fandomhighdorms | The Gym, Sunday afternoon

"That's rough," Dinah said, instead of I'm sorry. That always made her feel so weird, people saying that to her about her mom. "Your mom still lives in Michigan?"

She grinned a little then, and said, "Brothers are meaner, hunh? I don't know, maybe it would've been like that if I'd grown up with Helena."

"Yeah," Cal said, "still in the old Middlesex house. And, yeah, brothers are totally meaner. Helena ever force your head to get caught in a door?"

He said it with a grin, though.

"Nooooo," Dinah grinned, then looked thoughtful. "She regularly dumps me on my butt in sparring, though. No mercy at all."

And that just had Cal wondering if he could take Chapter Eleven in a fight now.

Probably not, since he still punched like a girl.

"But that's good, right? They never have mercy."

"Oh, totally. And she's better than anybody else I've ever had to fight," Dinah said immediately. "I just wish she wasn't smug about it sometimes." She grinned suddenly, and jumped off the treadmill, turning it off as she did so. "The first time I TK'd anything, it was nun-chuks at her head. She thought it was awesome."

Cal gaped for a moment before he couldn't help but laugh.

"Wow. Nunchucks to the head. If I'd have tried that on my brother, I'd be ground meat."

"She caught them, that probably helped," Dinah admitted. "Otherwise Barbara might have had something to say about it too."

She nearly skipped back over to the bag, putting her gloves back on. "She skipped the whole college thing, she's just bartending. Sometimes I think she has the right idea."

"Don't think you'll be into the whole college thing?"

"I don't know what I want to do for a career. At all. Something in law, maybe, but... What's the point of going, if I don't know what I want to take?" Dinah punched the bag, one-two-three-four, rest. "I'm not like you, with the writing. Or my roomie with the music and modeling. Maybe I shouldn't go until I have some idea." One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four, kick. "I thought the convention would give me some ideas, but it didn't." Kick-kick-kick-kick.

"What do you mean, like me with the writing?" Cal asked, quirking an eyebrow. "I don't know what I'm going to do, either. I like writing, but there's no way I could ever really do anything with it. I'm actually hoping to figure that sort of thing out in college..."

Kick. Kick. Think. Hmm. Kick.

"You don't think you could make a living off your writing?" Dinah asked, stopping for breath. "Hmm. I don't know. The idea of four more years after high school-- ugh." She sighed.

They didn't have a superhero academy, after all. Or crimefighter college. And that was the main thing, she was going to do that, but what was her day job supposed to be? Florist? Librarian? What wouldn't get in the way, or get shoved aside for the crimefighting?

"When did you start writing?" she asked, trying to push those thoughts aside.

"When I was fourteen," Cal said, because that was the easiest answer, as well a sufficient one. He was still working out how to explain a little more without giving too much away. "Trust me, if you read any of it, you'd know what I mean. It's therapy more than anything else. Same as with anything else artistic I do. Painting. Acting."

Well, the acting he was actually good at, but it was already what he did for a living, har har.

"So, it's mostly for fun?" Dinah did a couple more kicks and punches, and worked her way around to facing Cal. "You get all your mental crap out through that? Pretty smart." She frowned, thinking of how she'd gotten into the script when Geoffrey handed it to her. "I can get that." She kicked the bag again, harder.

It was interesting, Cal decided, watching Dinah and noticing all her pauses and little thoughtful expressions and vaguely wondering what they might mean. He grinned, just a little.

"Although," he added, "Angela gave me her romance novel about the freaking Tour de France. If a romance novel about the Tour de France can get published, I might still have a chance with all my shitty dribblings, too. But I think I'll go the secure route and get a degree in, I don't know, accounting or something."

Which had Dinah stopping to laugh at that mental image. "Tour de France romance? Seriously? Like, love on a bicycle and all?" She looked over at one of the stationary bikes, and had to smother another giggle. "Secure is smart." She frowned again, now even more confused. Because what if the crimefighting thing didn't work out? Or what if she got hurt, like Barbara.

Grrr.

Pummel-pummel-pummel-punch punch punch-grrr-superheroes-for-hire.

"But accounting? Seriously?"

"It's...gotta be easy to get a job as an accountant," Cal reasoned.

Dinah stopped, hands on her hips, thinking as she caught her breath. "True." She grinned at Cal. "You'd be a cool accountant, right? Not a mafia accountant?"

Honestly, she had a hard time imagining it, but Cal would kind of transcend the accountant thing, maybe.

She had no idea what she meant about that, or if it applied to her. But Cal wasn't what he did, he was ... who he was. Or something.

"Mafia accountant?" Cal asked, unable to help laughing. "What's a mafia accountant supposed to be like? It sounds a lot cooler than just a regular accountant, though."

"If they're lucky and smart, then retire with all their clients' money to some unnamed tropical beach, and leave destruction and multiple racketeering charges in their wake. If they're not lucky, they end up in the trunk of a 1979 Buick Riviera at the bottom of the bay," Dinah said, bouncing on her toes again. "At least, according to the New Gotham Register, that's what happens. They also dress better. Very sharp." Dinah raised her eyebrows, and grinned at him. "So I guess the question is, how lucky are you, Cal Stephanides?"

"Not very," Cal said with a grin, which wasn't entirely true, "but I am so becoming a Mafia accountant now. I like to live...dangerously."

And it was pretty much tradition for a Stephanides man to die in a Buick. Or a Chevy.

Oddly never a Ford.

"My grandfather was a booze smuggler in the twenties," he offered. "Maybe I'll take after him."

"Ooooo." Dinah should not have found that intriguing. Sadly, she was easily fascinated by plans for mayhem. Thwarting them or helping them.

"You could wear Armani and smuggle the funds out in a Gulfstream jet. And leave all the illegal accounts for the FBI." She grinned a little. "How did your grandfather smuggles booze? From Canada? Bootlegging it in a car?"

"Exactly," Cal said with a nod. "Driving it over from Cananda when the Detroit River froze."

There was a pause.

"I'd look damn good in Armani, too," he added, with no small amount of preening.

"Ha!" Dinah had a very amusing image of a slippy-sliding Model T full of bottles of rum now. "That took some nerve."

She grinned at him after the Armani comment, trying to imagine it. Okay, not fair. He really would look good as a Mafia accountant. "You should wear that for Halloween. Or the next costume party," she teased. "Try it on, see how it works for you. Gangsta money guy."

Some nerve, indeed. It also became Jimmy Zizmo's final grave.

"I've actually got a few nice jackets and ties and a three-piece," Cal admitted. "I like jackets and things. I know what works I guess."

Dinah... really didn't. Part of dressing so boringly was lack of nerve, and part was practicality, but she found herself envying him that.

"Then I definitely have to see you in those sometime," Dinah said. "Ooo. Maybe for the play?" She considered, then shook her head. "Naaah, he'll probably put us in all-military outfits or something. Unless Harper decides on pastry."

The Gym, Sunday afternoon

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