milliways_bar | (no subject)

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It's been about a week for Cal since he was last here, which is the second-longest period of time he's gone without finding a Door since he moved to his new world. He's been okay with that, though - after the conversations he had during that bartending session, he needed the breather.

He's glad enough to take this Door when he finds it, though, and is soon at a table with his usual raktajino.

[OOC: Please ping/PM before tagging; I haven't the brain space for a full-blown EP. Thanks!]

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Cal - doesn't tense up, exactly, because he's already tense, but something in his body language tightens up hard, nonetheless.

"If you've ever gotten the feeling that I don't want to have this conversation," he says shortly, "then maybe you should take the fucking hint."

And normally maybe it would be enough, but not this time.

"No, I won't. Not this time," Sam snaps, "because you won't listen to me and I fucking hate it!"

"Really," Cal says with a somewhat exaggerated gesture of exasperation. "What am I not listening to, Sam, and by the way, newsflash, listening to you is not the same as agreeing with you, so you might wanna think really hard about your answer.

"Go ahead. Take your time."

"I would settle," he remarks, "for you believing me."

Cal should know by now what he's talking about, Sam thinks, so that part he leaves alone.

"Also not the same as listening."

It's a childish answer, but he doesn't care. He's long since had his fill of being verbally bludgeoned into submission, and it's been a good couple of years since he was last required to play along.

"..."

Sam is within millimetres of walking away.

"As far as I can see, either you believe me in what I say, you think I'm lying, or you're not listening. Take your pick."

Cal has had just about enough himself. He's not watching what he's saying as closely as he should, but then trying to keep something to himself never fucking works with Sam, does it? He just has to know fucking everything.

"I've already told you I don't think you're lying," he points out, more or less accurately. "Now who's not listening? I don't even see what this has to do with anything. I know better than to expect to come first, Sam, I'm not five. I just don't want to fucking talk about it. Leave it alone."

"That's the point, Cal!"

This would be so much easier if there weren't certain forbidden subjects, really. Like 'family'.

"You do come first! Why do you think I'm still here?"

"Okay, now you're lying." Cal knows better than that.

"Fuck you," indignantly. "I am not."

Joint first is still first, damnit.

"You said -" Cal begins, then stops abruptly.

". . . no. You know what, no. This is fucking humiliating, I am not doing this. I know exactly where I stand with you, I don't care, and if you don't stop shoving it down my throat, I am never going to fucking talk to you again."

That declaration of apathy may not be as convincing as he'd like it to be.

"...Cal, stop it." Sam's voice is suddenly gentler, and he reaches out to cup Cal's face with his hands, just barely touching, as if he can be easily shattered.

"You and Medusa and Atton mean more to me than almost anyone has done in five thousand years. I swear it."

The gesture, care instead of anger, startles Cal; the surprise is reflected in his expression, clearing away the frustration (and hurt, and bewildered resentment, both closer to the surface than he'd realized) and leaving him looking at Sam in silence.

Sam's words do nothing to alleviate the surprise. That isn't what he said before. It sounds similar, but it isn't - maybe Sam is just - Cal knows what the right twist of a phrase can do, after all. But.

"Why?" he blurts out after a long moment of trying to catch up.

He'd been so, so close to just getting up and walking away, but then something - maybe the look behind Cal's eyes or the tilt of his head, something - had made him stop. Something certainly twisted, though it wasn't a phrase, and suddenly the anger had gone.

"Because you're crazy, and you drive me crazy, and - as we've just seen - I am apparently not capable of being angry with you for more than thirty seconds, and you're silly and funny and smart and apparently have no idea of any of this, but mainly because you're you."

There are other words too, like breakable and lovely, but those are far too -- not Sam. But they're true.

"...And that was horrifically mushy, sorry."

". . . that's okay."

Somehow, Cal hadn't really expected an answer. He's not sure what to do with it.

Sam ... says nothing, this time. He just strokes Cal's hair, waiting.

"Just as long as you know you're crazy," Cal continues after a moment. The feeble attempt at humor comes out flatter than flat, but all the antagonism of before has vanished, with his voice quiet and his posture relaxing into something less (defensive) stubborn.

Sam's smile turns crooked. "Only on the bad days."

"Delusional, then," Cal amends. He sees very little of himself in Sam's description.

He swallows and hesitates, feeling as though he should say something, explain himself, but he can't find the words. (Or doesn't want to find them. Maybe a bit of both.)

He rolls his eyes at Cal, but good-naturedly.

"Yeah, yeah. Still not saying anything I haven't heard before, and still not going to make me believe I'm wrong."

Cal smiles slightly at that last.

"Believe me, I wouldn't waste the effort."

"See? I said you were smart."

There might be mischief, somewhere far back in Sam's eyes now, but that doesn't change the fact that he means it.

"Definitely delusional," is Cal's considered conclusion. The faint smile is still in place, but he glances away, breaking eye contact, as he speaks.

"And you're a brat." Sam tugs gently at a strand of Cal's hair, frowning a little as Cal looks away.

"...You okay?"

"Yeah, that's more like it," Cal says dryly.

He glances back up at Sam's question. "Yeah, I'm fine." Mostly.

Just really not good at accepting sincere compliments. He rarely feels he deserves them, especially the ones that fly in the face of what he's always been told.