[ There's a creak of wood above Oxford - someone upstairs has just swung his legs out of bed and planted his feet against the cool floor panelling. Cambridge sits quietly, chilly and naked except for the tail end of a sheet draped across his lap, and listens.
He knows Oxford hasn't left the house, and he knows this for several reasons... most importantly of which was the fact that Cambridge had made Oxford promise not to leave the house without at least warning him. It wasn't that Cambridge wanted to cage Oxford, to keep him locked up and close by - he knew that wouldn't work. Oxford didn't have the kind of rage that could just be suffocated out of existence just by Cambridge smothering it in and holding it close. It wasn't like Cambridge had made Oxford promise not to leave, not exactly. He just wanted to know when Oxford felt he had to leave, when it was getting too much and he felt like something had to be done... then Cambridge could talk it out with him, attempt to make him see sense, to quell whatever angry force it was with logic and reason. If Oxford felt like he had to go, Cambridge thought, let him at least tell Cambridge so that he might have a chance of setting the man straight with a plan. Overactive hearts and minds didn't often come up with the most sensible tactics. Chances were, when Cambridge had listened, he could often pinpoint something terribly important that Oxford might have conveniently forgotten. The most frequent of these was invariably but you're no good to anyone - not Jules, not the Order and certainly not your country if the fucker stabs you as well. Britain needs its telepath and without St. David's you are pretty bloody important, darling.
So he sits and listens, quietly wondering whereabouts in the house Oxford was. He trusts him not to have disappeared in to the night but the stone cold stretch of mattress beside the warm spot he's just vacated suggests to Cambridge that Oxford has been out of bed for a while now. Before the sun had begin to rise, he guesses.
He's careful not to let his thoughts wander too far, lest Oxford be wrestling with his demons close by. Whilst Cambridge is perfectly prepared to suffer any accidental outpouring of projected thoughts from Oxford in the middle of a fit of a rage he doesn't exactly want to put himself in the firing line unnecessarily. It was too early for that.
But after a while he stands, stretching out to hook up a discarded set of underwear with an index finger as he goes. Were he at home he would instinctively be reaching for his packet of Benson and Hedges in the same movement but he refrains. The underwear is pulled on briskly but he makes a great deal of fuss in the way he moves out from the bedroom on to the landing and the top of the stairs; he wants Oxford to know that he's coming, to give him a chance to do whatever he wants to do before he has to deal with Cambridge being awake and wanting to know what his plans are for the day.
He sits at the top of the stairs, naked except for his boxers, elbows on his knees and quietly waiting for Oxford to reveal himself from wherever in the house he was lurking. ]
no subject
He knows Oxford hasn't left the house, and he knows this for several reasons... most importantly of which was the fact that Cambridge had made Oxford promise not to leave the house without at least warning him. It wasn't that Cambridge wanted to cage Oxford, to keep him locked up and close by - he knew that wouldn't work. Oxford didn't have the kind of rage that could just be suffocated out of existence just by Cambridge smothering it in and holding it close. It wasn't like Cambridge had made Oxford promise not to leave, not exactly. He just wanted to know when Oxford felt he had to leave, when it was getting too much and he felt like something had to be done... then Cambridge could talk it out with him, attempt to make him see sense, to quell whatever angry force it was with logic and reason. If Oxford felt like he had to go, Cambridge thought, let him at least tell Cambridge so that he might have a chance of setting the man straight with a plan. Overactive hearts and minds didn't often come up with the most sensible tactics. Chances were, when Cambridge had listened, he could often pinpoint something terribly important that Oxford might have conveniently forgotten. The most frequent of these was invariably but you're no good to anyone - not Jules, not the Order and certainly not your country if the fucker stabs you as well. Britain needs its telepath and without St. David's you are pretty bloody important, darling.
So he sits and listens, quietly wondering whereabouts in the house Oxford was. He trusts him not to have disappeared in to the night but the stone cold stretch of mattress beside the warm spot he's just vacated suggests to Cambridge that Oxford has been out of bed for a while now. Before the sun had begin to rise, he guesses.
He's careful not to let his thoughts wander too far, lest Oxford be wrestling with his demons close by. Whilst Cambridge is perfectly prepared to suffer any accidental outpouring of projected thoughts from Oxford in the middle of a fit of a rage he doesn't exactly want to put himself in the firing line unnecessarily. It was too early for that.
But after a while he stands, stretching out to hook up a discarded set of underwear with an index finger as he goes. Were he at home he would instinctively be reaching for his packet of Benson and Hedges in the same movement but he refrains. The underwear is pulled on briskly but he makes a great deal of fuss in the way he moves out from the bedroom on to the landing and the top of the stairs; he wants Oxford to know that he's coming, to give him a chance to do whatever he wants to do before he has to deal with Cambridge being awake and wanting to know what his plans are for the day.
He sits at the top of the stairs, naked except for his boxers, elbows on his knees and quietly waiting for Oxford to reveal himself from wherever in the house he was lurking. ]