abrightboy | Voicemail (IC Contact Post) OLD

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."

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

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

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."

Malcolm nods.

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

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."

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."

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

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.”

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."

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

A beat.

“Is your insomnia due to nightmares?”

"No," he says. He even sounds a little relieved, if only because he didn't even have to think about it. No, the nightmares were worse as a kid. They'd been constant.

Now he can't remember the last time he dreamed. His mind's not built for that anymore. And he gets it, alright? He gets he has to take it as well as he's dished it out, and it stops Tim from bolting. "I don't know what it is, just that it's nothing new. And nothing to worry about."

“I don’t know if I’d go as far as ‘nothing to worry about’. Insomnia can be the underlying factor for a ton of health problems. Have they determined the cause?” Malcolm asks with some concern. “Have you seen anyone about it?”

And here he'd been proud of keeping a straight face.

"I'm fine."

Rote. Practiced. Tim would argue, it's true too. But he presses his tongue to the backs of his teeth and lowers his shoulders that one fraction they had hitched up. There is no they in question, here. And damn it he wants to clarify that.

"Seriously," he presses. Stands his ground, figuratively, and sighs back until the back of the chair presses against him. "Being told it's you versus the end of the world will screw anyone up. It's nothing important."

Malcolm cocks his head slightly.

“The end of the world?”

Detective, much?

Tim glares at his mug.

Moody, much?

He raises his brows, borderline-- really freaking exasperated, honestly. His alibi is at the ready at least. "Is that not what an 'Apocalypse' is?"

“Oh, you mean here. Sorry, I thought you meant where you’re from. So… you don’t have these sleep issues at home?” he surmises.

The jerk did that on purpose.

Tim frowns.

"I do," he admits like he's fighting against keeping his mouth clamped shut. If just because Not-A-Cop will see past his bullshit anyway. "There's always work to do. It's not a big mystery. Or problem. I appreciate the concern, though."

Spoilers, he does not.

Malcolm huffs a light laugh. “Do you appreciate it or is that the nice way of saying you wish I would take it and shove it up my ass?”

"You said it, not me," he mutters. But the olive branch is recognized and Tim can find it in him to smirk, if only for a second before his expression smooths back into nothingness.

He's made mistakes here. Noted. The worst part being that he always knew how to avoid them but, well, it's... nice. That Malcolm's concerned.

Tim's hand grips the handle of his mug, "I think the tea did help."

It's time for a retreat.

Tim makes to stand. "Thanks," he tries again. Awkwardly, boyishly. Genuinely. Go out on a high note and hide your head in the sand elsewhere. "I'll be in my room."

Malcolm nods.

“I’m usually here at this time of night,” he points out. “If you ever want to talk some more.”

Voicemail (IC Contact Post) OLD - at capcha

no subject

no subject

cw school shootings, death

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject