TRAUMABEANS AU

[conning]

boop

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[conning]

Neal makes a noise of protest, but--after a pause--draws Malcolm back over the clothes on the bed. Their suits don't match, per se. The styles are different, the cuts not the same, but the colors are in the same family, deep reds with very subtle patterns. They match without matching in an almost sleight-of-hand nod to the fact that they're together.

"Thoughts?"

[abrightboy]

Malcolm smiles. "I've never put this much thought into colours in my life," he admits. "But I love it."

[conning]

Neal is clearly pleased with the praise, feeling reassured that he did something right when very suddenly almost everything feels wrong.

It doesn't matter. That thing, the drawing, whatever happened with it, that doesn't matter. They're going to dinner together in a beautiful resort in the mountains. He pulls Malcolm against him lightly. "Should we shower?"

[abrightboy]

Malcolm grins at him.

“How did you know I was just thinking about how much my back needs scrubbed?” he asks innocently.

[conning]

It’s a nice shower.

It’s a long shower.

For various reasons.

Neal can feel people looking when they walk into the dining room, and for the first time in a long time he feels a touch of the swaggering confidence that used to come naturally. These people aren’t looking at him—at them—in pity or confusion or suspicion. These people are looking at them wanting to be what they are.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm is used to being stared at. But not for that reason. Always the other thing.

This different and he’s not sure how he feels, though he’s pleased to be on Neal’s arm. There’s something in him pleased that other people in the room wish they were and can’t be.

They’re seated near the expansive windows and the view of the mountains. Malcolm hands the wine list to Neal.

“If you’d do the honours,” he asks.

[conning]

Neal grins, relishing the list, the surroundings, the decadence of it all. He knows that Malcolm is as rich in the city as he is out here, but he’s used to the city displays of money. Out here, where things are new and different and it’s unerringly clear that they’re part of something exclusive, he feels…

Special. Significant. For the first time in a long time. He orders them a bottle of something tastefully expensive and then takes Malcolm’s hand. “Thank you. For this. All of this.”

[abrightboy]

“This is our life now,” Malcolm points out. “Living together. Working together. Traveling together. You don’t have to thank me; you made half of this.”

[conning]

This is their life. Neal stares a moment, realizing with a jolt that he doesn’t have to study the menu with one eye and look over his shoulder with the other. Yeah, he enjoyed that, or he told himself he did—the adrenaline and risk of it, the glamor of being internationally pursued—but… this is their life. They can live it, enjoy it, without the hovering threat of an expiration date backed by metal bars.

He tries to clear his throat, but the knot in it doesn’t go away. Neal lifts Malcolm’s hand and kisses it, determined now more than ever to make sure he takes care of this man the way he deserves. “I love you.”

[abrightboy]

Malcolm responds with a warm smile.

“I love you, too,” he replies. He gestures to the menu. “What do you think I should try?” He trusts Neal with something he’s always guarded closely and done grudgingly, in isolation, even when dining with others.

[conning]

Neal considers the options, clearly delighted by Malcolm's trust. He decides on the seared Alaskan halibut for Malcolm (velouté on the side), and the roasted veal loin for himself. He looks out the window at the mountains, the slowly-fading day, feeling tugged toward some uncomfortable place he's not interested in going.

He shakes his head, pulling himself back to the present. "What do you want to do tonight?"

[abrightboy]

Halibut does sound good. Malcolm smiles, placing his napkin across his lap.

"They're supposed to have live jazz music and swing dance lessons tonight," he says, looking over. "How do you feel about that?"

[conning]

Neal lights up at that, distracted entirely from lingering bad feelings. "I would love it. Have you done swing dancing before?"

[abrightboy]

Malcolm grins.

“Never. Are you an expert?” he asks eagerly.

[conning]

"I wouldn't call myself an expert, but I'm not bad."

The wine arrives along with salads, and Neal notices the woman from earlier watching them from two tables over. Or rather, glancing their way several times before she leans over to whisper something to the man she's sitting with.

