Voicemail (IC Contact Post) OLD - at capcha

[abrightboy]

 This is Bright. Leave a message.

Comments

[abrightboy]

He doesn't underestimate Tim, but he also knows a breezy lie when he sees it on someone's face. It just tilts his lips upwards a hint at it.

He makes a sweeping gesture with his hand.

"Please do."

[ployboy]

Tim's already confident he can get under Meredith's skin (excuse the expression), not that he would ever really want to. But what would it take to get this guy to lose of all that patience?

Tim drinks the tea, and feel better for it. He looks at Malcolm's hands, instead of the man himself, for a moment. "Those meds you have. Obviously you have them because they help you, but what will you do when they run out? Just refill at the ADI clinic?" He pauses, then adds, "Mr. Arroyo was worried about you."

[abrightboy]

Malcolm's right hand comes to grip the cup, so the tremor isn't as evident.

"Lieutenant Arroyo is always worried about me. But they said I could refill at the clinic. Do you think that's a bad idea?"

[ployboy]

Well that confirms something Tim had sent to the back burner, and the visceral reaction is that damn frown of his again.

Cops?

That answers questions that he didn't have.

"I don't know," he says. It sounds like a confession. "I was just wondering. It doesn't sound like something I get an opinion in. I've never--"

Taken medication? Needed medication? What's that going to gain them? He shrugs. "I wouldn't know what to do."

[abrightboy]

“I’m heavily dependent,” Malcolm admits freely. “I don’t have a choice. It’s refill where I can or go through intense and debilitating withdrawal.”

[ployboy]

Yeah, man, he had figured that one out.

(Don't be a dick.)

"There's a... Walgreens around here," he tries. It's down Main. But really. He's serious. (Honest.) Tim has (deserves) no say. And wild theories aren't worth the heavy risk of someone else's reality. "I don't know," he says again. Sounds like a kid. "I sound like a jerk, but I hope it works out."

Everything.

The dependency on ADI.

The fact that his sleep was not so atrocious, until he shared walls with a man who wakes up screaming (Don't be a dick. Jeez!) and a woman with two splinted hands.

[abrightboy]

“You don’t sound like a jerk,” Malcolm tells him. “I saw the Walgreens, but there’s no way to reach my therapist at home to have my prescriptions sent to them. ADI will refill based on what I have with me.” He glances to where the bottles are lined up tidily on the counter, then looks at Tim. “Would you feel more comfortable if I told you what they were for?”

[ployboy]

"God, you really trust these guys, don't you?"

There's enough film of frustration to let that just tumble out. Tim suppresses a wince, more so at the above-optimal volume for Dead O' Clock at night than at the words.

He can falsify records. He's pretty sure he can falsify records. It would take time. The resources here are-- well, no. There are none. There is no help. Tim wants to help. God, this is frustrating. A fake ID in his wallet isn't enough to even begin a false paper trail leading to prescription drugs.

Tim, belatedly, shakes his head.

If the meds have stayed on the counter? Then he knows what they are. Good ol' Google.

He clarifies, "You don't make me uncomfortable."

[abrightboy]

“I don’t trust them,” Malcolm says quietly, wrapping his other hand around his cup and his less reliable hand. “I just don’t have a choice. I need the chemical balance. I need the help, and right now they can provide it.”

[ployboy]

Not all's lost: Tim thinks he now knows how to poke the bear. He doesn't want to. He nods and doesn't really know what else to do. There's no promise to uphold here, no worthwhile smokescreen.

It sucks.

Everything sucks.

He's dejected, or disheartened, something. The fight's gone out. It's Late O' Clock and he hasn't had a good night's rest in... did it matter?

Tim taps his fingers against the still-warm mug. "Let me know..." he trails off, mulls over it for a second, and carries on. "If there's anything I can ever do to help. We'll figure it out."

[abrightboy]

“I appreciate it,” Malcolm tells him sincerely, though he’s not sure what Tim could possibly do to help. He understands the gesture for what it is. “I live alone at home. I’ve never had roommates. I’ve never wanted to… put all this on anyone else. I’m sorry you have to deal with it. The… screaming and the thrashing.”

[ployboy]

It's fine, he wants to say. But it's not. Whatever keeps the man that high on alert and robs him of the most basic peace of sleep can't possibly be fine. And it's kind of a pain when someone tells you it's fine when you know it's absolutely not. Tim nods, like he gets it.

"I lived alone too," he says. "I emancipated but I was on my own for a while before then, anyway. Being here just reminds me of being back in boarding school, honestly. I guess that's one reason why I hate feeling trapped here." But back to the... relating. "Man, everyone's got problems. No 9 AM quiz of world history? Already an improvement to Brentwood."

[abrightboy]

Malcolm looks at him with piqued interest.

“I went to boarding school, too,” he says.

