What a nerd. Neal didn't even bother to question why he shouldn't freak out, which tells Tim that the freaking out has preemptively begun.
Maybe.
Or maybe the guy's just busy.
Like a normal person would be.
Tim shoves his phone into the deep pocket of his hoodie. The next minutes he stares out the window. And feels alarmingly normal. Then it's his stop and that blessed feeling creeps away.
Walking is still a chore. His pants are only lazily knotted up where his left leg should be. It had felt too weird with the heavy fabric just flapping around everywhere with every step. And now there's the small weight of a hasty bug-out-bag on Tim's shoulders making him want to sit his butt down in the next puddle on the sidewalk and call it quits.
He spots Neal (who is very conveniently outside) before Neal spots him, which is... good. But Tim is Tim and he likes to ruin good things, so he calls out to the vague shape and mentally tells himself that, welp, it sure sucks to suck.
The scratchiness of fatigue in Tim’s voice gets Neal’s immediate attention. For a second, when he looks up, he can’t quite put together what he’s seeing. Like someone has taken a bit of colorful marker to a familiar silhouette.
The Lonely whispers that it’s how everyone feels about everyone else eventually, no one can know another person forever—
Then it clicks and Neal abandons the garden at a brisk trot to keep himself from making it an all-out run.
The angle is strange as he gets close, wrong in the same way the missing leg is wrong. Neal is two inches shorter than Malcolm and he hasn’t felt the loss of height so acutely as he does right now. “Let me—here, I’ve got it.”
He works hard not to make sense of the hurried help and heavy silence emanating from his friend. Tim goes as far as avoiding the sight of Neal coming towards him altogether, his own gaze shifting with a familiar, absolute need to hide. It's good to keep his eyes on the ground ahead, anyway, is what he'd been advised. At least until he becomes comfortable with navigating the world in his new body.
Tim manages two... three more steps before Neal is with him. The feeling of close company is both good and not. And Tim stops and offers Neal a dry grin while his idiot mouth begins to run with a (bragging sort of) "I know, huh?"
Like someone would when showing off a nasty shiner. You Should See The Other Guy sort of voice. Inconsistent with the real, real life sort of voice.
Neal is-- not as tall as he should be. Weird. Tim is clumsy with maneuvering to shrug off his backpack for Neal to take.
It's unseasonably warm and Tim wonders about the wisdom of wearing heavy jeans and a black hoodie. But whatever. Neal isn't as tall as he should be. It's rude to stare. Tim won't stare.
Everything is weird.
He says, "I, uh. Sorry I put a leash on you."
Because he's going to do what he can to avoid--
Tim thinks, dumb as he oftentimes is and thoughts swirling directionless inside his empty skull, that damn dude he never consented to lengthening surgery but if this is a side effect of Everything then it's kind of freaking cool and
The leash comment startles a laugh out of him, and he shakes his head. “You helped me keep track of my engagement ring. I appreciate it.”
He shoulders the backpack and resists the urge to try and offer physical support. Tim hasn’t asked. He won’t be condescending.
He’s already thinking about how to change the house to make it easier to navigate. If they can maybe make Tim’s room one of the ground floor spaces, or—a disguised ladder up to the window or something.
“Hmm? Oh—for a little bit. Malcolm is experimenting with grocery shopping.” Fond, amused, undercut with worry for Tim. He won’t ask until they’re inside.
Are you okay is halted before Tim asks. He could direct the conversation, make it about the horror of Neal (clean, proper, charming Neal) finding himself trapped as an animal (furry, hungry, naked). It's like when Meredith was sewn into a seal. They never talked about it because there wasn't any experience to compare it to, no real understanding that they could have of one another and what happened in that short span of time so long ago.
Tim hums.
Meredith knew how totally inaccessible the city buses are. But she's not around.
He starts to the house with a preemptive, "You're probably going to have to get the door for me." Like it's just grocery bags hanging off his hands making something so simple so difficult, and not... his body, hanging on only because of crutches.
And then the conversation continues. "This isn't the first time Malcolm goes grocery shopping solo, is it? Because, I'll be real, the first time I was dropped off with a shopping list and a prayer, I spent literal hours reading the ingredients lists and comparing all the brands. There's so much stuff."
Neal gets the door, casual as you please, chuckling a little at Tim’s concerns. He can’t help that, even if his concern is screaming at him. “His first solo trip, not his first trip, and I gave him a short, specific list with alternatives.”
