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.
Neal sighs tiredly, dragging a hand through his hair as he walks toward the service desk under the assumption that it’s where Tim needs to go. “No. I can’t.”
"Cool," he chirps. He feels his face heat with-- what is it, rage? Indignation? And the worst of it is knowing that this isn't Neal's fault.
He follows suit and leans into the service desk just enough to get told to give me a sec; Tim digs out his ID.
After a beat and with no ears listening in to what must be repeated abuse, Tim turns to Neal. He wonders if he's going to end the evening with a punch to the face; Tim won't even block. "Okay, so there's no guarantee. There isn't one in any world, anyway. What deal did you cut with ADI? Actually- what came first, the idea to propose? The one to buy a house? Is it like a packaged deal?"
"No deal?" He asks, blinking and pleased at sounding like some TV game show announcer.
The staff returns to man the desk and Tim is quick to wheel around and plead his case. There's the click-clack of the keyboard as the worker runs through the checkout and Tim hands over his identification card. Vincent Callum signs in the little black box on the desk with gradeschool-level squiggles. One sigh and rummaging under the desk layer, Tim is given his box and receipt and he says his earnest Thanks.
Always a polite kid.
He shifts the weight of the box so it's a little less unruly.
"I still think lavender is... good. Whatever color you want, really."
No longer a standing offer to have that be his room, Tim bets. And if it is, it shouldn't be, he thinks.
“Are we having parallel but unrelated conversations? I’m starting to feel like we are.”
Tim you are confusing him. He genuinely has no idea what you’re implying here—he was expecting threats and anger and maybe a swing at his face. “It could do with a fresh coat even if we do keep it lavender.”
He heads for the paint, because it Tim wants to do a bit over this, he’ll commit to it. Yes, and? “Though I think geometric shapes with black and maybe a pale gray could be nice, if you like that.”
"More like, mics will pick up chatter at the customer service desk," Tim points out. And yes, that's important his tone says.
But he follows at Neal's heels and then is promptly distracted by the ridiculous wall of color swatches-- has Tim ever seen such a thing before? Who the hell is out there painting their home orange? Why are there so many shades of orange? Parallel but unrelated conversations; he's up for the challenge. Or so says his step forward to peer at (heh) shades of gray. "I've been accused of not being creative," he ventures.
"When I purchased the theater from under Bruce, I OK'd some blueprints. Then I paid for the remodeling and stepped back. Let the magic happen. And, ta-da. I got the call that my new apartment was ready for moving in. That's as involved as I've ever been with anything home improvement."
It's a good point, and Neal feels a little uncomfortable dip and clench of awfulness and anxiety for Tim at the immediate implications of what Tim's knowledge of that particular mic-fact means.
He manages a smooth little chuckle at Tim's story in spite of his own internal feelings. "Well, I've never had a house and my home improvements always involved adding secret cupboards and means of egress, so it'll be an adventure for both of us."
He nods absently, attention still partially absorbed by the colors in that way his attention had been nabbed by orange juice on the grocery store shelves some years ago: yep, this is, indeed, fresh territory.
"Then geometric black it is," he says.
He thinks Geometric Black would make for a cool band name. He thinks to tell Jeff about it, and then they can pitch ideas for genre and if the lead singer or bassist is the hottest.
He faces Neal again and feels substantially more drained than he did three seconds ago. But this is a bit and Tim is a passable actor too. He's game for making Neal come out of this mildly miserable.
Neal raises an eyebrow. "Believe it or not, there are a lot of ways to get someone's ring size if you go about it creatively."
In Malcolm's case, he made Malcolm serve as a temporary finger rack when untangling a purposefully tangled skein of yarn that he never used for anything other than getting Malcolm's ring size.
Thankfully the details serve him. "I was wondering if Malcolm would be expecting-- the big surprise."
So he trips over the words, sue him. He hasn't made up his mind over his feelings about it. His feelings, Tim tells himself for the Nth time, do not fucking mean anything.
Neal blinks at him. He's missed something. No, Malcolm probably isn't expecting the proposal, even after the revelation about them having a house. But that's less important than-- "Anti-Life?"
He blinks. Is sure, for a moment, that he heard wrong. But then he's done actually, y'know, processing and Tim feels the pinch between his shoulders because of how stiff he's gone. Oh, yeah, so he's said Anti-Life aloud. At least he didn't recite the whole-- thing.
There is no way to save this and Tim finds he doesn't want to back down from the explanation.
Maybe that's the code itself at work, demanding it be preached to all unwilling ears. Anti-Life, Tim begins with a muddy dread sticking to the inside of his skin
"...is the truth." And yeah, his voice has pitched low because of the savage self-awareness. Tim's brows pinch together; it's an art to no longer care about being stigmatized as insane. The desperation isn't for him, he's long gone. It's for Malcolm.
Like he's spilling some horrid secret, Tim goes on. "It's a truth. I don't know how to explain it because it was never explained to me, it's something that just happens. Anti-Life is what it says it is. He's been left behind already. And now he's lost one friend to death. You've been on the other side of the coin but do you know what happens to the people who stay back and mourn? When hope breaks down? Fear does win. It's not all of the equation, it's a very small part of it, but--"
He does sound insane, Tim realizes with a pang of... fear.
He's going to push people away, going to live the life all alone and full to the brim with loathing and
"Malcolm observes. His job, his everything, is about helping find reason behind why death has to happen to the people that it targets. He wants one thing, and that's to never be a vessel for hurt. He never would be that vessel. You don't... you wouldn't be. Either.
"You think... love is going to help you. Help you both. You both-- deserve that love. You do. But what happens when this-- world, says otherwise? How's Malcolm going to take it? I don't-- I really don't think he has the experience for that."
