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.
“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.”
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.
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.”
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."
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.
"It's just right and wrong," Malcolm says simply, taking another bite of salad. "That was wrong." He gestures between them with his fork. "This is right."
Neal smiles at that, relaxing. He didn't realize he was nervous about the question.
Dinner is amazing. They get a few curious looks--and a few suspicious ones--as they head out, but Neal finds them very easy to ignore. When they go to the dance hall later, it's sans suit jackets but still well-dressed. Neal follows his mental map of the place and the sound of jazz drifting through the hallways. He's excited, focused on that, determined not to think about the still-flipped-over drawing in their room.
As the instructors introduce themselves, Neal murmurs, "Do you want to lead or shall I?"
“You’re the one that knows what he’s doing,” Malcolm points out. Neal leading will probably result in fewer crushed toes.
They barely touch hands on the floor when the instructor brings over two blondes that must be sisters. They’re close in age, probably late twenties/early thirties.
“Gentlemen, excuse me, these ladies need partners.”
Neal’s inherent respect for women and his desire to make them feel as wanted as they should be wars with irritation at the instructor, and with the anxious prospect of being forced into small talk with a stranger.
He manages smiles for the women, at least, his tone apologetic. “Unfortunately we’re already paired off.”
Neal finds his way back to that confident facade again, giving the women a little wink. “If I weren’t a taken man, I’d fight him for the chance to dance with both of you.”
It's wonderful. Even the occasional glares from the instructor are wonderful, particularly when Neal guides Malcolm through a few of the more complicated steps before they're explained.
Afterward--once he and Malcolm have extracted themselves from a complimentary circle of women and a couple of queer men--Neal keeps an arm around Malcolm's waist as they wander toward the elevators. "What'd you think? My toes came out of it pretty okay."
"It was fun. Exhilarating, actually," Malcolm says, still a little breathless. "I've never done that before. I didn't know I could do that," he admits.
Neal kisses his temple. "I'm pretty sure you can do anything."
As he helps buckle Malcolm in that night, he braces himself over the other man, looking down at him. The presence of the drawing--still turned over--itches at him from across the room, but he does his best to ignore it. Neal leans down and kisses Malcolm again, briefly.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Malcolm picks up his fork and considers the salad.
“What kind of dressing is it?” He hadn’t been paying attention.
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“There were some other options, but I went with the one that seemed least chance-y.”
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“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.
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“I think so? I just. Want this to be nice. I don’t want to do anything… embarrassing.”
By the ingrained Jessica Whitly standard.
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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.”
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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.
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Something present. Something real. Something that Mathias hasn't touched. Can't.
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"Really? Sure."
That means he gets to watch Neal draw.
"Just tell me where to sit. Or stand."
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Dinner is amazing. They get a few curious looks--and a few suspicious ones--as they head out, but Neal finds them very easy to ignore. When they go to the dance hall later, it's sans suit jackets but still well-dressed. Neal follows his mental map of the place and the sound of jazz drifting through the hallways. He's excited, focused on that, determined not to think about the still-flipped-over drawing in their room.
As the instructors introduce themselves, Neal murmurs, "Do you want to lead or shall I?"
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They barely touch hands on the floor when the instructor brings over two blondes that must be sisters. They’re close in age, probably late twenties/early thirties.
“Gentlemen, excuse me, these ladies need partners.”
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He manages smiles for the women, at least, his tone apologetic. “Unfortunately we’re already paired off.”
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The instructor seems at a loss for a moment. Malcolm doesn’t rescue him.
“Yes, of course,” he finally says curtly.
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He doesn’t move an inch away from Malcolm.
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“He’d lose because he’s a lover and I’m a fighter,” he jokes. “But it’s the thought that counts.”
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Neal doesn't have it in him to inform them that he and Malcolm aren't really the latter.
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He offers his hand to Neal.
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Afterward--once he and Malcolm have extracted themselves from a complimentary circle of women and a couple of queer men--Neal keeps an arm around Malcolm's waist as they wander toward the elevators. "What'd you think? My toes came out of it pretty okay."
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As he helps buckle Malcolm in that night, he braces himself over the other man, looking down at him. The presence of the drawing--still turned over--itches at him from across the room, but he does his best to ignore it. Neal leans down and kisses Malcolm again, briefly.
"I think we should stay for a while."
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“Then we will,” he says simply. “You know… it’s easier, not having a case, with you around. I don’t feel lost. I don’t feel so… crazy.”
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"I'm glad," he says, shifting to lie down next to Malcolm. "I want to be... a good place for you. A good place to be."
He kisses Malcolm’s shoulder. “You’re my good place.”
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"Do... do you still want to draw me tomorrow?"
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