As soon as he shuts the door, while his back is to Tim, he sends Malcolm a text. Spaceship emoji (Tim), crying face emoji (emotions involved), ASAP.
They have a shorthand. It’s a thing.
“Can I get you something to drink?” He heads for the couch, leaving Tim’s belongings sitting next to it in a clear indication that the younger man should make himself comfortable.
"That wouldn't've stopped me," he counters, half sing-song, hobbling in past Neal and making a beeline for that couch whether he's herded there or not. He's panting softly, sweating, and in no rush of his own to taunt the lead-weight tied to his limbs. He can't just collapse into the couch. That's infuriating. But Tim makes like slipping off the crutches is no biggie (it isn't) and like awkwardly, precisely lowering his tush to kiss the seat isn't killing him inside (and out).
Remind him why he's wearing a hoodie on a warm day, again?
He rolls his shoulders. Settles for staring up at the ceiling, because this moment of utter denial is going to come to a close soon isn't it?
--not on his watch.
"Nah, I'm good. Thanks," he lazily replies. Eyes closed. He's thirsty, but if he drinks then he'll have to pee, and that's also not gonna happen if he can hold it.
"I'm going to cash in on that favor now," he decides. And maybe he's already nodding off, what of it. "Don't let'm freak out too much about it. It's fine."
Sleep is a blessed, beautiful thing. It's why Tim can never get it.
He jolts awake, heart beating like fists pounding at his hollow chest, eyes wide and wild. But he's frozen, for a moment, so many things wrong with the picture ahead of him that he's forced to remember his training.
Blinking himself awake (ish), Tim scrambles to twist himself in the seat. A mess of hair obscures his sight, there's a burnstingpush where his leg isn't, and Tim peers at Malcolm, his body effectively hidden from... immediate scrutiny.
Rice Crispies, Neal notes, in that part of him that's always listening for the things that will make people happy. He puts a hand on Tim's shoulder instinctively to communicate it's okay, moving to intercept Malcolm's panic before it can hit Tim.
He hugs Malcolm, kissing him on the mouth since his forehead isn't as easy to reach any more. "It's okay, I'm okay, Tim..." Is not okay. "He came to visit and took me by surprise a little. It's okay."
“Oh. Because he came in the window?” He seems relieved. “You just have to learn the sound of his feet scrabbling up the drain pipe. He just likes coming in that way; it doesn’t mean anything.”
He looks at Tim. “I don’t think that was on my list.” As though he got anything on his list or even anything at all. “I think there’s still some…” he frowns and looks at Neal. “The round ones in like six neon colours?”
The reflexive need to protest that he doesn't scrabble up the drain pipe, he's a professional and as such he only scales the drain pipe.
But he doesn't anymore, huh.
Probably couldn't if he tried.
It leaves Tim feeling like every other word is muted, like the droning in his ears is deadset on making him deaf too. He shifts, a twitch of his body that's desperate to hide the mauled stump of a leg. To hell with the fire that wants to swallow him up; Tim knows nothing but retreat.
Tim didn't think he'd want to run away until just now.
But he couldn't even if he tried.
Malcolm looks to Neal. Tim hadn't even really noticed Neal's hand on him until now, when he turns to look at Neal too.
He hadn't planned some big reveal, he had just... not really thought about it. Because it wasn't some big deal.
Shit happens.
Tim hadn't been aware enough to escape the
he doesn't know, is the thing, so he's shifted to hide the
leg?
pant leg?
like he's supposed to be sitting crisscross but he's not because he can't and he's uh
"-h..."
Tim's just kinda looking at Neal like he'll be the one to make this make sense.
"No, actually, he came through the front door." He ignores the Rice Crispies questions for the moment. "He got hurt in Buffalo. He hasn't told me what happened yet, which is good, because he won't have to do it more than once if he doesn't want to."
The helpless look Tim gives him decides Neal. He feels like Tim should be the one who gets to say it, who gets to share the information, but he also doesn't think Tim is fully capable of doing it just now in a way that wouldn't minimize things unnecessarily or... Or.
Malcolm stares at Neal, then looks at Tim. At his leg that goes nicely to the floor and also the one he can now see beside it, stopping somewhere up the pantleg.
"Wh... how did that happen?" he asks Tim. "When did that happen? If you were in the hospital, why didn't you call us?"
