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."
Another moment of contemplation, and Neal pockets their selected colors to compare against the wall of Tim’s bedroom before committing. He knows they’ll work, even look good, but it’s a mix of neurotic thoroughness and neurotic first time homeowner anxiety. “What’d you order?”
Now that Tim has his package, has delivered his concerns, and Neal has some color swatches, it seems like as good a time as any to angle toward the door.
"Pipe bomb," Tim answers, his face tilted just so towards the shelves they're leaving behind. It makes lip reading impossible for Closed Circuit Overhead Cam number 4.
"Well, a fraction of it. I didn't want to throw up too many red flags at once." The kid turns to look at Neal. And he shrugs, a self-conscious smile creeping into his eyes, casual and cool. "You know how it is."
Neal laughs, softly, like Tim has said something funny, his own lips barely moving and face similarly angled. "I can't tell if you're messing with me or if you're being honest, and I can't tell which one should be more concerning."
Tim huffs as they exit the doors, amusement and the distinctive full-body soreness of the cold air hitting him intermingling. "If I wanted to mess with you, after all that? They sell pretty big axes in there too."
And
dare he say it. It's weird... doing this, being a non-actor. But it's nice.
Neal squeezes his eyes closed a little tighter at the impact of the raw January weather, hunching into his coat. He snorts, though, looking skyward, then down at Tim with a little bit of worry in his eyes.
"I have to say, I appreciate the value of a good, potentially explosive distraction, but I'm not thrilled with the idea of violence."
Not even strictly because of the risk to others. He doesn't want Tim to hurt himself in ways that doctors can't touch.
Tim ignores the worry. As in, he's painfully aware that that must be what's going on in Neal's tone and gestures, but the second he would allow himself to recognize it as such is the second that the lines of Tim's shoulders will tense and his steps lose their eerie quiet.
(He's healed. From that time he literally ran into the world's most obvious amateur booby trap. [he should have known better] Yeah, he still loathes fire whooshing by his ears but Timothy Wayne hadn't had any questions about the purpled-red criss-crossed tendrils snaking up his neck into his hair when he was hounded by the tabloids during his Engagement, and that has to count for something.)
He bumps Neal's shoulder. The way he sometimes does with Malcolm. Because they're A Thing now, and Tim has to get over it. So he brushes shoulders, all chummy and cat-like. "Cool, that makes two of us."
Who don't love the idea of violence but will, apparently, harness and unleash it when necessary.
(Says the guy who called for murders from literal hitmen and wow does he have to drag his mind out of this hole it's digging. Now.)
"Don't worry, I'm not going to blow anybody up."
(On purpose, which is usually the way Tim ends up with bombs and fire and screaming and)
"I'm not worried about that," Neal says, and he finds to his slight surprise that it's true. He doesn't like violence. But the piece of him that's been afraid of it for most of his life has been blunted at the edges in this place. "I'm worried about you."
He's worried about what hurting people, accidentally or otherwise, would do to someone who's already as fractured as Tim is. Someone who wants so badly to do good and clearly doesn't believe that good can win. That hope can win.
Neal bumps Tim's shoulder back. "I'm decent at diversions, is all I'm saying, if you need one for something at some point."
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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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Another moment of contemplation, and Neal pockets their selected colors to compare against the wall of Tim’s bedroom before committing. He knows they’ll work, even look good, but it’s a mix of neurotic thoroughness and neurotic first time homeowner anxiety. “What’d you order?”
Now that Tim has his package, has delivered his concerns, and Neal has some color swatches, it seems like as good a time as any to angle toward the door.
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"Well, a fraction of it. I didn't want to throw up too many red flags at once." The kid turns to look at Neal. And he shrugs, a self-conscious smile creeping into his eyes, casual and cool. "You know how it is."
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Tim huffs as they exit the doors, amusement and the distinctive full-body soreness of the cold air hitting him intermingling. "If I wanted to mess with you, after all that? They sell pretty big axes in there too."
And
dare he say it. It's weird... doing this, being a non-actor. But it's nice.
"I know where you live."
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"I have to say, I appreciate the value of a good, potentially explosive distraction, but I'm not thrilled with the idea of violence."
Not even strictly because of the risk to others. He doesn't want Tim to hurt himself in ways that doctors can't touch.
cw injuries, deaths, insecurities, uhhh
Tim ignores the worry. As in, he's painfully aware that that must be what's going on in Neal's tone and gestures, but the second he would allow himself to recognize it as such is the second that the lines of Tim's shoulders will tense and his steps lose their eerie quiet.
(He's healed. From that time he literally ran into the world's most obvious amateur booby trap. [he should have known better] Yeah, he still loathes fire whooshing by his ears but Timothy Wayne hadn't had any questions about the purpled-red criss-crossed tendrils snaking up his neck into his hair when he was hounded by the tabloids during his Engagement, and that has to count for something.)
He bumps Neal's shoulder. The way he sometimes does with Malcolm. Because they're A Thing now, and Tim has to get over it. So he brushes shoulders, all chummy and cat-like. "Cool, that makes two of us."
Who don't love the idea of violence but will, apparently, harness and unleash it when necessary.
(Says the guy who called for murders from literal hitmen and wow does he have to drag his mind out of this hole it's digging. Now.)
"Don't worry, I'm not going to blow anybody up."
(On purpose, which is usually the way Tim ends up with bombs and fire and screaming and)
"Promise."
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He's worried about what hurting people, accidentally or otherwise, would do to someone who's already as fractured as Tim is. Someone who wants so badly to do good and clearly doesn't believe that good can win. That hope can win.
Neal bumps Tim's shoulder back. "I'm decent at diversions, is all I'm saying, if you need one for something at some point."
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