Smol August Catch-All - Closed and OTA

[inlieuofadad]

Who: Gil Arroyo and YOOOOU and Malcolm and Tim and Meredith, if you want to do something specific/different feel free to just throw it at me or PM me. (I'm not on plurk that much these days.)
When: Shortly after the kelpies, up until the events of the TDM shhh shhh I'm not the slowest ever.
Where: AROUND. Town, ADI apartments, etc.
Summary: Gil does his first real Poking About, finds a possible dive bar to make a Regular Spot, and looks in on his son Malcolm and his roommates. ...A few times.
Warnings: Alcohol, mild PTSD, mentions of stabby injuries.


IA - Closed to Apartment B1

He promised. Gil reminds himself that several times over on his way to Malcolm's place. He promised, after he got discharged from the infirmary he'd spend at least one night on Malcolm's couch. His apartment's couch. Whichever.

Gil sighs when he arrives, knocking on the door rather than using the key Malcolm already gave him. It would be rude to just walk in when he hasn't even met Malcolm's roommates. He has a small overnight bag in one hand, a pillow under one arm, and a light blanket in a tote bag.

And a resigned look on his face.

IB - Closed to Apartment B1

Well. Now that he knows (that he knows) Malcolm's roommates, he's a little more secure in inviting himself over. Which he does fairly often to poke his head inside and see how Malcolm is doing if he hasn't seen him elsewhere that day. And then there are days like today, when he brings dinner with him. Enough for everyone, but specifically tailored toward Malcolm "Most Food Makes Me Sick" Bright.

IC - Closed to Apartment B1

Gil showed up very early this time. He had a bad night. He figured at the very least Malcolm would be up.

He's making himself useful--and comfortable--cooking breakfast for The Kids. Plain scrambled eggs for Malcolm, and a fairly elaborate display of pancakes, bacon, French toast, and--is that the makings for avocado toast. It is.

Look, he's old, but he's also a widower who spends most of his day around millennials.


II. Pratty's C.A.V., a Gloucester institution - OTA

Gil has decided to take in some of the local color for a night. It doesn't look promising on the outside, with its neon-lined windows and cheap signage. It keeps the lack of promises on the inside. Gil has been to plenty of New York dives over the years, and the energy in this place is completely different. More languid. More suspicious, less aggressive. Regardless, even with his discount wardrobe, Gil stands out.

He shakes his head and steps up to take a spot at the bar, ordering himself a scotch--not top shelf, not bottom--to nurse while he takes in the clientele. His mind wanders eventually, back to the kelpies, the knife in his gut, and past that to bleeding on Nicholas Endicott's floor. The two incidents have tangled themselves up annoyingly in his mind.

He should probably have another couple of drinks before sorting them out.



III. Bonnie's Flophouse and surrounding neighborhood - OTA

He's heard about this place, met a couple of people who mentioned living here. Curiosity was going to lead him to it eventually. Unsurprisingly, the term flophouse is indeed accurate. He doesn't stay long, but he's clearly an outsider to the space, and he's just as clearly marking the faces he sees there.

Walking back toward the ADI apartments from the flophouse, Gil slows to a stop in the face of three young goons who clearly think they're looking at an easy target. One of them flips a knife open, and Gil's eyes are drawn to it for a moment, a twitch of irritation (anger) and nerves (fear) biting through him before he's entirely calm again.

"Evening," he says dryly. "I'm guessing the fact that I don't have anything worth stealing doesn't matter that much to you guys."

Comments

[inlieuofadad]

Gil notes the scars without comment, for now. He sets the food out on the kitchen counter, a mix of mild, simple white meat dishes. And a couple that are probably the ones that Tim smelled--same meat, spiced up and a lot more likely to make Malcolm regret his life choices.

"That's all right," Gil drawls, raising his eyebrows at Tim. "Back from a training session?"

[ployboy]

"From working out," Tim clarifies, because training is what's done when he scouts the security cams of shops and stores and docks around town, when he lingers in the peripheral of some moored fishing boat learning the code to that back entrance of the processing warehouse. He closes the door behind Mr. Arroyo, fights and fails to hold back from following the man like a dog after the scraps.