[ployboy]

Crap. The neuroticisms
track. This is like looking in a mirror, and just tells Tim that he should never really think about... a future. Tim manages to look sympathetic without knowing if he's, like, supposed to or not. "Yeah? It's like I was off to a new one every other semester. That last one- Brentwood. The dean had a dog so I'd give it, like, half my dinner every night so I could slip curfew."

Nothing was ever Elan levels or even remotely close to. It was just-- boarding school. Eagerly waiting for phone calls from home, or postcards for the holidays saying that his parents were home, reminding him that he's not. It's a lot of... gray. Feelings. A lot of his life is like that, though.

"I thought you were a cop, though?"

Double crap, he was not supposed to say that. Also: holy prejudice, Batman. Tim is glad he wasn't drinking. The kid backpedals. Hard. Eyes wide like he's surprised himself with that. "Uh-- I didn't mean that."

[abrightboy]

“I’m not a cop. I work with the cops. Special consultant.” He takes a sip of his tea. “I went to two different ones, with an assortment of private schools in between. I didn’t last long anywhere, either.” How does a such a patient man move schools so much? “Got expelled in my senior year and finished the semester in homeschooling.”

[ployboy]

Like looking in a mirror.

Save for the afflicting spontaneous combustion.

Maybe.

"That's cool."

Maybe.

"I dropped out."

Which he offered, why?

"At least ADI doesn't require much for now."

[abrightboy]

“Why’d you drop out?” Malcolm asks curiously.

They weren’t going to get far if they danced around the elephants.

cw school shootings, death

[ployboy]

Funny enough, no one's up and asked him that. Tim keeps the bitter satisfaction tightly under wraps. He's seen the tabloids and given interviews, he's fairly certain Alfred or B had to have fielded questions from Vale and the like. And Tim knows Bruce Wayne can make questions disappear from everyone's mind.

But Bruce hadn't asked him, either. Bruce had come home. And he had never asked.

Tim's eyes storm over for a moment, and he's aware. He studies Malcolm and then just. Shrugs. "Things got hectic," he explains. He used that one with Ives. ...it hadn't worked out. Tim keeps quiet then continues, steady. He won't say anything that an internet search wouldn't have uncovered, back home. It still-- stings. It was still real. "Things were getting out of control in the city. We were looking like Baghdad."

Funny enough? He would know.

Tim taps his foot against the floor. It's just. some. residual frustrations. Makes it look authentic. (Jesus Christ, Drake. Not the time.)

"The gangs started shooting. I was actually back in public school. We were in the midst of it. Some of my friends... didn't make it." And that's it. Tim shrugs again.

Thinks, okay, so he's more tired than he thought.

"I didn't see the point after that. It wasn't an immediate drop or anything. And things got better but I just couldn't bring myself to care."

...

"My best friend and my girlf-- ex, they got ticked but I don't blame them. It's not like I told anyone I was gonna ditch. And it's not like it's mattered much either."

[abrightboy]

Malcolm nods.

"Did you ever get treatment for the PTSD?" he asks.

[ployboy]

Not-A-Cop knows his DSM-5.

Rightly so, Tim reminds himself. And to be even more generous to Malcolm, that was the picture Tim had shoved forward. It was one that made sense.

Like, hell, now that he's-- removed from it? Yeah. There's a reason Dick had been so concerned when

then why is he fighting to keep from bristling. "Like I said," Tim repeats, "things got better."

Debatable. But he nods, doesn't shy from Malcolm's gaze. "I got better, too."

[abrightboy]

Not-A-Cop is a Harvard educated psychologist.

"You must have, to accomplish the things you've accomplished."

Though Malcolm hasn't exactly gotten 'better' by any reasonable standard and he gets the job done.

"As long as the symptoms are manageable now, you don't really have to seek more help than you need."

[ployboy]

Huh. This went badly. Tim's left-- damn it, he doesn't know. He doesn't know how he feels, thoughts at war with what he feels he'd be safe to say. And if he doesn't know then it must not be important.

(He knows the man's just throwing him a bone and it should incense him but what-- what is he supposed to do with this? The dude's just believed him like Tim's supposed to be trustworthy or something.)

Tim stares at his cup mournfully. Taps his foot against the floor. He shouldn't have talked about the schools. It's all blurred and murky, history butting heads with what should have been.

"Does lemon ginger chamomile tea usually help you sleep?" he asks.0

[abrightboy]

Deflection. Fair enough; they barely know each other.

“Nothing helps me sleep, but lemon ginger chamomile tea helps me feel… slightly less like there’s a nest of wasps inside my head.”

[ployboy]

It's the little things that keep building; can't even crack a joke about horse tranquilizers. Tim snorts and shakes his head again. Even if nothing was supposed to be funny. "It's good," he offers lamely, cautiously. He's pretty sure he's lost his high breeding and good manners in the last years, too. "Thanks."

[abrightboy]

“You’re welcome,” Malcolm tells him genuinely. “Any time.” He means it.

A beat.

“Is your insomnia due to nightmares?”