[closed log] what I love most about my home is who I share it with

[conning]

Who: Neal, Malcolm, and Tim Drake (with potential Steve Harrington if he wants to face this awkward reunion)
When: Early December
Where: Apartment B1 in the ADI complex
Summary: Malcolm brings Tim home to B1 after his unexpected reappearance.
Warnings: N/A yet



Neal Putters. He called out of work today to make some plans and cook some food, the latter to restock the fridge once again after the uptick in how much is being consumed with the addition of Steve Harrington to their space. Neal very clearly labels the ones that are for Malcolm, also marking them with the dates they should be eaten by.

...He's OCD at the best of times, but lately he's been feeling overzealous.

When he hears the key in the lock, he glances up, sees the familiar shape of Malcolm entering, and starts with a greeting-slash-codephrase laced with affection as he looks back to his work.

"Where was our second kiss?"

Comments

cw some v small nausea here

[ployboy]

The moment Malcolm offers up his room is the moment Tim makes a break for it, nodding with steely determination because of what needs to be done. His attention is everywhere and nowhere as he trudges off--

he doesn't think Steve Harrington is around, noting no loud shadows or lights under closed bedroom doors.

An indecipherable noise makes him turn worriedly back to the pair of men, but... Tim opens the door to Malcolm's bedroom and closes it behind him with a click. Sorry. Sorry; he'll undo the lock in a minute. Once in the locked in-suite bathroom, Tim even keeps the heaving and retching silent. He's considerate like that.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm turns towards Tim as he leaves, but his attention is drawn back to Neal at his name. He frowns in concern, reaching out for his shoulder.

“What happened? Are you okay?”

[conning]

“He’s not okay,” Neal says, his eyes a little unfocused. The whirl of emotions at close proximity, Tim’s being the most intense, is highly distracting. Concern bubbles underneath the sick headiness of it all. There’s something else, too, a sense that he could make it worse if he wanted to. It would be so easy to make it worse. If he wanted to.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm nods. “I know,” he confirms. Tim isn’t as subtle as he thinks and Malcolm is gifted at reading people. “He’s probably searching my room right now. Is it whispering to you?”

[conning]

Neal nods, relieved that Malcolm can tell both that Tim is not well and that the little murmurations are back.

“It wants me to make it worse.”

It, not Neal himself. “I don’t know how.”

[abrightboy]

“Remember the breathing exercise I taught you?” Malcolm asks him. “Want to do it together?”

[conning]

He nods again, automatically breathing in slow, holding, breathing out, following the count Malcolm taught him. It isn’t going away, that weird psychological map around him, but the breathing refines his attention. Turns the mental static from a wash of emotions bleeding into each other to concentrated blots of loneliness and loss.

“God,” Neal whispers. “It’s awful.”

It’s awful and he doesn’t hate it. But fatigue chews at him, an exhaustion that somehow runs deeper than bone, and he realizes he’s losing his grip on the emotions. They’re fading. For a wild second he tries to hang on to that extra sense, realizes what he’s doing, and lets go of the effort.

[abrightboy]

“I feed it, don’t I?” Malcolm supposes guiltily.

[conning]

“No,” Neal says, lifting a hand to Malcolm’s cheek. He’s still a little distant, a little unfocused. “Or maybe, but it’s not your fault. Everyone in this building does.”

[abrightboy]

“I don’t want to be the thing that pushes you over,” Malcolm whispers desperately. “I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want you to come home like you but not you like that thing that was here.”

[conning]

That gets Neal to orient on him properly. “You are the last thing that would push me that way. You’re the thing that keeps me here.”

[abrightboy]

Malcolm can’t help searching his face.

That’s true. That’s the truth.

He slides his arms around Neal’s neck and clings to him.

“Tim was gone and he’s back; he wasn’t dead,” Malcolm points out. “Maybe everyo…” he frowns faintly, pulls back a bit, points at the stove. “Is that burning?”

[conning]

Neal blinks, turns, and half-mutters a curse before drawing away from Malcolm to tend to the pot on the stove. It’s not unsalvageable, but the thought of the extra steps involved in doing it sends another wave of fatigue through him.

Still. He starts the repair work almost automatically, looking over his shoulder at Malcolm. “Maybe everyone else is out there somewhere, too.”

[ployboy]

"Somewhere... like in California?"

Not the best idea to come back to the world of the living (ha) with a bitter retort like that. Tim is immediately regretful, hanging back by the door of Malcolm's room before sucking it up and venturing into the realm of the kitchen. He says a genuine Thanks to Malcolm and Tim helps himself to a seat at the table.

...where he drops his forehead to thud against the wood. There's only one drop of water or so that flies off his freshly washed face-- chill.

He wonders if throwing an honest to God tantrum will make him overstay his welcome with these two men, or if that ship's already sailed.

See, sometimes people just put up with him outta habit. Especially when he's being all-- dramatic. Tim, a moment later, resolves to stop... being dramatic.

He lifts his head just enough to slip crossed arms under it. Good, proper manners are for another day. He peers up at Neal. "What are you making?"

And just like that- normalcy.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm slides into the seat across from him, folding his hands on the table.

“Find anything interesting in my room?”

