formoftherapy | (no subject)

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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

(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?"

"Certainly not," the bleachers respond indignantly.

Kite gives the bleachers a skeptical glance.

"You'll come out at halftime, right?"

"I had planned on leaving," the bleachers feel compelled to inform her.

"If so, then you're doing it very slowly."

Kite sounds decidedly amused.

"It seemed so impolite to leave without answering your questions. If you insist, however—"

Silence.

"I wasn't insisting, I---

...are you still there?"

More silence.

Tony leans toward her and stage whispers, "He totally is."

Kite mirrors his lean. "Figured as much," she whispers back.

"Come on." She sets the snacks aside and gets to her feet.

The Sunnydale High School Marching Band can thankfully carry a tune in a bucket. After the anthem and the school fight song, it's time for kickoff.

Halfway through the first quarter (Sunnydale - 7; Deep Creek - 3), Kite pauses in her cheering to holler in the direction of her feet, "Still doing alright?"

Sherlock, if present, says nothing.

Tony gets the look of someone being tempted towards unspecified mischief.

Kite knows that look well.

"...what are you thinking?"

Innocently: "Nothin'."

(Sherlock is a much better liar.)

She nudges him with her shoulder.

"C'mooon. You can tell me."

"I totally can't."

"What, it's some kind of secret?"

"He'd kind of kill me a little."

If Sherlock were here, which of course he isn't, he would be very impressed by Tony's fortitude.

She grins.

"Only a little?"

Tony pouts.

Nobody anywhere nearby snickers, no matter how much they'd like to.

Kite does snicker.

"Alright, I'm not gonna torture it out of you."

"Well, uh, good."

That's good, right?