The protest is there, on the tip of his tongue and raging to be let free: I didn't go anywhere!
Instead Tim, for the second time in a day, finds himself in an embrace. There's no way he's gonna make a total ass out of himself and fight it, and Tim is drawn back to the days when Dick would nab the collar of his shirts and have to wrangle him into hugs. Those days are gone, Bruce isn't a hugger to the point where the man forgot about outward displays of affection the weeks after Tim recovered him from Time, and Tam rightfully hates his guts. And (here, now) Tim feels himself grow a little weak, a little warm, touch-starved that he is and will be.
He hopes he doesn't barf again.
"Look," he starts, a hint of a plea snaking into his words, "I'll figure it out. It's fine. It will be fine."
He bites his tongue and thinks, no, he has nothing to apologize for here. So he swallows that down.
"I don't know what to make of things right now but that doesn't matter. I'm-- I did mean it. Congrats on the..."
Ridiculous to be so out of breath. Emotions. Tim wishes for sleep. No more emotions. So begins his to-do list. • Get a room. • Go to sleep.
Impossible to fudge up.
He's maybe still peeved. He pulls away with some force and does, actually, look at Neal as he speaks. The ire has settled down, the annoyance simmers but isn't more than room-temperature. Tim's frown is his own, small and weathered and a powerful old friend when he breathes out, "Congrats on taking the next step."
And, yeah, he means it.
But.
His eyes flick to Malcolm, who looks lost despite being there at the table. Tim doesn't get him sometimes. Tim sees himself in the man too much, sometimes.
He needs to leave. He says so, silent but with blue eyes on the door, his exit, his proof of personal cowardice. This isn't his space, after all.
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Instead Tim, for the second time in a day, finds himself in an embrace. There's no way he's gonna make a total ass out of himself and fight it, and Tim is drawn back to the days when Dick would nab the collar of his shirts and have to wrangle him into hugs. Those days are gone, Bruce isn't a hugger to the point where the man forgot about outward displays of affection the weeks after Tim recovered him from Time, and Tam rightfully hates his guts. And (here, now) Tim feels himself grow a little weak, a little warm, touch-starved that he is and will be.
He hopes he doesn't barf again.
"Look," he starts, a hint of a plea snaking into his words, "I'll figure it out. It's fine. It will be fine."
He bites his tongue and thinks, no, he has nothing to apologize for here. So he swallows that down.
"I don't know what to make of things right now but that doesn't matter. I'm-- I did mean it. Congrats on the..."
Ridiculous to be so out of breath. Emotions. Tim wishes for sleep. No more emotions. So begins his to-do list.
• Get a room.
• Go to sleep.
Impossible to fudge up.
He's maybe still peeved. He pulls away with some force and does, actually, look at Neal as he speaks. The ire has settled down, the annoyance simmers but isn't more than room-temperature. Tim's frown is his own, small and weathered and a powerful old friend when he breathes out, "Congrats on taking the next step."
And, yeah, he means it.
But.
His eyes flick to Malcolm, who looks lost despite being there at the table. Tim doesn't get him sometimes. Tim sees himself in the man too much, sometimes.
He needs to leave. He says so, silent but with blue eyes on the door, his exit, his proof of personal cowardice. This isn't his space, after all.