OOM: The transition begins.
The Door opens into Cal's living room, which features a brown leather sectional couch. The color base of the room is fairly neutral, with a few colors overlaid that emphasize the framed pictures on the wall without going overboard. In short, it looks exactly like it was decorated by someone with good taste and a substantial budget who knows Cal
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from the golden boy to the old and sick
from the luminary to the lunatic
and the difference is-)
It only takes a minute or so to get the containers stacked, with perhaps a bit too much precision, in the refrigerator. Cal, too full of angry energy to keep still, stalks through the apartment.
. . . try to have a simple fucking conversation with someone, see where it gets you, god forbid I don't agree with him every single fucking second . . .The boxes are still on the floor in his bedroom. He's been ignoring them, and Sam's been not saying anything about it. He dumps them out onto his unmade bed now, and starts shoving half-folded clothes into his dresser ( ... )
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It's not London, but it could almost be, and the nearly-familiarity calms Sam's temper more than any surrounding other than his old haunt could. It's helped, of course, by the fact that his temper hadn't been quite gone when he left Cal: he could feel himself losing it, though, and no mortal needs to feel the effects of a truly furious Lucifer.
But he sure as fuck isn't going back, though, so he just walks, instead.
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(I love you. If you don't believe me I don't blame you.)
spends all of Cal's anger in one violent shot. He sinks onto the end of the bed and sits for a while, head in his hands.
I thought I was done with you.
("Sorry, Grahame, can't do it.")
He can't do this, not now, if only he could make it go away -
The craving hits hard, without warning, worse than he's had in months. Cal sucks a breath in sharply, and realization arrives a disjointed moment later.
He's not in Milliways any more. He could go out and get some heroin, if he wanted to. Sam's gone back to Milliways. No one will stop him.
Fear ices over everything else. It was so hard sometimes, before he died, after Calvin would be in bed and there was nothing more he could do for the night in his work against Gliardi. He'd been up all night pacing more than once, counting every minute until his son was awake and he could think about something other than how much he wanted a fix ( ... )
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He's not penitent - not in the least; he doesn't feel for a second that he's done anything wrong. But it's stupid to spend the night in some shitty b&b, illusory money conjured up with a few seconds' thought, when a warm room in Milliways and Atton Rand to drink with and Medusa - adored and half-wild and comforting Medusa - to curl up with could be behind any door he chooses. And, that being the case, he may as well go back and collect his belongings first.
(No need for Cal to find the little dagger, a gift from Atton to replace the one lost behind Sam's own door, after all.)
It's in the early hours when he returns to the flat. The door was locked, but that was hardly a difficulty, and he doesn't trouble to be quiet.
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He looks up, startled, when he hears the door.
"I -" he begins. Nothing comes out, so he clears his throat and tries again. "I thought you went back to Milliways."
He sounds as wrecked as he feels, and, in the light of the television - he turned off the lights out here at some point - he looks pale and much older than he is.
(The light in the bedroom is still on, spilling into the hall and visible from Sam's vantage point. The pieces of the letter are still lying where they fell.)
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His eyes are kinder than they have been in a while as he leans against the doorjamb and looks back at Cal, though his words are calm but matter-of-fact.
"Nah," he says. "I just went for a walk."
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"Oh," he says, then, "I'm sorry. You were right."
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It flickers again at the look on Cal's face, even as the same look washes away the last remainder of how angry he'd been.
Sam gives him a small, wry smile. "Well, I was thinking of heading back, if you'd prefer?"
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(Cal knows what an "offer" to leave really means.)
"If you'd rather," he says finally. "I wouldn't blame you."
It's almost easier, in its way; Cal's never had company before on any of these bad nights - god knows there were any number of them in those first couple of months at Milliways - and he has no idea how to adjust himself to fit having someone around. He's used to riding it out on his own.
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Sam shakes his head, this time coming into the room properly. He leans on his elbows on the back of the sofa, looking down at Cal with another slight smile. "Teasing, Cal. It's all right."
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He leans over to turn on the lamp next to the couch. He hasn't learned its contours exactly yet, and he fumbles for a moment before finding and pressing the switch. He winces and closes his eyes as the flood of light hits them.
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(i hate him)
(i want a fix)
(i can't think)
(i can't sleep)
(i don't want to be here)
(i want to go home)
"Rough night, is all," he says, tone striving for casual and matter-of-fact. He doesn't know where to start, or even if he (should) wants to.
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Sam slides onto the sofa.
Gently, "Come here?"
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(Darkness may be more oppressive to most, but when they restrained Cal and left him in his room to detox alone, Mother left the lights on.)
Cal moves over closer to Sam, shifting to rest his head on Sam's shoulder, and takes a deep breath.
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"Shh," he says softly. "Shh, it's all right."
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