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.

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"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."

"Given your legs are same height as me...you might."

Well, it's no fun if she agrees that quickly.

But still, Cal's expression is lighter than it was a moment ago.

"Maybe we should make it a race, then. I could even give you a head start."

"A head start."

Surely Esfir can forgive Cal for still being a little too disoriented to know when to - well. Quit when he's ahead, so to speak.

"You did just say I'm taller," he points out. "I'd hate to have an unfair advantage."

He bites into his sandwich. The knots in his stomach are loosening up a little; this time it's easier to swallow.

"You may be faster, if you can now use your legs. But I will still always be able to run you into the dirt."

"My stamina's gone through the roof. I can go twice as far as before without even feeling it."

Well. More or less. He doesn't feel like his heart's going to explode when he's done, which he counts as significant progress. It's amazing, how much difference a simple fixing of damage can do.

"Do you want a race, or something more long distance?"

Cal wants both, naturally, but even with the mindset he's in right now, he knows Esfir could still toast him in a marathon race. Besides, he's come to like the longer runs. They take up more time.

"More long distance," he says. "It's what I usually do." Unless it's too cold.

"Long distance. And a race. But I won't tell you when."

Cal snorts.

"If you're gonna surprise me, then no headstart," he tells her.

"As you seem to be going to set the pace...oke."

And she takes a bite of bread, serenely.

"Fair's fair," Cal says.

He looks at his sandwich, fiddles with it a bit, then says,

"I'm glad you made me start running."

It's not something he ever thought he'd say.

She glances at him, surprised.