[conning]

Neal smiles a little Malcolm's words, focused as he is on saving his soup. He can't help answering the related question from Tim. "Lemongrass shrimp soup with spaghetti squash noodles. I've been working Malcolm up to light-but-flavorful."

[ployboy]

--he could go for some Thai.

He misses Meredith, thinks she'd kill for a shopping getaway in San Francisco. Bart would be the best company for her, and Cassie would adore camaraderie with a woman with fire in her.

Fleeting daydream aside, he throws a halfhearted look Malcolm's way. "The mouthwash might be half gone," he confesses. "And... I know what you're thinking and I didn't snoop where a couple is currently sleeping."

--ah, that's his ears turning red. Some day, maybe, he'll grow out of that.

"I learned that lesson from Meredith," he adds hurriedly and okay, he learned better from digging through Jeff's room too but. Well, that doesn't matter, does it.

[abrightboy]

“I was more thinking about the knife in the back of my closet but thanks for clarifying that,” Malcolm tells him, giving Neal a cheeky look.

[conning]

Couple, Tim says, like that, and Neal's stomach does a sudden energetic cartwheel at the realization of what Tim might have come across.

And then Malcolm is looking at him, looking at him with that adorable expression that makes his stomach do different kinds of cartwheels, and he ducks Malcolm's gaze almost shyly, the action instinctively teasing as well as serving as an evasive maneuver for panic. He glances at Tim. "Well, if you did see anything embarrassing, I'm trusting you to keep it to yourself."

The words are cheerful and neutral and NOT AT ALL PRAYING TIM GETS THE GIST.

[ployboy]

The look he had trained on Malcolm evolves into a weary glare; it makes little brothers proud across the globe in its futility. "I thought you preferred number 2 pencils," Tim mutters dryly. He finally pushes himself to a more appropriate sort of sitting.

His back protests some. Tim wonders about curling up in a tight ball and falling and staying asleep, the deep ache in his bones soothing.

And then...

Well, he's lied to Batman.

Staying genuine in the face of-- this, all of this, is comparatively less demanding. The burn of the spreading blush on his face is as good an alibi as any. Tim raises his hands in the defensive and turns his head to Neal.

"I didn't do anything," he insists. "What Malcolm meant is if I had changed my mind. He told you, didn't he?"

What better way to deflect, to protect, than to throw himself at the fire to put it out.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm’s expression falters a little.

“Three of us are assigned here already,” Malcolm tells him. “But I told Tim to stay anyway, because he can sleep in your room,” he points out with a hopeful look at Neal that he’ll agree. “You don’t. We can move your things into our room and Tim can stay in there.”

[conning]

Told me what, Neal almost says, but he spots the way Malcolm’s face changes in time. Instead he turns to dish up a little bit of the soup. Tiny sampling for Malcolm to try, more substantial bowl for Tim. He carries them to the table and sets them in front of their respective targets, then turns to put an arm loosely around Malcolm’s shoulders and lean in to kiss his temple.

“Good idea.” He looks up at Tim, giving the much younger man a studying look. No judgment. Thoughtfulness. “You’re welcome to stay now, or come back whenever you’re ready.”

Neal gives Malcolm’s shoulder a preemptive little comforting squeeze.

[ployboy]

Tim's not sure if they would understand how it feels to come home someplace new only to find competition versus peacefulness. Not that Tim would make himself into such, but he can't control how someone else might feel about and around him.

It makes him unable to even ask the basics-- how is this Steve guy, anyway? How long has he been in? What do you think he would think about all this?-- because those questions are irrelevant. Tim's the one who doesn't belong here. To believe he ever had a say or a stake in a... randomized housing assignment was a mistake. He focuses on his soup, eating despite the fierce complaints of his empty stomach.

'Home' is a sentimental idea, not a particularly logical one.

His eyes flick to Neal--

"This is really good," he says. And pauses and tells the bowl he's eating from, "I was thinking about Bonnie's, actually."

[abrightboy]

“Yeah. No. Of course. More freedom, right?” Malcolm says, doing a really bad job of pretending that’s totally cool with him. He wanted Tim to feel like he’d come home here. Maybe expected it, even, once he was here in the apartment with them. “Have to… be your own man and… stuff.” He hasn’t touched the soup. “They renovated while you were gone. Well. We did. A bunch of us helped. It’s really fixed up since the last time you were there. They also dedicated a room to remembering people who disappeared or died now so… I mean. Your name is on the wall. Maybe you can take it off, now that you’re back.”

[conning]

Neal sits down next to Malcolm, taking the other man's hand. He's such a terrible liar when he's upset and trying not to be. Neal can't help thinking of every conversation they've had over the last few months where Malcolm begged him not to leave, or told him how afraid he was that Neal would disappear.

But god, what about Tim? Neal isn't sure what happened, yet--no one has told him--but if Tim took one step in Wolf Pen and then the next in Gloucester, only to find himself with months of lost time and a lost home... There's hurt there, too, that can't be ignored.

So much for certain planned surprises.

"I wasn't going to bring this up yet, but..." He purses his lips a moment, not sure how to say it, so he just dives in. "I bought a place. It's got three bedrooms and we're only going to use one."

A pause, and he gives Malcolm's hand a little squeeze. "If we all moved in, no one else would get to decide what to do with the rooms, regardless of the bullshit that happens here."