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)
It hits like the Lonely is just waiting for the perfect moment to make him feel it. --going to push people away, going to live the life all alone and full to the brim with loathing and--
Neal drags in a sharp breath at the sudden surge of terror at being outcast, so close and strong and intimate that he could be feeling it himself. (He is, is the thing, and it makes his stomach turn over with a giddiness that doesn't feel all bad.)
It takes a few seconds of silence and focus and skills honed over a lifetime of getting distracted midstream for him to fully parse everything Tim just said. He's so scared. He's terrified, but not of inevitable horror--no, not just that. He's afraid of what it means to share that fear of the inevitable, afraid Neal will turn away from the weight and reality of it, afraid--
--all he has to do is turn away, or back up, or look disgusted, it's all he has to do--
"When something horrible happens... We'll have done everything possible to make sure he has the support he needs to get through it." He's a little dazed. The answer isn't as eloquent or as thorough or as precise as Neal generally likes to be when he's trying to be honest.
--get mad, be scornful, dismiss him, pick an ugly color and say it's because you don't want that kind of talk around Malcolm--
It's the infantilization in that thought that snaps Neal out of it. He gives his head another irritated little shake. "Tim..."
A deep breath. Soft exhale. "He's been through hell here already. We all have. But... he used to be okay alone. He thought he was fine back then, it didn't hurt, but now... Now he's had people. People who accept him wholeheartedly, who..." What is he trying to say? "Last month he lost one of those people, with violence and finality, after a strangeness he doesn't have the tools to investigate swallowed up the others one by one."
God, laid out like that-- "Horrible things are going to happen," Neal says, quiet and firm. "But unless we lay down and let it, it won't be the end of the world. As long as there's someone in this world who needs love and can give it, Malcolm will find his way. I believe that. I believe in him. He doesn't believe in himself, maybe, but I know how strong he is."
He rolls his shoulders a little, trying to shed some of the tension there. Another deep breath, and he focuses on Tim. "Thank you," Neal says softly. "For trusting me enough and caring about him enough to do this."
Support. Seven letter word that wants to single-handedly halt the tsunami of inevitable what-ifs. There is, he noted, a suspicious amount of we in Neal's reply.
Tim shifts, uncomfortable and laughably unused to the reality where that notion is put to action. Words he can agree with. The foundation of the Titans is built on embracing the idea.
Must have been why they disbanded so many times under him.
Tim picks a soft black color square and is astonished that soft black even exists. He hands it off to Neal to inspect. Says nothing to accept or refuse the Thanks because Tim is-- learning. And processing, for him, always takes a while.
"And you?"
He pauses, doesn't and does want to offend all at once.
"When you spirit him away from everything you have to protect him against and you're both happy."
Will you stay. Will happiness become routine. Will he allow routine to dampen the thrill that Neal has sought out so, so much.
Neal takes the square, nodding at the choice and taking a softer dove gray to place next to it. "This could be nice with the lavender."
And you? Tim says. Neal looks at him again.
For a moment there's something unspeakably tired and unspeakably wistful in Neal's face, that empty ache of desire for a life with others that probably drew the Lonely to him in the first place. "I want to be with him. It's the one thing that's stayed consistent for the past year. The only thing that's been steadily true. I want..."
Kids. Family. The tedium of happily ever after. He smiles a little. "I want that."
Tim doesn't have an eye for color. Any of his multitude of exes will vouch for that. When launched into the public eye Tim had quickly acquired acceptable things to dress in that spanned all of three colors. He leans in a fraction, taking some space from Neal in the process. But the other man is steadfast.
And as far as he can tell, here and now and combing through a year's worth of memories (and not), Neal is not only steadfast but reliable.
(Reliable enough, Experience reminds him. Alienation and doubt, misunderstanding and failure-- those things fear their head always.)
The kid nods, resolute.
(Resolute enough.)
"Yeah," he says, imagining lavender. Accepting and authentic and docile. "I can see it."