Tim blinks and it's just like that: he's all caught up. Done processing. He's fine with this. This is fine. Malcolm is looking at him like he's not fine.
Tim, spurred on by irrational indignation, tells Neal, "I didn't lose it. I know exactly where it went."
--heh. He shifts again, this time so he can heavily rest is back against a very fluffy cushion. He addresses Malcolm with less hurry, no urgency.
"It didn't get eaten by the mouth painting. I will deck anyone who asks that. I did call from the hospital. Remember? I was working on... something. I got busy."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
The second, sent a minute later: Of course. Come on over.
The third, about thirty seconds after that: Where are you? Do you want me to come get you? I can do that.
no subject
Guess he's going to find out. Tim feels like the weight of the dread of it all is lessened by the idea that Neal is no longer a ferret.
Nah dw I'm on the bus.
The non-living bus. The normal bus. Where he's just a normal guy in a hoodie, holding his backpack. Holding the forearm crutches.
I think the blender in B3 has rabies so I left a sticky note for Urianger to deal w it.
Because he should be thinking about blenders, of all things. Tim, despite himself, huffs a laugh.
almost to your street please don't freak
no subject
Low key changes into jeans and a t-shirt very quickly so he can go outside and pretend to be gardening and will see when Tim gets there.
no subject
Maybe.
Or maybe the guy's just busy.
Like a normal person would be.
Tim shoves his phone into the deep pocket of his hoodie. The next minutes he stares out the window. And feels alarmingly normal. Then it's his stop and that blessed feeling creeps away.
Walking is still a chore. His pants are only lazily knotted up where his left leg should be. It had felt too weird with the heavy fabric just flapping around everywhere with every step. And now there's the small weight of a hasty bug-out-bag on Tim's shoulders making him want to sit his butt down in the next puddle on the sidewalk and call it quits.
He spots Neal (who is very conveniently outside) before Neal spots him, which is... good. But Tim is Tim and he likes to ruin good things, so he calls out to the vague shape and mentally tells himself that, welp, it sure sucks to suck.
"Hey!"
God is it good to see him.
"Give me a hand with the sleeping bag!"
He's exhausted.
no subject
The Lonely whispers that it’s how everyone feels about everyone else eventually, no one can know another person forever—
Then it clicks and Neal abandons the garden at a brisk trot to keep himself from making it an all-out run.
The angle is strange as he gets close, wrong in the same way the missing leg is wrong. Neal is two inches shorter than Malcolm and he hasn’t felt the loss of height so acutely as he does right now. “Let me—here, I’ve got it.”
no subject
Tim manages two... three more steps before Neal is with him. The feeling of close company is both good and not. And Tim stops and offers Neal a dry grin while his idiot mouth begins to run with a (bragging sort of) "I know, huh?"
Like someone would when showing off a nasty shiner. You Should See The Other Guy sort of voice. Inconsistent with the real, real life sort of voice.
Neal is-- not as tall as he should be. Weird. Tim is clumsy with maneuvering to shrug off his backpack for Neal to take.
It's unseasonably warm and Tim wonders about the wisdom of wearing heavy jeans and a black hoodie. But whatever. Neal isn't as tall as he should be. It's rude to stare. Tim won't stare.
Everything is weird.
He says, "I, uh. Sorry I put a leash on you."
Because he's going to do what he can to avoid--
Tim thinks, dumb as he oftentimes is and thoughts swirling directionless inside his empty skull, that damn dude he never consented to lengthening surgery but if this is a side effect of Everything then it's kind of freaking cool and
"Is it gonna be just us at the house? Neal?"
no subject
He shoulders the backpack and resists the urge to try and offer physical support. Tim hasn’t asked. He won’t be condescending.
He’s already thinking about how to change the house to make it easier to navigate. If they can maybe make Tim’s room one of the ground floor spaces, or—a disguised ladder up to the window or something.
“Hmm? Oh—for a little bit. Malcolm is experimenting with grocery shopping.” Fond, amused, undercut with worry for Tim. He won’t ask until they’re inside.
no subject
Tim hums.
Meredith knew how totally inaccessible the city buses are. But she's not around.
He starts to the house with a preemptive, "You're probably going to have to get the door for me." Like it's just grocery bags hanging off his hands making something so simple so difficult, and not... his body, hanging on only because of crutches.
