ironmonger | (no subject)

Yes.

. . . ah.

Obadiah had, frankly, expected to run into Sherlock before he left, because that's how timing works in Milliways.

He hadn't - and he realizes now that it was shortsighted of him - expected to see Howard.

Ah, well. A second encounter was bound to happen sooner or later. He sure as hell isn't going to let it chase him off.

Perhaps surprisingly, perhaps not, Howard looks a little less like shit than he did the last time.

That doesn't stop him from asking pointedly, as he lays a hand on Bar and receives a shot of whiskey without the need for a verbal order, "What's got you in such a great mood?"

Obadiah smiles peaceably.

"I had a good night," he says.

Grumpily: "Kill anybody?"

"La petite mort," he replies. The little death.

His French accent is quite good.

Howard makes a face. "Sorry I asked."

"I listened to enough stories about your sex life," Obadiah says. "Turnabout's fair play."

His tone is one of good-natured teasing, as if they were having a perfectly ordinary conversation.

There's also an undercurrent of smugness, because as usual, Obadiah knows something Howard doesn't

(not twelve hours ago, your son was begging me to fuck him)

and he thinks it's funny.

He drains his shot, sets down the empty glass, and rubs his face with both hands.

"I don't get you, Obadiah. I really don't."

"No, you don't," Obadiah agrees. "You never did."

He finishes off his coffee; the mug refills itself when he puts it down.

"That was the problem."

"One of many," Howard mutters through his hands.

Obadiah picks the mug back up and lifts it to sip from, murmuring against the rim,

"As you say."

He wouldn't argue with Howard's conclusion, though he expects they have different ideas of what those problems were.

"The fact that you're a murdering asshole was also a factor, I'm pretty sure."

He glances up with a faint smile.

"It didn't have to be, Howard."

Howard just gives him a look.

Obadiah laughs.

"I've missed you, you know."

It might sound like something he's saying to fuck with Howard's head, and it is. But that doesn't mean it isn't true.

He sighs.

"Yeah, I missed you too."

"Sit down."

Obadiah gestures to the stool next to him.

"Have some food to go with your breakfast."

Howard eyes him a little.

"Not that I don't appreciate the thought, but do you really not see what's wrong with this picture?"

"I got rid of you and I'm still somehow stuck being the only person trying to get food down your throat?" Obadiah suggests.

He laughs, shakes his head, and sits.

"Fine. Bar, can I have some pancakes on this asshole's tab?"

A plate of pancakes obligingly shows up. Bar sees fit to include a bowl of sliced fruit and a glass of milk.

Obadiah chuckles, turning back to his own breakfast for a moment.

"Thanks," he says, picking up a fork and giving the fruit a dubious glance. But nobody's going to make him eat it, and pancakes are tasty.

"The sooner you lower your standards about what you try to make him eat, the happier you'll be," Obadiah tells the Bar.

A napkin pops up immediately: I assume the experiments in testing that statement will be on your tab?

Obadiah doesn't quite roll his eyes. "Sure, why not."

Howard can't help grinning. He doesn't say anything, but only because pancakes.