And yet, to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together nowadays.
Tim had said his goodbye to the owlbear with a promise to return soon-ish, had scuttled out of the kitchen and apartment and into the halls, and had given Neal enough of a head start that he had to almost jog to catch up to the guy.
Seeing as there was no way Neal didn't already suspect he would be followed, Tim skips the charades. From behind Neal he reaches out a hand to tap the man's forearm, not retreating the ghost of the touch until he's convinced the other will tag along. "C'mon," he says stepping in line with the man. "I have an order to pick up.
Neal sighs internally. He manages not to do it externally. Instead just nods, falling in with Tim and matching his pace. "If you have notes on my designs or you're worried I'm not going to make sure Rue gets paid since they seem very intent on helping and didn't mention costs, I'm going to make sure they do. I know what it's worth."
For all Neal's perceptiveness, every so often, he misses the obvious.
Tim pulls a face, his nose scrunches and he isn't sure if he wants to laugh or groan at what's bound to be utterly extravagant. "I'll be honest-"
it's a miracle
"I zoned out on anything Shakespearean after I saw a guy with a donkey head and a chick who was way too into it. I saw that SparkNotes is still up and running? Which is shockingly refreshing, seeing as I haven't needed it since 2008 and it's like-- I don't know. Some very small piece of home that's helping slackers in this world too."
They walk. Tim blabs, casual and easy and steady.
There's no need to make this anything but easy.
"Do I even need to ask how you got the cash for... everything? Nod for 'no'. I can be discreet."
Neal gives him a sidelong look and raised eyebrows. He keeps his voice quiet enough to stay between them, but he’s not going to lie about this. “Malcolm would never accept anything that came from hurting people, and I wouldn’t want to give it to him. When I first got here I robbed the occasional rich, deserving asshole tourist who wouldn’t miss a few thousand pulled from an ATM off their platinum Amex and went from there. Investments. Et cetera. Wasn’t paying for housing at the time, so that let me focus my attention on growth areas.”
Sounds like bull; it's all straightforward and nothing Tim didn't already know (Neal steals) or hadn't already assumed (Neal works for the long-term). But even then he accepts the idea, nodding along and not entirely interested.
He trudges into the elevator and holds the door then punches in the button for the lobby.
He tries not to fantasize about hitting the emergency stop halfway through.
--what, is he supposed to keep every literary reference holed up in his noggin as a detective? No. That's a job for computers.
Tim doesn't understand why he feels so smug at Neal's own question or at his own inability to answer. He looks appropriately sheepish and shrugs. Steps out of the elevator as it dings. "I just wouldn't want my name on anything tying me to this world for so long."
Neal genuinely considers his response as he follows Tim out.
Deep breath, braced for truth. “I grew up in witness protection. I didn’t know my own name, my real name, until I turned eighteen. And then I ran away from home and spent almost twenty years using every alias under the sun. Right around when I had to fake my own death to protect my friends I think I decided… if I could safely use my real name, the name I chose that was mine, I was going to do it.”
He shrugs. “I’m here. I’m here until I can find a way to get home and take whoever wants to come with me. I’m going to be myself while I am.”
Tim's practiced. He listens and shows that no, he hadn't known that information. He feels a lot for Neal and for what it must mean to tell something so intimate to placate a nosy kid's curiosity. He can't say that he relates to a lot of the story-
the thrill of getting lost in aliases, doing anything to keep dear ones safe, laying claim to what's yours when you can, and, hell, even running away.
He can't say he's thought about it often, the difference in his life it would have made to grow up with resources so finite. Timothy Drake was born with a silver spoon in his mouth: nannies, staff, boarding schools. Maybe having the opposite would have changed everything. Maybe nothing. Maybe it would have changed enough. And Tim's still not sure if the Drake or Wayne name is his. All he knows is that, early in his stay in Gloucester, he decided that he was more comfortable muddying Jack's family name versus Bruce's.
He can't can't say that, aware of his privilege that he (sometimes) is.
