The Dangling Conversation

Sean sensed Cobalt come in, and for the sake of manners he gave a wave but nothing more when he received no greeting. He assumed that the other man was here for work purposes; he knew from Josh that attorneys often had to maintain multiple accounts and deposit boxes.

Focused on his own box, he double checked that the proper letter was in each envelope, and then he sealed them and added the notes: “Read this first” and “I’m sorry.” Subtlety wasn’t a component in this endeavor; if the day came that these letters were opened, he would be beyond the need for subtlety. It was a depressing thought, but he had to be practical in this moment and in the ones to come.

Just as he finished with his box and sealed it, an alarm sounded: a clear bell even sharper than the one Hammel used for Red Alert. This was followed by a flashing light in the corner and the door to the room closing quickly and a telltale click of a lock. Frowning, the telepath rose quickly from his chair and rushed to the door, giving it a tug which proved futile. He was locked in.

Scratch that, they were locked in. He cast a quick glance at Cobalt, before heading to the intercom on the wall. Pressing down, he asked, “Mary, what’s going on out there?”

There was a moment of silence, where he worried that perhaps the intercom wasn’t working. But then came a static-laden reply. “Unscheduled emergency drill, Doc. I’m really sorry, but we’re trying to get through it. Just hang tight until then.”

That was...less than encouraging.

“All right, thank you Mary.” It was hardly the young woman’s fault that he was now trapped in this room, and the telepath saw no reason to be rude to her. Since there was nothing else to say, he stopped pressing the “talk” button on the intercom, and he turned his back to the wall.

One of the aspects of his job that he appreciated the most was that he set his own hours. He had full control of his appointment schedule, and he was able to shift around as necessary, and today was a light afternoon comprised primarily of paperwork; in fact, he had to be out of here before school ended so he could take L.C. back to his house, but everything else could be shifted to the evening at home. Another aspect he enjoyed, and which proved useful today, was that he didn’t report to anyone as his boss. Yes, Claude was the Head of the entire Institute, but Sean was in charge of his department.

The only concern was if an emergency popped up, but if it did, he would know, and come Hell or high water, he would get out of this room. Even if he had to reach out to Clarisse to come rip the door off its hinges.

To that end, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and saw he had no service. Well, if it became necessary, he would rely on telepathy.

He crossed back to the desk where he’d been working and sat down in the chair. “So it appears,” he replied. It was an unfortunate way to spend the rest of his lunch break, even if he wasn’t particularly worried about getting out.

Speaking of lunch, he hadn’t eaten yet; it was still packed neatly in his bag. He looked at the other man and asked, “Did you get a chance to eat yet?”

Sean was settled back at his little table. It was hardly the most comfortable he could be – the chair was a bit small – but it would do for now. It was certainly better than pacing. Then again he wouldn’t say that to Cobalt because pacing was an anxious symptom, often engaged in when one felt he needed to have control of a situation. He wouldn’t take that away from the shorter man.

Instead he reached for his bag and pulled out the remnants of the morning’s newspaper. He’d read most of it over breakfast, but there were a few articles he hadn’t had a chance to look over, and a few more that he’d chosen to skip. Given the situation, those articles were now potentially fascinating.

If the other man kept up that attitude, it would be an excruciatingly long afternoon. While he tried to be pleasant, he also didn’t appreciate being snapped at when he’d done nothing wrong. Particularly not with the stress he’d been carrying recently. Still, he wouldn’t let it get to him, yet. “Fine, but if you change your mind, I have tuna salad.” His sandwich was readily accessible, and the psychiatrist didn’t like skipping meals when he didn’t have to. He didn’t mind sharing, particularly since it was rude to eat in front of someone who didn’t have food. “You’re welcome to half of it.”

The telepath glanced up from his newspaper briefly at the other man’s not quite question. The tapping of his foot didn’t bother him, since it was a similar sound to his pacing but with less movement. He then noticed the shadows on the walls, and a small smile crossed his lips. While he had grown into his powers and now couldn’t imagine life without them, they weren’t anything flashy; he couldn’t use them to entertain himself the way a telekinetic or a shadow manipulator could. Cobalt’s was the type of ability that Sean had wanted when he was younger. “It’s fine with me,” he told the other man, before returning to his newspaper.

Several long minutes passed in silence, where he read his paper and let Cobalt do whatever it was that he would do. Unfortunately, there weren’t enough articles to keep him occupied for long, since he’d read the lion’s share of the paper over breakfast that morning. He took a peek at the crossword puzzle, but it was too easy and hardly worth his time.

Glancing at his watch, and realizing that time was moving too slowly for his taste, he weighed his options. It was past noon, which satisfied social convention. He had a high tolerance and so he would be able to drive back to work and resume his job, and there was an unknown period of time before he would have to worry about that. Making his decision, he reached into his interior jacket pocket and pulled out his hip flask.

The psychiatrist had enough experience with addition to know that his alcohol intake, while higher than usual due to stress, was under control. He didn’t drink at work during work hours; he didn’t drink at all when L.C. was at home; he never drank and drove. And while he didn’t spend his free time monitoring Josh’s intake, he knew that his consumption was roughly at par. They simply had a run of bad luck when they were at parties together where alcohol was served. But Cobalt didn’t know him well, and he wouldn’t have knowledge beyond word of mouth. Beyond that, he wasn’t making an obnoxious comment; instead he was expressing surprise about the hip flask.

The telepath glanced down at the flask in his hand and ran his thumb over the raised red star, marking it as Russian, Soviet, actually. Anya had been kind enough to buy it for him, having seen it in a shop and assuming he would appreciate it; he had. “There’s still a market for them, so I can’t be the only one. But it’s much rarer than it used to be.” He then held the flask out toward the other man, offering it to him. “Care for a belt? It isn’t too strong.” He wouldn’t carry anything that strong during errands.

That was the other man’s choice, and given the night which would never be mentioned again, Sean couldn’t fault the other man for wanting to abstain. He acknowledged that with a nod and then brought the flask to his lips, taking a sip before capping it and setting it down on the table in front of him. That and his sandwich were essentially all he had to share, since he wasn’t in the habit of carrying decks of cards with him; there were several in his desk drawers back in his office, but that did them little good.

The other man’s frustrated thoughts threatened to become intrusive, and the telepath had to weigh the merits of increasing his mental shields to combat that with the probability of one of his coworkers needing to get in touch with him telepathically. The lack of cell phone reception was also a factor, otherwise he wouldn’t hesitate. Finally, he decided to bring them up a notch, and hope for the best.

The best wasn’t quite what he’d hoped, particularly since Cobalt was sighing loudly and muttering under his breath. The apology wasn’t sincere, but at least the other man was making the effort to keep up appearances, and that was something. And he was legitimately upset, most likely because he was missing either a lunch meeting or an appointment, both of which were frustrating. “I understand,” Sean offered sympathetically. “It’s a big wrench to have thrown into one’s day.” He shook his head to himself, reflecting on those useless drills they conducted at the school, and how those did have one positive effect: it developed patience while sitting in locked spaces. “I know it’s hard, particularly when you have things to do and people to see.” Far harder than it was for the psychiatrist, who had no pressing concerns, only hypotheticals which made him paranoid.

He was silent for a moment, reflecting, before he added, “This used to happen fairly often when I was in school, before Hammel. Not in a bank vault, but we were still worried about thermonuclear war an would get sent down to the bomb shelter fairly often.”