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

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

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?"

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Malcolm looks at Neal at his announcement, eyes wide and blinking pleased surprise. It’s wonderful news. And then Tim can… leave, apparently. Tim is leaving. Malcolm’s expression falls before he manages to compose it into some sort of shaky mask and he only nods because he doesn’t trust his voice, but his hand gripping Neal’s under the table tightens.

Neal gives Malcolm's hand a little squeeze before trying to free his own fingers, slowly starting to stand. "Where are you staying now? Do you have an assignment?"

He's not going to force Tim to stay. He can't. But he can walk him out at least.

There is no way they don't hear themselves, Tim thinks. His... jaw goes a little slack, honestly. It's not like he opens his mouth all gaping-fish about it, but Tim needs to force the air into his lungs. He stubbornly (is it stubborn to want to protect himself for once?) looks ahead, shoulders lined with all the tension of

being in Wolf Pen, taking a step and finding himself with months lost, people lost (again), a safe den lost (again), the cruel trick of a test hanging over his head.

It should by no means be a surprise when he turns on Neal

and does nothing. He trudges on, a moment of heavy silence falling between them as Tim fends off the iron taste and weight of his tongue. Finally, he says, "I don't have anything."

Naturally, he says it hotly. Naturally, it's a raspy voice with the added emphasis on disappointment in having to face the fact. Naturally, Tim... knows how to keep his volume down and his temper in check.

Live and learn, huh.

"That's what I need to find out. No, I haven't done the Orientation thing yet. I was too busy throwing up and with my- yeah, I skipped a step, and now I'm all lost because of it. Happy? I'll figure it out. Congratulations on your-- on the house."

For a second the world goes a little unfocused. Neal braces a hand against the table, the maelstrom of Tim's feelings washing over him and soaking in like a wave sweeping up past the high tide mark and onto dry sand. Yes, he thinks savagely. Yes, yes, yes--

No.

Neal steadies himself, rounds the table as Tim starts for the door, and moves to pull the boy into a hug. Because god, he's a boy, he's just a fucking kid. He's had an old man's life of traumas with no space for recovery in between. "No, I'm not happy about that. Happy to see you. Happy you're here, that you're alive, but no, I'm not happy about... any of the rest of it."

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.

Neal glances back, trying to meet Malcolm’s eyes with a brief apology before he goes after Tim. He lets the teen get far enough that they’re not right in front of the door, before stepping up his pace just enough to try and hug Tim again.

“I know you’re good at being fine. So am I. That wasn’t what I was asking about or trying to say.” He’ll let Tim go faster this time, or back off entirely if Tim fought the embrace. “Mind if I come with you to orientation?“

Yes, something ugly says. Stay close enough to feel the loss, close enough to sharpen the Lonely like the perfect blade it is.

Neal ignores it. He tries.

Edited 2023-01-14 01:48 (UTC)

He is hugged again. And that's when Tim becomes absolutely certain that his brain isn't firing on all cylinders, if at all. He stands still, trapped once again, like a mangy lil kitten gone limp in its mom's mouth.

Except, y'know, fuck that.

"I said, back off!"

He ducks out of the hold, turns on his heels to face this monster; and there goes Tim's carefully crafted cool.

"What do you even want from me? Do you want to be there to see me get all turned around again? It's not that exciting."

This is a test.

This is his proctor.

This is Tim standing his ground and snarling because he's done nothing to deserve being tailed in his humiliation. Live and learn, live and learn. Paranoia ain't it when eyes really are following your every step, every mistake. Tim is now older, and wiser. And he's fucked up worse than he will be now, challenging Neal to dare to move into his space again. Timothy Drake, for all of his fucking faults isn't helpless.

This isn't personal.

This is a test.

This is his proctor.

This is Tim saying he's already fucking submitted his scores.

--he kinda feels bad about blowing up in the hallway. But he's not even blowing up. Really. This is just. Boundaries.

So... he softens, eyes still keen and the rest of him still sharp. But this isn't personal. "I think I have a good enough idea of what I'm getting into. You..."

--and boy if that's not accusatory--

"You have some important things to discuss with Malcolm. Alone. Right? So we'll all catch up later. That's all."

It hurts. God, it hurts, and that ugly something twists it into a little thrill, and the fact that he hurt Tim is even better (even worse). Neal doesn't move in again. Breathes deep, does everything he can to stay focused.

"Okay." It's soft, neutral, not placating. Instinct--the way he knows he would react to placation--keeps it neutral. "I don't want anything from you, Tim. I'm here if you--"

What, need him? Tim won't, or won't admit that he does, and it's perfect (no it's not). Neal shakes his head.

"If you want to lock yourself in my apartment room or whatever. I'll leave the window unlocked." He knows by now that Tim can get himself inside that way just fine. "And I meant what I said about the house. One of those rooms is yours. No matter what else happens."