But he can let the wave of anger-betrayal-hurt swell and crest, and he exhales low and long to release the stored tension in the lines of his shoulders.
Faking a death to protect who, again, exactly--?
Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne can't say a damn thing about that either, considering the whole... Fox thing.
God he doesn't want to have this conversation. There are so many ways in which he doesn't want to have this conversation and so many reasons, not the least of which is the whispering Lonely, telling him he isn't himself anyway. He already knows he isn't. He already knows he's not sure who Neal Caffrey is beyond a name he picked for himself to keep, a combination of birth name and his mother's maiden name because he can't stand the idea of being Neal Bennett, the man his father wanted to raise.
"I don't know." He halts outside of the ADI apartment block's gate, waiting to make sure Tim will stop too before he says anything else. He doesn't want to talk about this, and he'll let himself redirect, because admitting what he already has took a lot on the heels of vulnerability with an absolute stranger. Even if Rue was friendly and supportive and absolutely charming.
Tim halts, pockets his hands and rocks back on his heels once as he considers.
"Ace Hardware closes at Eight," he says. "I woke up way too late, and we need to beat the clock because I'm pretty sure they threatened to ship back my package if I didn't go get it today."
Neal presses his lips together, a twinge of frustration making him want to say something sharp. He resists. Tim wants something. He wants to say something, to ask something, to do something--Neal isn't sure yet. But the kid needs his lead-in time, that's one thing Neal has learned, and he won't get anywhere trying to force the issue.
Besides-- "Oh good. We can look at some paint colors for your room while we're there. It's a very soft kind of lavender right now, which doesn't really seem like your preferred aesthetic."
He starts walking again, because he actually knows where the Ace Hardware is.
Tim observes. He knows that tight-lipped look. It means he's won. He responds with a smile, knowing and prodding and he's still shocked at the bite of winter that hits his face.
Should get therapy for that total lack of adjustment.
But there's pressing issues at hand. Lavender. Your room, Neal calls it.
Tim's heart does a somersault and he's pretty sure he wants to cry.
--don't.
"I was thinking black?" He shoots back. "Purple was Steph's thing. Eggplant. But I'd feel like I'm sneaking into her room all over again if the walls are really lavender."
The tight-lipped-ness gives way to a tiny smile at the thought of Tim sneaking into a girl's room. It helps, too, that he recognizes Tim's sense of triumph from being a young smart shithead who liked getting a rise out of people himself.
"Black can be surprisingly versatile, and dark interior walls are generally good for spaces that are supposed to be calming. Could leave a little bit of the lavender as an accent."
It's an airy and short huff, and Tim's smile hangs on as a disarming gesture.
"On the off chance you're being serious," he tries, throat feeling tight at the prospect of Neal's confirmation but voice deceivingly patient and gentle, "you don't have to paint any of your rooms black. Whatever you feel is right is probably the correct answer for interior decorating."
All of his rooms had been... plain, if a mess. It happens when you learn to expect upheaval. And even with the Monarch, all Tim had done was hired designers. And added the fish. The fish are more than likely dead.
"Are you guys doing the whole white-picket-fence and golden retriever thing, too? To make a house a home."
"It's your room," he says again, tone not changing. "I might own the house, but you're the one who should get to decide how your space looks."
He exhales softly. "I mean, I've thought about getting a pet. When Abby was still here, it was nice, before she went to Bonnie's--having her gremlin around. I've never had a pet. Beyond that, I don't know. We won't really be able to make friends with out neighbors without putting them at risk."
Tim is talking before the cold hand of terror paralyzes him. His step even falters- that's how committed he is to righting this wrong.
"No, I mean-- I don't mind. I don't. Bruce had me in the carriage house after-- after everything with my dad."
He wonders if Neal remembers that... dream as vividly as Tim does. He wonders if Neal remembers that his father's name hadn't been 'Bruce'.
"It still even smelled like hay, but I loved it because... because it had been his."
He wonders if Neal will see this for the good that it had been. Because that's what he's gunning for, tripping over his words as he scrambles to get himself and a panicked mind back on track. "I like lavender. And dogs. I always wanted a big dog."
Neal remembers. Oh, he remembers. It doesn't show on his face--he's gotten to that lying space, his 'mind palace' of neutrality that keeps his emotions private and his thoughts off the surface--but the emotions are definitely there. Anger, protectiveness, a bitter familiarity he doesn't want to think about.
In the carriage house. The carriage house. After everything with his dad.
"Well, I don't think I want to bring hay inside," a very small joke, "but we can figure the rest out."
He smiles a little. "Me too. My best friend back home had a golden retriever, but I always wanted something huge."
"My friend too," Tim adds, seemingly unable to shut off the flood of words that don't mean anything but that maybe feel nice to say aloud. "My best friend has a..."
Alien dog. Kryptonian dog. Hand-me-down kind of dog. Can fly kind of dog. Movie kind of dog. What kind of dog was Krypto?
"A white dog." Tim finishes lamely, brows furrowed. "They live on a farm and Krypto can find anything. He's cool. I got chased by the big, drooling kind when I was in Germany. But that wasn't their fault."
And wow, Tim, you worm. When did the conversation turn to something... cute? Domestic?
His ears color red in a failed attempt to suppress a flush.
Hey, Tim says, in that tone of someone who's realized they've gotten off-track and is trying to course correct. Hey, because there was something he wanted that had nothing to do with dogs and paint colors.
"It's about Malcolm," he says with all the same lameness of a moment ago. Clearly the brave and the bold no more, Tim sucks in a chilly breath through his teeth and he makes to straighten up even as the store comes into view. "And the..."
Proposal.
Engagement.
Wedding.
The happily ever after that isn't going to happen, and not because Tim wouldn't give his life for it but because there's nothing that Time doesn't delight in tearing apart. Human casualties be damned.
"I need to preface this by clarifying that I know how to break your arm in nine places. And that's before we enter the hardware store."
Will Neal believe him?
Who cares, Tim has his eyes raised to catalog the points where cameras are or ought to be. He had, some months ago, when he was losing himself to the Eye, downloaded and memorized the map. Thing is, it's not exactly easy to track pings and PD and FBI and assorted other databases and clouds to compile the known whereabouts of private and company cams. Tim's not in love with the idea of sharing unless he has to.
He keeps his gaze on one camera, unseen unless it's looked for. He hopes Neal follows that gaze, and then Tim is continuing. Monkey see, monkey do; he finds refuge in neutrality.
He ignores the... question he was asked, emotions churning and threatening to make him lose ground again.
(He already misses talking about dogs.)
"I want to know what big secret you know, that the rest of us are missing out on."
Don't worry- the camera doesn't pull audio. Tim shoulders open the door, bells jingling to announce newcomers to Ace. It smells like fresh paint in here.
"Because you have a solution to random disappearances, the Apocalypse itself, and a way to have us pick and choose where we go after everything's won."
He believes that Tim could break his arm in nine places if he wanted to. He’s seen some of the scars the kid has, knows the way fighters move. He would believe most people here who are from somewhere else can probably kill him in a variety of creative ways he couldn’t hope to predict. That’s not the kind of imagination he has himself.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Tim had said his goodbye to the owlbear with a promise to return soon-ish, had scuttled out of the kitchen and apartment and into the halls, and had given Neal enough of a head start that he had to almost jog to catch up to the guy.
Seeing as there was no way Neal didn't already suspect he would be followed, Tim skips the charades. From behind Neal he reaches out a hand to tap the man's forearm, not retreating the ghost of the touch until he's convinced the other will tag along. "C'mon," he says stepping in line with the man. "I have an order to pick up.
"Let's chat."
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For all Neal's perceptiveness, every so often, he misses the obvious.
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it's a miracle
"I zoned out on anything Shakespearean after I saw a guy with a donkey head and a chick who was way too into it. I saw that SparkNotes is still up and running? Which is shockingly refreshing, seeing as I haven't needed it since 2008 and it's like-- I don't know. Some very small piece of home that's helping slackers in this world too."
They walk. Tim blabs, casual and easy and steady.
There's no need to make this anything but easy.
"Do I even need to ask how you got the cash for... everything? Nod for 'no'. I can be discreet."
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His tone is very dry at that.
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He trudges into the elevator and holds the door then punches in the button for the lobby.
He tries not to fantasize about hitting the emergency stop halfway through.
"Is John Robie the man on all that paper?"
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He feels weirdly blindsided by the question without being able to put a finger on the reason. “Why?”
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--what, is he supposed to keep every literary reference holed up in his noggin as a detective? No. That's a job for computers.
Tim doesn't understand why he feels so smug at Neal's own question or at his own inability to answer. He looks appropriately sheepish and shrugs. Steps out of the elevator as it dings. "I just wouldn't want my name on anything tying me to this world for so long."
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Deep breath, braced for truth. “I grew up in witness protection. I didn’t know my own name, my real name, until I turned eighteen. And then I ran away from home and spent almost twenty years using every alias under the sun. Right around when I had to fake my own death to protect my friends I think I decided… if I could safely use my real name, the name I chose that was mine, I was going to do it.”
He shrugs. “I’m here. I’m here until I can find a way to get home and take whoever wants to come with me. I’m going to be myself while I am.”
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the thrill of getting lost in aliases, doing anything to keep dear ones safe, laying claim to what's yours when you can, and, hell, even running away.
He can't say he's thought about it often, the difference in his life it would have made to grow up with resources so finite. Timothy Drake was born with a silver spoon in his mouth: nannies, staff, boarding schools. Maybe having the opposite would have changed everything. Maybe nothing. Maybe it would have changed enough. And Tim's still not sure if the Drake or Wayne name is his. All he knows is that, early in his stay in Gloucester, he decided that he was more comfortable muddying Jack's family name versus Bruce's.
He can't can't say that, aware of his privilege that he (sometimes) is.
But he can let the wave of anger-betrayal-hurt swell and crest, and he exhales low and long to release the stored tension in the lines of his shoulders.
Faking a death to protect who, again, exactly--?
Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne can't say a damn thing about that either, considering the whole... Fox thing.
"Was it difficult...?"
Oh, look.
It's honesty hour or something like that. Crap.
"To be yourself after so long?"
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"I don't know." He halts outside of the ADI apartment block's gate, waiting to make sure Tim will stop too before he says anything else. He doesn't want to talk about this, and he'll let himself redirect, because admitting what he already has took a lot on the heels of vulnerability with an absolute stranger. Even if Rue was friendly and supportive and absolutely charming.
"Tim, what's going on?"
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Tim halts, pockets his hands and rocks back on his heels once as he considers.
"Ace Hardware closes at Eight," he says. "I woke up way too late, and we need to beat the clock because I'm pretty sure they threatened to ship back my package if I didn't go get it today."
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Besides-- "Oh good. We can look at some paint colors for your room while we're there. It's a very soft kind of lavender right now, which doesn't really seem like your preferred aesthetic."
He starts walking again, because he actually knows where the Ace Hardware is.
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Should get therapy for that total lack of adjustment.
But there's pressing issues at hand. Lavender. Your room, Neal calls it.
Tim's heart does a somersault and he's pretty sure he wants to cry.
--don't.
"I was thinking black?" He shoots back. "Purple was Steph's thing. Eggplant. But I'd feel like I'm sneaking into her room all over again if the walls are really lavender."
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"Black can be surprisingly versatile, and dark interior walls are generally good for spaces that are supposed to be calming. Could leave a little bit of the lavender as an accent."
small mention of animal death in here
It's an airy and short huff, and Tim's smile hangs on as a disarming gesture.