And then the conversation continues. "This isn't the first time Malcolm goes grocery shopping solo, is it? Because, I'll be real, the first time I was dropped off with a shopping list and a prayer, I spent literal hours reading the ingredients lists and comparing all the brands. There's so much stuff."
no subject
As soon as he shuts the door, while his back is to Tim, he sends Malcolm a text. Spaceship emoji (Tim), crying face emoji (emotions involved), ASAP.
They have a shorthand. It’s a thing.
“Can I get you something to drink?” He heads for the couch, leaving Tim’s belongings sitting next to it in a clear indication that the younger man should make himself comfortable.
no subject
Remind him why he's wearing a hoodie on a warm day, again?
He rolls his shoulders. Settles for staring up at the ceiling, because this moment of utter denial is going to come to a close soon isn't it?
--not on his watch.
"Nah, I'm good. Thanks," he lazily replies. Eyes closed. He's thirsty, but if he drinks then he'll have to pee, and that's also not gonna happen if he can hold it.
"I'm going to cash in on that favor now," he decides. And maybe he's already nodding off, what of it. "Don't let'm freak out too much about it. It's fine."
no subject
Them, them being Malcolm and--does Jeff know? Tim is falling asleep. He can't ask him, can't deliberately wake the kid up when he's clearly exhausted.
Fuck, he needs to call Malcolm. Warn him, prepare him, so he can deal with at least some of his own processing before he sees the injury.
Except it's not an injury any more, is it? When does it stop being an injury and just become a fact?
Neal draws a deep breath, lets it go all at once. "I'm going to... turn up the air conditioning."
Tim is sweating and he needs a moment, and maybe the kid will fall asleep.
no subject
“What’s going on? What happened?”
He’s just coming into the room and hasn’t seen Tim through Neal yet.
no subject
He jolts awake, heart beating like fists pounding at his hollow chest, eyes wide and wild. But he's frozen, for a moment, so many things wrong with the picture ahead of him that he's forced to remember his training.
Blinking himself awake (ish), Tim scrambles to twist himself in the seat. A mess of hair obscures his sight, there's a burnstingpush where his leg isn't, and Tim peers at Malcolm, his body effectively hidden from... immediate scrutiny.
"--did you get any Rice Crispies?"
no subject
He hugs Malcolm, kissing him on the mouth since his forehead isn't as easy to reach any more. "It's okay, I'm okay, Tim..." Is not okay. "He came to visit and took me by surprise a little. It's okay."
no subject
He looks at Tim. “I don’t think that was on my list.” As though he got anything on his list or even anything at all. “I think there’s still some…” he frowns and looks at Neal. “The round ones in like six neon colours?”
no subject
But he doesn't anymore, huh.
Probably couldn't if he tried.
It leaves Tim feeling like every other word is muted, like the droning in his ears is deadset on making him deaf too. He shifts, a twitch of his body that's desperate to hide the mauled stump of a leg. To hell with the fire that wants to swallow him up; Tim knows nothing but retreat.
Tim didn't think he'd want to run away until just now.
But he couldn't even if he tried.
Malcolm looks to Neal. Tim hadn't even really noticed Neal's hand on him until now, when he turns to look at Neal too.
He hadn't planned some big reveal, he had just... not really thought about it. Because it wasn't some big deal.
Shit happens.
Tim hadn't been aware enough to escape the
he doesn't know, is the thing, so he's shifted to hide the
leg?
pant leg?
like he's supposed to be sitting crisscross but he's not because he can't and he's uh
"-h..."
Tim's just kinda looking at Neal like he'll be the one to make this make sense.
no subject
The helpless look Tim gives him decides Neal. He feels like Tim should be the one who gets to say it, who gets to share the information, but he also doesn't think Tim is fully capable of doing it just now in a way that wouldn't minimize things unnecessarily or... Or.
"He lost part of his leg."
no subject
"Wh... how did that happen?" he asks Tim. "When did that happen? If you were in the hospital, why didn't you call us?"
no subject
Tim, spurred on by irrational indignation, tells Neal, "I didn't lose it. I know exactly where it went."
--heh. He shifts again, this time so he can heavily rest is back against a very fluffy cushion. He addresses Malcolm with less hurry, no urgency.
"It didn't get eaten by the mouth painting. I will deck anyone who asks that. I did call from the hospital. Remember? I was working on... something. I got busy."