Pavlov, or something.

Mr. Arroyo does share the food, so it's not entirely Tim being... presumptuous or overbold or whatever. Blue eyes study the man and Tim breaks, figuring it's better than waiting for his dignity to wane further. "Uh."

He's great at conversing with adults in imagined positions of power, honest. "Can I have some?"

[inlieuofadad]

Gil's lips pinch in that particular way that signals him holding back a smile, though not particularly well. "Sure."

He decides not to tease Tim about the fact that he brought it for B1's occupants. By now, he's very familiar with where the plates and cutlery are, but he still tilts his head and gives a little gesture at the cupboards, asking for permission to get them.

It's not his space, whether he has a Malcolm-gifted key or not.

[ployboy]

Fortune smiles down on them. Tim has the gall to seem either overly pleased or surprised by the response.

He springs a smile. "Yeah, help yours-- actually," because he can play nice. He has nothing against the man, and his ears burn red at the moment as Tim makes himself useful in the kitchen for a change, and he gathers plates. "I got it."

--

"I also have a quick question I've been meaning to ask."

[inlieuofadad]

Gil keeps his attention on the food as he doles out a teenage-boy-sized portion on Tim's plate. Which doesn't mean he's not on alert for whatever the kid might want to know.

"Shoot."

[ployboy]

Literally. Tim pauses from where he's rummaging aimlessly through the fridge--

"The piece you carry, is it a standard issue 17 or 19?"

--as if hoping Mr. Arroyo will tell him what he's supposed to fetch for him to drink. As if he hadn't randomly questioned the lieutenant's glock, Tim casually adds, "My dad kept a Colt, one of the compact ones."

And he had died with a glock in his hand.

[inlieuofadad]

Gil raises his eyebrows a fraction, less surprised than he would have been before talking to Meredith. "19X, actually. I prefer the size and weight of the 17 but the extra capacity helps in a pinch."

He turns around to rest the small of his back against the counter. "Your dad was in law enforcement?" The kept indicates a past tense of, Gil suspects, violent ends, but he doesn't want to make the assumption and he's not going to force it out of the kid.

[ployboy]

"What?"

It's such a wild idea that Tim struggles with it, bemused smile finding its way to his expression as he reaches for... water bottles. For both of them. Since Mr. Arroyo refuses to answer the totally unspoken question of drinks. Tim sets them on the plates. Thinks, damn, he's out of practice with sharing a table with someone old.

"No, it was just kept around. I don't think I was supposed to know about it. Drake Industries was mostly pharmaceuticals."

[inlieuofadad]

"Ah." Gil shrugs. "Never know where a person starts out."

Water is fine with him, thank you very much. He picks up the bottle and twists the cap off, taking a little swig. "Used to worry about that--keeping a gun around the apartment. My wife used to say I was too paranoid for anything to ever happen, and I did teach Malcolm proper gun safety by the time he was... what, maybe eleven? Still worried about it, though."

He smiles with a touch of irony and tiredness as he remembers Malcolm last year--last year, was it really only that long ago--when he took a murder weapon and pointed it at his own head without checking if it was loaded first. ...Then he sighs mostly with tiredness.

[ployboy]

He's so lost, so Tim stabs a fork into the meal practically the moment he sits, his stomach demanding it. And halfway through a chew he puts a name to the feeling: he's jealous, he thinks. There's nobody who knew him at eleven, who knows him now. Ten years down the road and Tim won't have anyone to look so tired at his misdeeds; he won't even make it that far, he bets.

Some miracle that he ever made it eighteen, he muses.

Wanting it to hurt, he says, "I think Meredith would like it if you stayed here too."

[inlieuofadad]

Gil tilts his head, watching emotion move subtly across Tim's face, waiting for him to speak. "Stayed how? Moved in?"

There are a few ways to take that, but almost any of them would have to swing a little harder to hit home. Unless Tim is aiming the blow toward himself.

[ployboy]

Can't backtrack now, genius. Tim nods and casually... doesn't shove food in his mouth, yet. "Yeah." Which is another way to say, obviously. There can't be that much hidden meaning here. At least Tim figures there isn't.