"On the off chance you're being serious," he tries, throat feeling tight at the prospect of Neal's confirmation but voice deceivingly patient and gentle, "you don't have to paint any of your rooms black. Whatever you feel is right is probably the correct answer for interior decorating."
All of his rooms had been... plain, if a mess. It happens when you learn to expect upheaval. And even with the Monarch, all Tim had done was hired designers. And added the fish. The fish are more than likely dead.
"Are you guys doing the whole white-picket-fence and golden retriever thing, too? To make a house a home."
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He exhales softly. "I mean, I've thought about getting a pet. When Abby was still here, it was nice, before she went to Bonnie's--having her gremlin around. I've never had a pet. Beyond that, I don't know. We won't really be able to make friends with out neighbors without putting them at risk."
uhhh cw child neglect idfk
Tim is talking before the cold hand of terror paralyzes him. His step even falters- that's how committed he is to righting this wrong.
"No, I mean-- I don't mind. I don't. Bruce had me in the carriage house after-- after everything with my dad."
He wonders if Neal remembers that... dream as vividly as Tim does. He wonders if Neal remembers that his father's name hadn't been 'Bruce'.
"It still even smelled like hay, but I loved it because... because it had been his."
He wonders if Neal will see this for the good that it had been. Because that's what he's gunning for, tripping over his words as he scrambles to get himself and a panicked mind back on track. "I like lavender. And dogs. I always wanted a big dog."
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In the carriage house. The carriage house. After everything with his dad.
"Well, I don't think I want to bring hay inside," a very small joke, "but we can figure the rest out."
He smiles a little. "Me too. My best friend back home had a golden retriever, but I always wanted something huge."
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Alien dog. Kryptonian dog. Hand-me-down kind of dog. Can fly kind of dog. Movie kind of dog. What kind of dog was Krypto?
"A white dog." Tim finishes lamely, brows furrowed. "They live on a farm and Krypto can find anything. He's cool. I got chased by the big, drooling kind when I was in Germany. But that wasn't their fault."
And wow, Tim, you worm. When did the conversation turn to something... cute? Domestic?
His ears color red in a failed attempt to suppress a flush.
Get back on track.
"Hey?"
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Neal looks at him with raised eyebrows.
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Proposal.
Engagement.
Wedding.
The happily ever after that isn't going to happen, and not because Tim wouldn't give his life for it but because there's nothing that Time doesn't delight in tearing apart. Human casualties be damned.
"You know."
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His voice is neutral, gives nothing away, no hostility or anything else.
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Will Neal believe him?
Who cares, Tim has his eyes raised to catalog the points where cameras are or ought to be. He had, some months ago, when he was losing himself to the Eye, downloaded and memorized the map. Thing is, it's not exactly easy to track pings and PD and FBI and assorted other databases and clouds to compile the known whereabouts of private and company cams. Tim's not in love with the idea of sharing unless he has to.
He keeps his gaze on one camera, unseen unless it's looked for. He hopes Neal follows that gaze, and then Tim is continuing. Monkey see, monkey do; he finds refuge in neutrality.
He ignores the... question he was asked, emotions churning and threatening to make him lose ground again.
(He already misses talking about dogs.)
"I want to know what big secret you know, that the rest of us are missing out on."
Don't worry- the camera doesn't pull audio. Tim shoulders open the door, bells jingling to announce newcomers to Ace. It smells like fresh paint in here.
"Because you have a solution to random disappearances, the Apocalypse itself, and a way to have us pick and choose where we go after everything's won."
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“No I don’t.”
He believes that Tim could break his arm in nine places if he wanted to. He’s seen some of the scars the kid has, knows the way fighters move. He would believe most people here who are from somewhere else can probably kill him in a variety of creative ways he couldn’t hope to predict. That’s not the kind of imagination he has himself.
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He would have learned nothing from Batman if he didn't press.
"So the opposite, then. You can promise a future... here."
For better or for worse, he leaves out the sarcasm or bite. He adds in the needling interest.
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cw injuries, deaths, insecurities, uhhh
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