And because the Equation is truth and because Tim has the experience lining caskets behind him, he adds,
"When something horrible happens... and Malcolm finds himself believing he's the villain. It won't break him?"
The worst part being that the kid's just so damn sincere about it. There's no heat or vitriol. Facts don't need any of that.
Edited (i can't help myself oops) 2023-01-26 15:11 (UTC)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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."
no subject
"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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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?"
no subject
Neal looks at him with raised eyebrows.
no subject
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."
no subject
His voice is neutral, gives nothing away, no hostility or anything else.
no subject
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."
no subject
“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.
no subject
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.
no subject
no subject
He follows suit and leans into the service desk just enough to get told to give me a sec; Tim digs out his ID.
After a beat and with no ears listening in to what must be repeated abuse, Tim turns to Neal. He wonders if he's going to end the evening with a punch to the face; Tim won't even block. "Okay, so there's no guarantee. There isn't one in any world, anyway. What deal did you cut with ADI? Actually- what came first, the idea to propose? The one to buy a house? Is it like a packaged deal?"
no subject
“Deal with ADI? What are you talking about?”
no subject
The staff returns to man the desk and Tim is quick to wheel around and plead his case. There's the click-clack of the keyboard as the worker runs through the checkout and Tim hands over his identification card. Vincent Callum signs in the little black box on the desk with gradeschool-level squiggles. One sigh and rummaging under the desk layer, Tim is given his box and receipt and he says his earnest Thanks.
Always a polite kid.
He shifts the weight of the box so it's a little less unruly.
"I still think lavender is... good. Whatever color you want, really."
No longer a standing offer to have that be his room, Tim bets. And if it is, it shouldn't be, he thinks.
no subject
Tim you are confusing him. He genuinely has no idea what you’re implying here—he was expecting threats and anger and maybe a swing at his face. “It could do with a fresh coat even if we do keep it lavender.”
He heads for the paint, because it Tim wants to do a bit over this, he’ll commit to it. Yes, and? “Though I think geometric shapes with black and maybe a pale gray could be nice, if you like that.”
no subject
But he follows at Neal's heels and then is promptly distracted by the ridiculous wall of color swatches-- has Tim ever seen such a thing before? Who the hell is out there painting their home orange? Why are there so many shades of orange? Parallel but unrelated conversations; he's up for the challenge. Or so says his step forward to peer at (heh) shades of gray. "I've been accused of not being creative," he ventures.
"When I purchased the theater from under Bruce, I OK'd some blueprints. Then I paid for the remodeling and stepped back. Let the magic happen. And, ta-da. I got the call that my new apartment was ready for moving in. That's as involved as I've ever been with anything home improvement."
no subject
He manages a smooth little chuckle at Tim's story in spite of his own internal feelings. "Well, I've never had a house and my home improvements always involved adding secret cupboards and means of egress, so it'll be an adventure for both of us."
no subject
"Then geometric black it is," he says.
He thinks Geometric Black would make for a cool band name. He thinks to tell Jeff about it, and then they can pitch ideas for genre and if the lead singer or bassist is the hottest.
He faces Neal again and feels substantially more drained than he did three seconds ago. But this is a bit and Tim is a passable actor too. He's game for making Neal come out of this mildly miserable.
"Do you have his ring size yet?"
no subject
In Malcolm's case, he made Malcolm serve as a temporary finger rack when untangling a purposefully tangled skein of yarn that he never used for anything other than getting Malcolm's ring size.
no subject
Thankfully the details serve him. "I was wondering if Malcolm would be expecting-- the big surprise."
So he trips over the words, sue him. He hasn't made up his mind over his feelings about it. His feelings, Tim tells himself for the Nth time, do not fucking mean anything.
"And if he can balance Anti-Life with it."
no subject
no subject
He blinks. Is sure, for a moment, that he heard wrong. But then he's done actually, y'know, processing and Tim feels the pinch between his shoulders because of how stiff he's gone. Oh, yeah, so he's said Anti-Life aloud. At least he didn't recite the whole-- thing.
There is no way to save this and Tim finds he doesn't want to back down from the explanation.
Maybe that's the code itself at work, demanding it be preached to all unwilling ears. Anti-Life, Tim begins with a muddy dread sticking to the inside of his skin
"...is the truth." And yeah, his voice has pitched low because of the savage self-awareness. Tim's brows pinch together; it's an art to no longer care about being stigmatized as insane. The desperation isn't for him, he's long gone. It's for Malcolm.
Like he's spilling some horrid secret, Tim goes on. "It's a truth. I don't know how to explain it because it was never explained to me, it's something that just happens. Anti-Life is what it says it is. He's been left behind already. And now he's lost one friend to death. You've been on the other side of the coin but do you know what happens to the people who stay back and mourn? When hope breaks down? Fear does win. It's not all of the equation, it's a very small part of it, but--"
He does sound insane, Tim realizes with a pang of... fear.
He's going to push people away, going to live the life all alone and full to the brim with loathing and
"Malcolm observes. His job, his everything, is about helping find reason behind why death has to happen to the people that it targets. He wants one thing, and that's to never be a vessel for hurt. He never would be that vessel. You don't... you wouldn't be. Either.
"You think... love is going to help you. Help you both. You both-- deserve that love. You do. But what happens when this-- world, says otherwise? How's Malcolm going to take it? I don't-- I really don't think he has the experience for that."
And because the Equation is truth and because Tim has the experience lining caskets behind him, he adds,
"When something horrible happens... and Malcolm finds himself believing he's the villain. It won't break him?"
The worst part being that the kid's just so damn sincere about it. There's no heat or vitriol. Facts don't need any of that.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
cw injuries, deaths, insecurities, uhhh
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)