Since I am, essentially, Callum Mantreux... I decided to make the kid more like me! Which means, he speaks a multitude of foreign languages and is very OCD. The scene at the end of the chapter actually happened to me once, and I freaked out. I think I washed my face for about two hours... You pronounce my last name man-trow, by the way. Comments and criticism- always welcome. Please and thank you~ Callum
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"I'm not as-" He cut himself off and hit his head against the tire once more, squeezing his eyes shut. "Your sleeves, Eric. Your sleeves are uneven." Eric couldn't help but smile a little bit as he attempted to fix his shirt.
"Better?" Cal opened one eye and quickly closed it again.
"That just made it worse," he groaned. Eric laughed quietly and tried again. "Stop laughing at me, Eric, you know I can't help it."
"Sorry, sorry. My sleeves are even now, you can open your eyes."
"How the hell are they even?" Cal asked, jumping to his feet. "Let me do it. Lord knows I won't be satisfied until I do." He rolled both sleeves all the way down and then carefully rolled them up to his elbows. "There. Now they're even. Stop laughing, Eric!"
"It's funny," Eric defended, holding his hands up. Callum smirked slightly and gestured behind the half-Russian man.
"Horatio Caine and his glasses of justice approach." Eric lightly smacked the teen's arm.
"That's just rude. True, but rude." Cal grinned for the first time that day and absently chewed his fingernail before scowling and doing the same thing on the opposite hand.
"I hate having to do that." As he slid his hands into his pockets, his right wrist bumped against the Hummer. With a groan, he knocked his left wrist against the door on the same spot. "It's so damn frustrating!"
"Is there an ID on these two, Eric?" Horatio asked as he got over to where the two where standing.
Cal answered for him. "Marcus and Benjamin Flint. My parents." Horatio nodded and Cal was grateful that he didn't ask the question that anyone else would have.
"And you are?"
"Callum Mantreux. We've met before, I think." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, wondering vaguely if anyone in Miami had even shirt sleeves.
"Cal? You okay?" Eric's hand gripped his shoulder lightly both as a source of comfort and as a tie to reality. Cal murmured something about sleeves and shook his head again. "Sorry, H. Callum's pretty OCD and it bothers him when things are uneven. Like, for instance, the sleeves on your shirt." Rather than fixing the lengths as Eric had tried to do, Horatio simply rolled his sleeves down.
"My chemically imbalanced brain thanks you," Cal said with a small smile. "If it helps at all, I can tell you what kind of motorcycle the guy split on. It was a Kawasaki Ninja ZX-10R, blue or black. Maybe purple, but I couldn't really tell at the angle. It's a super bike, way cool. The guy has taste, I'll tell you that much." He glanced down at a watch that was on his left wrist and wiped his palms on his jeans several times. "I need to wash my hands…"
"I can't let you do that," Horatio said, putting his hands on his hips.
"You don't understand. It's seven thirty; I need to wash my hands." He patted his pockets and wiped his palms again multiple times.
"Cal, calm down, you can wash your hands in a minute. We just need to check for any GSR, okay? Then you can wash your hands." Eric started to lead the teen away, but he didn't move.
"GSR? That's gunshot residue. Why would I have gunshot residue on my hands? My parents don't even own- Wait a minute, you think I did this?" For the time being, Callum's extreme need to wash his hands was forgotten.
"We're covering our bases," the redhead deflected. Cal's jaw nearly hit the floor.
"So that includes me? What motive would I have? I love my dad and Benji. Besides, even if I could have taken my dad down like that, Benji's six-three and made of muscle. That makes him a half-foot taller than me and at least fifty pounds heavier. Wouldn't I have more injuries than a split lip?" While he was talking (yelling), Eric had been testing his hands.
"He's clean, H. Go, Cal, wash your hands." The teen nodded, clenched his jaw shut, and dashed for the closest restroom.
"Eric, the kid's got a point. Flint's a big guy. Our attacker would've had to be pretty big too, wouldn't he?" Eric nodded slowly. "Alright, I'm gonna go find Alexx. When that kid comes back, you let me know. I want to talk to him some more."
"That's gonna be a while," the Cuban said to himself.
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Callum groaned as he dried his hands on paper towels for the tenth time. He went back to the sink and turned the faucet on once again. "Just three more times, and then I'm done," he reminded himself quietly. "Just three more…" He took a deep breath and started scrubbing his hands with soap again, hating himself for doing it.
"Hey, kid, you gonna use up all the water in the sea before you're done?" Cal clenched his jaw and focused the better portion of his energy on not punching the man standing behind him who was drying his hands.
"Sir, I strongly recommend closing your mouth." The guy yanked him backwards, obviously looking for a fight.
"And if I don't?"
"Look, buddy, I'm OCD and I don't like having to wash my hands thirteen times. I also don't have to take this shit from you, okay? I'll inform you that there are a number of police officers and CSIs who are right outside that door. If you lay another finger on me, I'll go out there and tell the first person I find about the man in the bathroom who assaulted me. So, once again, I strongly recommend closing your mouth." The man scowled and spit on Cal's face before making a swift exit. Trying to control his breathing, Cal leaned over the sink and scrubbed his forehead and hands until both were red and raw.