. Best just to be seen as the supportive wife.

"I imagine she is very good at it," Sherlock puts in, dry as dust.

"You know, I've never met Mrs Chandler, but if this shining example is anything to go by, I think you're right."

Now, on the surface of it, this is a fairly harmless compliment. He just called Cal charming. But for once, there is something Sherlock doesn't notice, and that is the unfortunate implications of the way Obadiah said it.

It's incredibly subtle, far more so than anything Obadiah has said or implied so far, and Cal would have missed it too, a few months ago. Before he knew about the . . . shift in the way his uncle looks at him now.

As it is, he tells himself he's imagining it, even as his expression flickers for just a second. Just seeing things. Just hearing things.

He smiles like nothing happened and says,

"She did teach me everything she knows."

What incredibly appropriate timing: Sherlock hears a noise from the basement stairwell, as of an approaching genius. (Obadiah, who's closer, doesn't. Sherlock has good ears.)

Cal, of course, doesn't either. His focus is on Obadiah, anyway.

In the next second, the clatter of Tony's approach becomes audible to everyone. He emerges from the basement dressed in sweatpants and a grease-stained tank top, with black grime under his fingernails and his hair still mussed from the safety goggles he left downstairs, and when he sees who's in the foyer he lights up like a gleeful Christmas tree.

"Obie! Hey, good to see you, man!"

He shakes Obie's hand and then hugs him, laughing, conscious but careless of the hell he is wreaking on that immaculate suit. Obadiah doesn't seem to mind; when he hugs back, his smile is as warm as Tony's.

The difference is, only one of them means it.

When Tony pulls back, he notices Cal at last and grins sheepishly. "Oh, hey." They've met before, he's sure of it, but the name escapes him at the moment.

The contrast between Tony's sincerity and Obadiah's resounding lack thereof is so clear that it distracts Cal completely from whatever vibes Obadiah may or may not have been putting out there a moment ago.

Well, shit.

"Hey, Tony," Cal says comfortably, without a hint of the rising dismay he's feeling.

He'd really have thought Tony would be smarter than that.

"You've met Cal, haven't you?" Sherlock provides.

"Yeah, right." Tony brightens a little. "You're—yeah, I know you."

(He avoids mentioning the bar just in time. Obie would want answers he's not qualified to give.)

"We have English together," Cal supplies.

That is a total lie, but the necessity of avoiding a mention of Milliways is obvious, and going to the same school is handy for that.