Fishing. Neal can think of fewer things more excruciatingly boring, but painting in the woods does sound kind of nice.
When Malcolm sobers, Neal grimaces internally, his outward expression still calm and neutral. He kisses Malcolm's forehead, then goes over to the nearly-boiling water he has on the stove to make some of the tea he bought in-port. It keeps him from getting too itchy to look at the package Malcolm has with him.
"You don't have to apologize," he says quietly. "You didn't do anything wrong. You were hurt and you said as much."
He turns from his task to give Malcolm another little smile. "If anything I wish you'd apologize to people less."
Neal immediately abandons the tea half-made and goes to the case, inspecting it curiously. He glances at Malcolm, almost nervous in his excitement, and opens it up.
The contains a handheld device, a little bigger than a pen, but light and still easy to manipulate.
"It's a device that can produce any colour and any texture. So... it can look like paint or marker or pencil or charcoal or pastels... and probably stuff I've never heard of. Like. An all in one art kit. It's supposed to work on paper or canvas or... just about anything. I mean I guess technically you can make t-shirts and graffiti...." He looks from it to Neal's face.
"Um, if you put your two fingers on these two circles here at the same time and then picture it, that's supposed to do it. So I guess it's literally only limited by your imagination," Malcolm tells him.
"I love it," Neal says quietly, and he does, even if he hasn't attempted anything with it yet. "I--"
He shakes his head and stops trying to figure out words, instead going to the half-finished rendition of van Gogh's Irises. Tentatively, almost nervously, he holds it as he might a brush, fingers still on the two circles, and tries to put down a stroke of paint.
It matches perfectly. In fact the color is closer to what it should be than what he was working with. The texture and thickness of the oil paints, everything. "...Holy shit."
Malcolm smiles when Neal says he loves it. That's all he needed. He comes over to watch, practically holding his breath as Neal attempts a stroke of paint.
"Is that good?" he asks, staring raptly at the canvas.
He's slightly breathless. "I mean... I can't do a spectral analysis to tell how close the composition is to the real thing, but. Visually speaking, it's flawless."
"Not for authenticators," Neal says. He can't help himself. He ducks his head and grins, then looks at Malcolm again. There's no mistaking the gratitude or wonder in him. "Thank you."
That breaks his trance somewhat, and he looks at Malcolm again finally, still--not dazed, exactly. Dazzled, more like. "No, I know, I know that. It's just..." He shakes his head. "Thank you."
The casualness of the words, how comfortably they're said, makes Neal's chest feel squeezed by something warm. He's not sure what else to say, or what he could say, so he just hugs Malcolm instead.
“You’re doing more than anyone here to help everyone and you’re doing it just because that’s important to you. Justice and fairness are important to you. And you’re exemplifying those principles. I’m so proud,” Malcolm gushes.
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When Malcolm sobers, Neal grimaces internally, his outward expression still calm and neutral. He kisses Malcolm's forehead, then goes over to the nearly-boiling water he has on the stove to make some of the tea he bought in-port. It keeps him from getting too itchy to look at the package Malcolm has with him.
"You don't have to apologize," he says quietly. "You didn't do anything wrong. You were hurt and you said as much."
He turns from his task to give Malcolm another little smile. "If anything I wish you'd apologize to people less."
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"Open it," he urges.
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"It's a device that can produce any colour and any texture. So... it can look like paint or marker or pencil or charcoal or pastels... and probably stuff I've never heard of. Like. An all in one art kit. It's supposed to work on paper or canvas or... just about anything. I mean I guess technically you can make t-shirts and graffiti...." He looks from it to Neal's face.
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He turns it over in his hand, fascinated. "How does it--how?"
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Neal rests his fingers on the indicated places, almost afraid to try it out. "I don't know what to say."
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He shakes his head and stops trying to figure out words, instead going to the half-finished rendition of van Gogh's Irises. Tentatively, almost nervously, he holds it as he might a brush, fingers still on the two circles, and tries to put down a stroke of paint.
It matches perfectly. In fact the color is closer to what it should be than what he was working with. The texture and thickness of the oil paints, everything. "...Holy shit."
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"Is that good?" he asks, staring raptly at the canvas.
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“You’re welcome,” he says happily.
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“…You don’t have to give me anything.”
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“You know I love you,” he says easily.
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“I’m so proud of you.”
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"Proud of me?"
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