milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

Lazy Lucifer, sitting on a barstool with supper and a piratical purring kitten curled cutely on his shoulder.

Okay, quitting the awesomely awful alliteration now, alas.

Anyway. The eyepatch is flipped up, and the pirate's hat is set at a jaunty angle, not least because Shreddie keeps batting at it fascinatedly. Sam is tolerating this for now, even smiling - well, it tickles. And besides, it's kind of fun.

You live here long enough, you get used to Milliways' quirks. Most of them, anyway. Come bother the nautical Lucifer.

[Tiny tag: Pomona, Cal Chandler]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"What do you win?"

He can kinda guess the answer to that. Or at least, he can guess Sam's answer to that. But he's comfortable and, despite everything, feeling a thousand percent better than he was before, and he doesn't really mind so much.

"I don't know." Eyes dancing. "What do you think I win?"

Cal's expression is suddenly quite serious as he looks at Sam.

"What do you want?"

He quirks an eyebrow, and this time he's more serious, though not quite as serious as Cal.

"What do you want?"

Once more caught off-guard. Cal looks away, awkward, unable to hold eye contact.

"I, uh. I don't know."

So Sam's gathered.

He threads a hand through Cal's hair again. "Okay, rephrase. What don't you want?"

"To not be having this conversation?" Cal offers weakly. Well. It's true. He sighs, though, and says,

"Don't know that, either. I'm a lot of help today, huh?"

"Yeah," Sam admits, offering a slight smile. "But I'll cope."

Cal makes a slight face. "Sorry. Uh, I'm probably more confused than you are, if that helps at all."

Sam, and the things that come with him, are very confusing for Cal after a certain point. Not least because he refuses to just sit down and try to deal with it. He hasn't really got the tools for that. Dealing with the sudden question of sexuality at Cal's age is overwhelming enough without all the extra baggage he's got to go with it.

"So I've gathered." Sam laughs, a little, and strokes Cal's hair.

"Well, it's not like there's any rush."

"I know." Cal leans into it a little without really thinking about it. It may be inevitable (as far as Cal can judge, anyway), but Sam is patient, and not in that fake-polite way, either. If anyone ends up rushing things, it will be Cal. Probably out of sheer nerves.

"I thought I got all this adolescent crap out of the way already," he grumbles.

Sam shrugs, and keeps stroking. "You're a product of your century. But you'll get over it."

"I guess. I mean. it's not. like I have normal experience with this stuff, anyway."

The awkwardness and discomfort are almost tangible. Just because Cal's confessed about Grahame doesn't mean that getting anywhere near the subject again is any easier.

"Which I mean is my own fault. But. Still."

"You've had one?"

Beat.

"Which, okay, given value of 'normal'. But."

Cal gives him a confused look. If Sam has forgotten about that already, Cal will not be reminding him.

It doesn't occur to him that most people wouldn't count what happened with Grahame as being real sex. To Cal, it counts.

Sam gives him a confused look back.

"...What?"

Conversations with Cal are frequently very much like filling in a thousand-piece jigsaw blindfolded. You can just about feel the edges, but the centre is complete guesswork.

Wait, what? Cal pauses. The very familiar sense that they haven't been having the same conversation is beginning to dawn. That happens to Cal more often than he'd like. He's never happy about it, but familiar is good.

"I think we might not be talking about the same thing," he says. That, at least, is something to be happy about this time.

"Yeah."

Pause. Sam's brain does some complicated mathematics and comes up with a stab in the dark.

"I meant me, Cal."

". . . Oh."

Cal's tone, face, and body language all say the same thing, very loud and clear: Well, duh. Fuck.

"Right, I knew that."

"Sure you did." Absently tugging a little on Cal's hair.

Well, it's nice to know he was memorable.

"Sure you did."

"I did," Cal persists. An important lesson in politics: stick to your original argument no matter what. Let yourself get sidetracked during a conversation and it's all over.

Obviously, making a different argument altogether the next day is another matter entirely.

"I was just . . . testing you."

Right!

Eyebrow.

"Cal, you might be a politician, but I know liars. And as liars go, you're very far from being top of the class."

"Was a politician," Cal corrects firmly. This is an important distinction. "And I'm not a bad liar. I'm just out of practice." And the people he lied to be before either didn't give a shit or were far less perceptive than your average Milliways patron.

And being out of practice is kind of a side effect of making a conscious effort to stop lying all the time. So that second objection isn't as strong as it might be.

"So don't lie at all," Sam suggests.

"Or just don't lie to me."

Edited 2008-09-28 19:55 (UTC)

"I don't," Cal says tightly. "I try not to. I'm sorry."

He leaves it at that, no excuses. The truth is too important. It was important enough for him to die for his right - his responsibility - to tell it. And he's so much more honest than he was before Milliways. Everyone slips sometimes, he knows that, but this is one area where Cal is not willing to cut himself any slack.