He can take it from the man who really might as well have been a virgin when Neal first put hands on him. He smiles, looking up at him from under his brow as he unhurriedly works Neal’s buttons open.
Except it’s not Malcolm, and Neal can’t get himself to do the mental reorientation necessary to figure out how to answer that question. Particularly when he’s distracted by Malcolm’s fingers on his buttons. “I don’t… know.”
He just tries things. He tries things and pays attention. That’s how he thinks of it, at least.
Malcolm smiles and pushes his shirt off his shoulders, grasping his belt buckle and steering him in the direction of the bed before unbuckling it, working on the button, looking up at him, stealing a lingering kiss.
“Someone serving you the way that you serve them?” he clarifies. He looks up coyly as he pops the button at Neal’s waistband. “I’ll try really hard to be… not disappointing,” he promises, unzipping him and pushing the pants down off his hips.
That's it, ish. But not entirely. Neal doesn't want to admit the full scope of it, the way putting himself in someone else's hands gives him a thrill. He didn't realize it, not until now, and it feels like that shouldn't be something he wants.
"You couldn't be disappointing if you tried," Neal murmurs. Is it lying if he doesn't answer Malcolm's question? It feels like it would be. Neal bites his lip lightly then lets it go.
"I don't..." Neal's hands drift southward, tracing lightly across the muscle of Malcolm's abdomen, acutely aware of the way his own skin spiderwebs white in these same places. "I'm not sure how to put it."
"This is a safe place," he says, pushing his own pants down and kicking them off, then leaning up against him to kiss him. "Our secret mountain hideaway." Another kiss. "Safe and free." Another kiss. With gentle pressure of his fingertips on Neal's chest he urges him further back towards the bed. "Tell me," he encourages softly.
Neal obeys the soft push, taken by Malcolm's firm gentleness.
He clears his throat, watching Malcolm's lips rather than looking him in the eye. That way, at least, he still mostly seems like he's looking at Malcolm's face.
"I like..." Maybe it will be easier to say if he frames it a little differently. If he tells Malcolm the sidelong truth. Still honest, not frank. "I like it when my partners... want to be in charge."
It's easier to say partners than to be specific, for some reason.
The backs of his bare thighs fetch up against the side of the bed.
Malcolm nods, skimming his hands across Neal's shoulders.
"Even if that means it's going to be less... good?" he asks, his first hint of uncertainty. He's not against taking charge, Neal is just... objectively much better at things than he is. Is he going to like it when things actually happen? Is it going to become disappointing just when he's expecting it to get good?
"Good is relative," he says quietly. This, being reassuring, he feels on much more solid ground. "And good gets better. I'm with you. That's more than I could want right there."
Malcolm smiles, and then it broadens a little, and then he gently urges Neal back onto the bed so he can climb on top of him and kiss him with a little more heat.
It's good. Simple, straightforward, but heartfelt and that means more. It means more to have Malcolm stop him when he instinctively tries to make it about the other man. It means everything. Neal makes sure Malcolm knows it, too.
It's only mid-afternoon, when they end up curled around each other in bed. Neal traces his fingertips up and down Malcolm's chest, staring into space, content in a way he hasn't felt in he's-not-sure-how-long.
"Thank you," he says softly. That doesn't begin to cover the gratitude he's feeling, but it's something.
"Sometimes you have to get out of your house to get out of your head," Malcolm murmurs, pressing a kiss to his hair. "Anyway, you were long overdue a vacation."
"Both of you," Neal says. "When I met you in Mathias, we were in the town's bookstore. I was new, brand new, trying to... sort myself out. Find some kind of normal. We talked about antiques, and our jobs."
Neal breathes out a little laugh. "You offered to get the anklet off. I guess that one's a constant."
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“Where would you start if it were me?”
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He just tries things. He tries things and pays attention. That’s how he thinks of it, at least.
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He chases the kiss when Malcolm draws back, stealing another little one of his own.
“I like this,” he says, nervously. It’s strange to admit it out loud. “You doing this.”
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“Someone serving you the way that you serve them?” he clarifies. He looks up coyly as he pops the button at Neal’s waistband. “I’ll try really hard to be… not disappointing,” he promises, unzipping him and pushing the pants down off his hips.
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"You couldn't be disappointing if you tried," Neal murmurs. Is it lying if he doesn't answer Malcolm's question? It feels like it would be. Neal bites his lip lightly then lets it go.
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“But something is bothering you,” he surmises. He presses a kiss to Neal’s mouth and he works his own belt open. “Tell me,” he urges softly.
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“Have I actually done anything to suggest I ever would?” he asks.
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"No, you haven't, you never have," he insists quietly.
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He clears his throat, watching Malcolm's lips rather than looking him in the eye. That way, at least, he still mostly seems like he's looking at Malcolm's face.
"I like..." Maybe it will be easier to say if he frames it a little differently. If he tells Malcolm the sidelong truth. Still honest, not frank. "I like it when my partners... want to be in charge."
It's easier to say partners than to be specific, for some reason.
The backs of his bare thighs fetch up against the side of the bed.
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"Even if that means it's going to be less... good?" he asks, his first hint of uncertainty. He's not against taking charge, Neal is just... objectively much better at things than he is. Is he going to like it when things actually happen? Is it going to become disappointing just when he's expecting it to get good?
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"Good is relative," he says quietly. This, being reassuring, he feels on much more solid ground. "And good gets better. I'm with you. That's more than I could want right there."
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It's only mid-afternoon, when they end up curled around each other in bed. Neal traces his fingertips up and down Malcolm's chest, staring into space, content in a way he hasn't felt in he's-not-sure-how-long.
"Thank you," he says softly. That doesn't begin to cover the gratitude he's feeling, but it's something.
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“Sometimes I ask myself if I wish it never happened. If I wish I’d never gone to Mathias, never lived through all of that.”
It’s something of a non-sequitor, but for Neal it tracks. “I don’t know. Because if I hadn’t I wouldn’t have met you. Either of you.”
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“You probably would have still met me at that crime scene,” Malcolm observes. “But you might not have noticed me.”
He only gotten so involved because he’d recognized that face.
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Neal breathes out a little laugh. "You offered to get the anklet off. I guess that one's a constant."
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