formoftherapy | (no subject)

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(no subject)

The school database has the following information on Morian, Kite:

Home address and phone number, mother's name. In the event her mother can't be reached, there is a phone number listed for her brother, Eagle; the area code is for Los Angeles.

Records of her detentions (six) and suspensions (one).

Notes made by the school counselor during her freshman year, following her brother Kestrel's disappearance.

Grades--a solid B to B+ student; her attendance records indicate she could easily have As if she put in just a little more effort.

Last but not least, her class schedule:

Spanish 4, Young

English 11, Parker

Calculus, Acevedo

Lunch Period

Physics, Russell

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Something tells me that's the best I'm gonna get."

The nachos slide back into reach.

Sherlock immediately steals one.

Kite takes two.

"So--" She nods to Sherlock. "--you sticking around for the game?"

"Doubt it," says Tony.

"One never knows," says Sherlock.

"You? A sport that's not chess? Get real."

"He'll just take that as a challenge," Kite tells Tony, licking cheese sauce from her fingers.

Snort. "No he won't. He hates football. He just has nothing better to do than follow me around all day eating my food."

"This isn't your food," Sherlock points out, stealing another nacho.

"Yeah, but you didn't touch it until I was allowed to have some."

It's weird, but Tony seems kind of... nervous, with Sherlock around.

[AHAHA GODDAMN THEIR LOGINS ARE ADJACENT IN THE LIST.]

"Which still doesn't make it your food," Kite adds.

She picks up on the nervousness and files the knowledge away for later. She knows asking outright will get her nowhere.

(<333)

"Mine enough for him," Tony explains. Sherlock does not exactly contradict this odd assertion.

"I'm going to smile and nod and pretend that makes any kind of sense."

"You're gonna find yourself doing that a lot around—"

Tony is interrupted by a preemptive smack upside the head.

"—Sherlock. Ow! I wasn't gonna say it!"

"If you weren't, how do you know what I thought you were going to say?"

"I hate it when you get all logical," Tony grumbles.

Kite laughs.

"Repeated head trauma--it explains so much."

"It does not," Tony mutters. Sherlock laughs.

"Sure, sure, whatever you say."

Kite opens the pack of Twizzlers with her teeth.

Sherlock pats Tony rather patronizingly on the head. Tony ducks and glares at him.

Kite resolutely does not grin at Tony's glare.

Instead, she waves a Twizzler under his nose to distract him.

"Ooh, food."

Nom!

(Sherlock grins.)

"Is he always this easily distracted?" Kite wonders, offering Sherlock the candy.

"For as long as I've known him," Sherlock says wryly, accepting a piece.

(Tony has... a bit of an ouch moment there. You'd have to be looking to catch it, though.)

"I'll have to be sure to always carry candy," she decides, snagging a Twizzler for herself.

(If she sees Tony wince, she gives nothing away in her own expression.)

(What she probably won't see is the way Sherlock rests the edge of his hand against Tony's thigh for the barest fraction of a second. They don't talk about it often, in fact they don't talk about it at all, but Sherlock still finds subtle ways to reassure Tony that he doesn't really blame him.)

"A wise precaution," Sherlock deadpans, giving his Twizzler a nibble.

Kite is prepared to further extol the virtues of candy-based warfare when she spots the marching band mustering at the far end of the field.

"Almost time for the anthem," she says, nomming.

"You've got maybe ten minutes if you want to escape an excess of school spirit and wholesome Americana."

"God save me from wholesome Americana," says Sherlock in his precise English accent and nineteenth-century diction. "I'll leave you two to enjoy the show."

He ruffles Tony's hair and cheerfully climbs back under the bleachers.

Kite sticks a hand under the bleachers and waves goodbye.

"What about you?" she asks Tony, taking a sip of the frighteningly large soda. "You allergic to a good time?"

"Who, me? Never," he says, winking.

(The bleachers let out a soft, derisive snort.)

Kite stares down at the region of her feet.

"Are you seriously going to stay under there the whole time?"