"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."
"I'm not going to blow myself up either," Tim volleys right back, the words ringing with a lightness that says he'd been expecting to say them.
Neal's totally unwarranted crash into his delicate self makes Tim roll his eyes.
He hasn't been this free in years. Literal years.
"If I need the smokescreen," he says carefully, knowing Neal will want the words said aloud, "you'll be the first person I call."
No promise but it'll have to be good enough. Besides, "I'm almost sure I'll need a favor soon. Let me know what color sticky note you'd prefer the I.O.U. scribbled on."
Hell of an I.O.U. Tim finds himself both surprised and not. The result is a characteristic aborted sort of laugh, a hot huff of air that's forced and needed to restart his lungs. There's an electric buzz in the air; his skin itching with history, Tim shifts the box in his hands and looks ahead. He's got no illusions of finding Gotham on the faraway skies.
"Who is Bruce Wayne. That is a, uh. There isn't a way for me to convey just how weird that question is," the boy admits, sounding unbearably young but not to his own ears. Maybe Neal, who made a life of hunting big pockets, can understand some of that not-there reverence.
Bruce Wayne can be, for all intents and purposes, a Savior.
Tim's running his mouth the next second.
"He's kind of a big deal. Other than being my adoptive father, he--"
But he isn't. Anymore.
Times changed. Tim changed. He bites his tongue. Really does bite his tongue, a flinch crossing Tim's expression before he shakes it off and sucks in a breath again. Carefully, with a wary sideways glance to Neal, he continues. "I mean, I already told Malcolm. I had emancipated as a minor before coming here. So technically, it's not like I'm his problem anymore."
It never hurts any less to, y'know, say out loud. With the new tidal wave of self-awareness comes crashing the desperate word vomit Tim had assaulted Neal with not an hour before. He sags his shoulders, bordering on defeated.
(Holy mood swing, Batman.)
If he could, Tim would be holding up a hand to sign Stop. "I know I said some weird things but I'm clarifying now that it was all said out of context and that Bruce took me in when my dad couldn't, and then adopted me when my father died. He's done a lot for me and I'm not always fair. to him."
The phrase kind of a big deal makes Neal bite the very corner of his lip, on the side of his mouth that Tim can't see, so he won't smile. He does get it, though. Or at least he can extrapolate. Tim was rich, very rich, and very rich people tend to be--for one reason or another--kind of a big deal. That Bruce Wayne was at the top of that kind of rich-infamy pyramid isn't hard to glean.
Neal glances sideways at him, heart aching a little. "I don't think I've ever told you about my dad. Either of my dads, though the latter was less official and more honorary."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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."
no subject
"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."
no subject
Neal's totally unwarranted crash into his delicate self makes Tim roll his eyes.
He hasn't been this free in years. Literal years.
"If I need the smokescreen," he says carefully, knowing Neal will want the words said aloud, "you'll be the first person I call."
No promise but it'll have to be good enough. Besides, "I'm almost sure I'll need a favor soon. Let me know what color sticky note you'd prefer the I.O.U. scribbled on."
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But he stops himself. God, he’s so much more patient than he used to be.
“I’ve been meaning to ask—who’s Bruce? You’ve mentioned the name a few times now.”
And it’s not one he heard Tim bring up before his disappearance, at least not aloud.
no subject
"Who is Bruce Wayne. That is a, uh. There isn't a way for me to convey just how weird that question is," the boy admits, sounding unbearably young but not to his own ears. Maybe Neal, who made a life of hunting big pockets, can understand some of that not-there reverence.
Bruce Wayne can be, for all intents and purposes, a Savior.
Tim's running his mouth the next second.
"He's kind of a big deal. Other than being my adoptive father, he--"
But he isn't. Anymore.
Times changed. Tim changed. He bites his tongue. Really does bite his tongue, a flinch crossing Tim's expression before he shakes it off and sucks in a breath again. Carefully, with a wary sideways glance to Neal, he continues. "I mean, I already told Malcolm. I had emancipated as a minor before coming here. So technically, it's not like I'm his problem anymore."
It never hurts any less to, y'know, say out loud. With the new tidal wave of self-awareness comes crashing the desperate word vomit Tim had assaulted Neal with not an hour before. He sags his shoulders, bordering on defeated.
(Holy mood swing, Batman.)
If he could, Tim would be holding up a hand to sign Stop. "I know I said some weird things but I'm clarifying now that it was all said out of context and that Bruce took me in when my dad couldn't, and then adopted me when my father died. He's done a lot for me and I'm not always fair. to him."
no subject
Neal glances sideways at him, heart aching a little. "I don't think I've ever told you about my dad. Either of my dads, though the latter was less official and more honorary."