He can feel his shoulders, like, tighten. Y'know, tense up? Because Mr. Arroyo got it in one, so he's entertained the idea too. "ADI is good at those kinds of accommodations," he points out. Like it's no big deal.

It shouldn't be.

"Malcolm would sleep better knowing you were in the next room. You said you would feel better if you could keep an eye on him. Everyone would win."

[inlieuofadad]

"That's not true in the least," Gil says, going about cutting up his own food. "I know Meredith likes you both. Malcolm might actually trust the two of you, which isn't a small thing with him. People who don't try to get a different room as soon as they find out about his night terrors? Not exactly a dime a dozen."

He glances at Tim before going back to the food, popping a bite in his mouth and silencing himself for a moment. "I don't know how you feel about them, but they both value you. Even if you did want to find a new space, I probably wouldn't move in here. Malcolm might feel better having me close, but he needs to get comfortable not having me close, at least not immediately accessible."

Gil shrugs. "Goes for me too."

He takes another bite, watching Tim this time as he chews and swallows.

[ployboy]

It all sounds polite to him. Tim nods, cowed in that way he figures someone should be when a cop sits them down to state another version of the obvious. He eats, a forkful of greens giving him enough time to...

roll over, show his belly.

Not literally.

Don't make it weird.

He's conflict avoidant on a good day, okay?

So he won't ask why the hell Gil thinks the dawn of an Apocalypse is a good time to be testing his and Malcolm's resolve. Isn't a trying time when people should be trying to look out for each other? Overtly? Not that he would know, so Tim grimaces slightly at the notion of being way off the fucking mark. "They're nice," he settles on. And tries not to stare at the table too much. "They're both nice," he tries again. "I like them."

Sounds like small praise compared to what Mr. Arroyo had said. He shakes his head. "I didn't know it was that hard for Malcolm to... feel comfortable with shared living spaces. He told me he did time in boarding schools, too. You dorm with all kinds there."

[inlieuofadad]

"It's true, he did."

And hated it, for very good reasons, but those aren't his to share. Gil eats in silence for a moment before he adds, "You think I'm full of shit, which I suppose means it's mutual."

[ployboy]

--wait.

"What?"

Help.

"I didn't say that."

Mayday: he has absolutely no idea what his next move is. So naturally, his body takes over. Tim reclines back, palms on the table, almost like he's ready to take the dive and push himself away. It's different when it's a peer or when it's a thirty-something eating away at what's rotten in his brain. It's different matter entirely when it's, like

someone like Jack-- like what Jack should have been.

[inlieuofadad]

"You don't always have to say a thing for it to be there."

Tim reminds him of... well, a few different people. Dani, when she was younger, poised to take the hand off whoever offered one. Malcolm, viciously smart, observant, capable. Totally unable to relate on a normal wavelength without practice and façade. JT, stolid and unflappable, hiding his emotions until he could break somewhere private.

He turns his attention back to his plate, sorting through its contents with his fork for a moment before taking another bite. "It's all right. I'm not going to go poking around in places I'm not invited."

cw brief reference to self harm

[ployboy]

Christ.

It really is like talking to his dad, where he apparently says everything wrong. Tim has all but blue-screened.

"Forget it," he pleads, but it's flat and rote and he wants to bash his head against something because can he be any more of a mercurial teenager here? Only if he ups the melodrama to the physical. And he's not interested.

Tim waves a hand between them, the table, their plates. He needs to grow up. Own up. "It's an offer. If you're ever interested."

So much for forgetting it. Tim scoffs, something wry tugging at his lips. "For whatever it's worth, you've now found out I'm a hell of a good host."

[inlieuofadad]

Gil chuckles quietly, deciding to have a little mercy. Talking to someone like Tim is about taking time and little taps at the cracks until they open up. "I've never been much of one myself. My Jackie, she was the one who had all that kind of thing nailed down. Picked up a few things, maybe, but most of the time if I get something right about hosting or guest-ing it's by asking myself what she'd do."