aimedforthemoon | (no subject)

(no subject)

This is starting to be a habit. Not that Esfir minds - your homes are where you can relax, talk openly, not have to pretend.

Which is why when she leads Cal in and points to her bed (presently looking more like a sofa, with how she's arranged the pillows), she turns and locks the door.

Habit.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Nothing special," Cal says. "And probably not too much of it." He knows already he won't be able to eat a full-sized portion.

She grins at him, getting to her feet (and wincing briefly at the loss of blood circulation).

"I eat a lot nowdays. We'll manage. I'll be back."

Cal sort of returns her grin with a thin smile of his own.

"Okay."

She shuts the door behind her, and it locks automatically.

Cal hears the lock click, but it doesn't really register. He tips himself over onto Esfir's side of the bed, head resting on the book.

Just until she gets back.

And she does come back, balancing a tray. Simple things, bread and sliced cheese and butter and cutlery, and a small bowl of soup because she feels like it.

Also two glasses for water - the water itself will just have to be from the bathroom.

"Cal?"

Cal sits back up - a little too quickly, as it turns out, making himself dizzy. He rubs his forehead.

"Uh. You need help with that?"

She eyes her bowl of soup sternly.

"Da."

As soon as his head clears enough for him to move, Cal gets up and takes the tray carefully. His larger hands stabilize it a little more, making the soup situation less precarious.

"Just on the desk, I have other chair in bathroom. And bread and things for you, first."

"Okay." Cal puts the tray where he's told, and turns to see if Esfir needs help getting that chair.

She can manage the chair just fine. She also gives him a stern look.

"You. Eat something."

"You sound like my mother," Cal mutters.

It's truer than Esfir would probably be pleased with. On the other hand, the food is also a better idea than the whiskey was.

Also, Cal is already assembling a sandwich. He responds to that particular tone very quickly.

"Your mother."

Cal glances up.

". . . Except nicer," he offers.

"I am not nice. Except to friends. And family. Then I am nice."

Cal turns his focus back to his sandwich.

"Mother isn't nice to anyone. So you win."

His voice lacks the spark that would make the comment a real swipe at his mother.

"It'd be too lonely."

Ah, Bar's soup. Not as good as Aunt Katya's, but close.

Cal pauses.

That selfish bastard, Mother had said of Grahame's - of Grahame.

Was that what she meant?

No. Couldn't have been. They didn't even like each other, even if they did have to spend a lot of time together.

"She wouldn't have noticed," he says aloud, looking at his now-completed sandwich. There is, possibly, the slightest hint of doubt in his voice.

Diplomatic for once, Esfir eats her soup. And occasionally soaks some bread in it.

Cal falls into silence as well, eating his sandwich. It reminds him of before, having no appetite and eating mostly because others - including the Bar - insisted; he can barely taste it, and it's not long before it becomes a struggle to get each bite down. He hopes this is just temporary.

It's been a hell of a day, after all.

"Run tomorrow?"

Cal nods.

"I do every morning." He almost sounds happy as he continues, "I can go a lot farther than I could before. Been kinda boring by myself, though, be nice to have you there."

This is a look of wickedness. Yes, right here.

Wicked glee.

It might just be a little contagious. A little bit.

"Half my problem before was the all the damage I'd done to myself," he tells her. "The nanogenes cleared that right up." Pause. "I bet I could keep up with you."