Neal ignores her. After meeting her eyes for a moment to make sure she knows she's being ignored.

"I haven't done swing dance in... quite a while."

[abrightboy]

Malcolm is about to say something, but catches the subtle redirect of Neal’s gaze before he elaborates. He looks over his shoulder.

“Is someone looking at us?” he asks. “It’s probably me,” he says apologetically. “Is my hand shaking?” He turns it over on the table to look at it. Seems okay. Was he doing something weird? He doesn’t even notice sometimes. He frowns at the hand like it has the answers but isn’t sharing.

[conning]

Neal covers Malcolm's hand with his own, leaning over to kiss him. "If they're staring it's because they're jealous that I'm sitting with the handsomest man in the room."

[abrightboy]

If a dopey, lovesick smile was what Neal was going for, he’s achieved it. Malcolm doesn’t really think that people think that. He’s almost certain they don’t when he’s sitting next to Neal. But who cares? Because when Neal says it, he believes it.

Malcolm picks up his fork and considers the salad.

“What kind of dressing is it?” He hadn’t been paying attention.

[conning]

“An avocado buttermilk dressing. Easy on the stomach. Usually paired with their hot pepper salad, not the house salad, but it sounded good.” Neal applies himself to his own salad with greater-than-usual appetite, his free hand still holding Malcolm’s.

“There were some other options, but I went with the one that seemed least chance-y.”

[abrightboy]

Malcolm looks at the salad, then looks at Neal, then takes a careful bite. Chews, swallows, smiles.

“That is good,” he agrees happily. He sets his fork down. New food. He has to give it a minute. See how it sits. Instead, he watches Neal for a moment, then his expression falters and he glances around. Is he being weird? He picks up his fork again, though he’s not sure what to do with it. Should he just eat? The fork hovers over the salad uncertainly.

[conning]

Neal catches the change in his attitude almost at once, setting his own fork down. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

[abrightboy]

Malcolm looks at the salad, then glances over his shoulder, then looks at Neal.

“I think so? I just. Want this to be nice. I don’t want to do anything… embarrassing.”

By the ingrained Jessica Whitly standard.

[conning]

Neal gives him a blankly startled look, and the surprise softens into pained affection. He studies Malcolm’s face for a moment, considering his options, considering the comforts he can offer.

He decides to go a slightly different direction instead.

Neal lets go of Malcolm’s hand, stands, nudges his chair a little further from the table. He takes up his wine glass, climbs onto the chair, and raises it to the room at large, tapping it lightly with his knife until he’s sure he has the attention of everyone present.

“Excuse me. I beg your pardon.” Somehow it’s easy to put on his old swagger for this. “I wanted to take the opportunity to tell you all that this is the first time I’ve been outside of New York City in over three years, since I was released from a super-maximum security prison and into the custody of the FBI.”

He flashes the staring woman from earlier a particularly winning smile. “It’s all because of my boyfriend. I wouldn’t be here without him.”

Neal gestures to Malcolm with his glass, looking at the other man now instead of their surroundings. “Half his family is still convinced I plan on robbing him blind and more than half his coworkers would probably arrest me given the chance, but he believes in me. He makes it a lot easier for me to do it myself.”

Another little flourish, a pseudo-toast, and he climbs down tidily from the chair and presses a kiss against Malcolm’s mouth. There’s a smattering of confused, awkward applause.

Neal kisses Malcolm again. “There, I think I used up our quota.”

[abrightboy]

Malcolm stares at him with something like awe. He's never seen such a thing. He doesn't know what to say, so he just says "You shouldn't have been in supermax prison," poking at his lettuce and taking another bite of salad. "I only... facilitated justice."

[conning]

Neal laughs at that, startled again but fond. "So you keep insisting."

He settles back into his own chair, feeling satisfied with himself. As far as he's concerned, that—his own action—wasn't much of a thing to have done, either. Not compared to securing his commutation.