Neal is here if he ever is to

"...need anything," Tim interjects. Laced with patience, not mistrust. He... nods. Parrots back stiffly that "I know you are. I know that Malcolm is here for me too. And I'm... I'm here too, if you need me for whatever reason. That's not in question."

And yet, he's leaving.

Definitions of 'need' may vary, but-- safety. Tim needs the two jerks safe. The Brooks Brothers Magazine Models want to need him in one piece, too.

It's enough to make Tim play nice again. He nods absently at Neal's very generous promise. He doesn't say he doesn't believe those words one bit because he's heard them before.

Live and learn.

He swallows, heavy and ready to duck into the first empty wing he can find to alleviate the constricting pain in his chest just behind his ribs.

He steps back once. Self preservation.

He offers a smile, meant to be sorry and disarming. "Thanks," he says and can barely hear his own voice. It's the thought that counts, after all. And the thought itself is dizzying, blood rushing through his ears making silence seem loud. Tim knows better than to get high though; the crash is never worth it.

The hall behind him promises more of a migraine. Tim takes another step towards it. "I'll help you with moving. Just let me know when and..."

Tim can be a bitch too. He's feeling vicious enough to be a thorn in Neal's side. His demeanor changes, the lift in spirits is entirely put-on but so obviously a natural phenomenon known only to pain-in-the-neck younger siblings and once he's a safe distance away, once his smile is more impish than apologetic:

"Good luck with you know what."

There is far too much for Neal to dissect in the feelings he’s getting off Tim as the boy walks away. He waits, though, until Tim is gone. Waits until he knows Tim won’t look back and see an empty hallway. Then he goes back to the apartment to talk to Malcolm.

Malcolm looks up from his chair, in front of his bowl of cold soup, when he hears the door. Neal is alone. Malcolm deflates a little. "What did I do?" he asks. "I said something, right? What was it?"

Neal’s heart melts a little with affection and sadness and endearment and under it all there’s a simmering awareness of Malcolm’s heartbreak that he tries to ignore. He holds out his arms instead of answering immediately.

“Come here.”

He takes that as confirmation, so he expression crumples a little as he gets up from the table and sinks willingly into those arms, pressing his face into Neal's shoulder.

Neal wraps him up tight, Malcolm’s warmth and presence finally driving back the relevance of those sixth sense feelings. “You didn’t do anything wrong that I saw, okay? It’s not that simple.”

"I don't understand. Why doesn't he want to stay with us? He said he didn't think any time passed, but he doesn't like me anymore. He didn't tell you why?" Malcolm asks desperately.

Neal weighs how to explain.

“Don’t think about it as no time passing. Think about it like… time being stolen. Like being in a coma and waking up with an expectation of the world being one way and finding it totally different. He needs time and space and… maybe the knowledge that we’re waiting when he’s ready.”

Malcolm lifts his head to blink blearily up at him.

"But we're the same. Totally the same. It wouldn't be better to be with his family now? While he's hurting?"

"We're not, love." Neal doesn't notice it's the first time he's ever used a pet name. "We're living together. I'm ostensibly in Meredith's old room. There's a stranger in Tim's space. Yes, he could have my room without issue, but it's not 'his,' it's mine. And it wasn't his. It was Meredith's. And she's gone, and he hasn't had a chance to deal with that, either."

It makes sense, what Neal is saying, and he still has a hard time connecting with it, for all the times growing up when he struggled to process things and would have given anything for anyone to want him around - really want him around - and not out of some sense of obligation. Maybe he wasn't clear enough about that? He doesn't know, but he can't argue with Neal's point because it doesn't sound wrong, either.

He looks up, his brow still creased but his face not the picture of complete misery it was a moment ago either.

"Did you really buy a house?"

He smiles a little.

"Want to see it?"

Malcolm actually smiles a little.

Just a little, but it's something.

And nods.

"Is it far?"

"Not too-too far."

Far enough to distract Malcolm from his bad feelings. Get a little bit of a walk, some fresh air or a coffee while they wait for a cab out of the cold.

Neal kisses Malcolm, digging into his own pocket and pulling out a set of keys that aren't from ADI. He holds them up. "I'm not done soundproofing the master bedroom yet, but I'm getting there."

"Soundproofing? Is that so you can stay in a different room when it's bad?" Malcolm asks, taking the keys to look at them with a sort of wonder that makes his question distracted.

Neal shrugs. "It's more so you won't be worried about guests and neighbors hearing."

He kisses Malcolm again and leads the way back outside, one arm around Malcolm. He lets the other man hang on to the keys.

They do get a cab, because it is cold, but Neal is still excited when they climb out in front of the little white house with its bright blue shutters and the SOLD sign stuck to the FOR SALE post in the front yard. "So... welcome home."

Guests. They could have guests. He doesn't know who that would be, but it's there.

He leans against Neal for the car ride, clutching the keys so tightly in his hand that when they reach the house and he unclenches his fist, they're imprinted in his palm.

He holds them out for Neal.

"Do I get a tour?"

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cw this damn boi

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