And because as much fun as parallel and (un)related conversations are, sometimes you need clarity. He straightens up, shifting his box in his hands and he looks up at Neal and he tries for a smile. The worry is evident, because there's no reason to not worry, not when there's always another shoe to drop, but he tries. "Two old farts in rocking chairs on the front porch, discussing the growth rate of grass."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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?"
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“Deal with ADI? What are you talking about?”
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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.
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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.”
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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."
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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."
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"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?"
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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.
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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."
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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.
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Neal drags in a sharp breath at the sudden surge of terror at being outcast, so close and strong and intimate that he could be feeling it himself. (He is, is the thing, and it makes his stomach turn over with a giddiness that doesn't feel all bad.)
It takes a few seconds of silence and focus and skills honed over a lifetime of getting distracted midstream for him to fully parse everything Tim just said. He's so scared. He's terrified, but not of inevitable horror--no, not just that. He's afraid of what it means to share that fear of the inevitable, afraid Neal will turn away from the weight and reality of it, afraid--
--all he has to do is turn away, or back up, or look disgusted, it's all he has to do--
"When something horrible happens... We'll have done everything possible to make sure he has the support he needs to get through it." He's a little dazed. The answer isn't as eloquent or as thorough or as precise as Neal generally likes to be when he's trying to be honest.
--get mad, be scornful, dismiss him, pick an ugly color and say it's because you don't want that kind of talk around Malcolm--
It's the infantilization in that thought that snaps Neal out of it. He gives his head another irritated little shake. "Tim..."
A deep breath. Soft exhale. "He's been through hell here already. We all have. But... he used to be okay alone. He thought he was fine back then, it didn't hurt, but now... Now he's had people. People who accept him wholeheartedly, who..." What is he trying to say? "Last month he lost one of those people, with violence and finality, after a strangeness he doesn't have the tools to investigate swallowed up the others one by one."
God, laid out like that-- "Horrible things are going to happen," Neal says, quiet and firm. "But unless we lay down and let it, it won't be the end of the world. As long as there's someone in this world who needs love and can give it, Malcolm will find his way. I believe that. I believe in him. He doesn't believe in himself, maybe, but I know how strong he is."
He rolls his shoulders a little, trying to shed some of the tension there. Another deep breath, and he focuses on Tim. "Thank you," Neal says softly. "For trusting me enough and caring about him enough to do this."
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Tim shifts, uncomfortable and laughably unused to the reality where that notion is put to action. Words he can agree with. The foundation of the Titans is built on embracing the idea.
Must have been why they disbanded so many times under him.
Tim picks a soft black color square and is astonished that soft black even exists. He hands it off to Neal to inspect. Says nothing to accept or refuse the Thanks because Tim is-- learning. And processing, for him, always takes a while.
"And you?"
He pauses, doesn't and does want to offend all at once.
"When you spirit him away from everything you have to protect him against and you're both happy."
Will you stay. Will happiness become routine. Will he allow routine to dampen the thrill that Neal has sought out so, so much.
"...you'll be okay too?"
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And you? Tim says. Neal looks at him again.
For a moment there's something unspeakably tired and unspeakably wistful in Neal's face, that empty ache of desire for a life with others that probably drew the Lonely to him in the first place. "I want to be with him. It's the one thing that's stayed consistent for the past year. The only thing that's been steadily true. I want..."
Kids. Family. The tedium of happily ever after. He smiles a little. "I want that."
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And as far as he can tell, here and now and combing through a year's worth of memories (and not), Neal is not only steadfast but reliable.
(Reliable enough, Experience reminds him. Alienation and doubt, misunderstanding and failure-- those things fear their head always.)
The kid nods, resolute.
(Resolute enough.)
"Yeah," he says, imagining lavender. Accepting and authentic and docile. "I can see it."
And because as much fun as parallel and (un)related conversations are, sometimes you need clarity. He straightens up, shifting his box in his hands and he looks up at Neal and he tries for a smile. The worry is evident, because there's no reason to not worry, not when there's always another shoe to drop, but he tries. "Two old farts in rocking chairs on the front porch, discussing the growth rate of grass."
Dream come true.
"You'll be great for each other."
He means it.
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cw injuries, deaths, insecurities, uhhh
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