abrightboy | Voicemail (IC Contact Post) OLD

“You never owe anyone that. In case nobody’s ever said that to you.” He considers Tim some more. “Is the idea of ‘getting it over with’ meant to make its weaponization less frightening? That if you can just do it with someone you like, then you’ll know what’s involved and that image will loom over you less?”

Weaponization.

Big word.

Tim stuffs his hands in the jacket's pockets, swings them outward in that stifled and universal sort of I'unno gesture. There's a whole lot of... shit. Shit that he never wanted to unpack, that he's never told a soul of.

He feels so much lighter and if he were less in touch with himself he figures he'd be sitting down for fear of passing out. His heart's hammering, running laps in the cold void of his chest.

"At least no one's gonna get pregnant," he tries.

If they're talking about... frights.

That’s deflection, but this is an intimidating topic. Malcolm lets it pass without comment.

“He made you feel vulnerable in a way that you hadn’t developed a defence against,” Malcolm points out. “The man you mentioned. But… one of the joys of consensual sex with someone you like is being vulnerable. If you’re looking for some kind of armour in bed with Jeff, I don’t think you’re going to find it,” he advises. “But if you’re looking for a dizzying rush of dopamine and maybe a deeper connection with a person you’re interested in… you could definitely find that.”

The joys of absurdity: Ra's al Ghul wants my baby is high, high up on the long, long list of ways he's irrevocably ruined something that was once so good. Malcolm lets it slide and Tim is so, so grateful. He huffs a laugh before it can bubble into something hysterical.

He wants to defend Jeff. That's not a fair assessment of what he is or isn't capable of giving.

But Tim wants the notion of the Demon's Head scrubbed from his thoughts even more than he wants to defend his friend's-- honor.

Selfish.

"We're just going to... hang out. And take from there."

He wants magic to happen.

"No one... is going to get hurt. I promise."

Malcolm gives him a look.

“Are you promising me or are you promising you?” he asks.

See, who the hell asks things like that? Tim's dumbfounded, can't make heads or tails of the question. All he can piece together is that he thinks he knows what the correct answer is:

"Me?" Ever-present bad luck doesn't allow him to make it a statement.

...but Malcolm is... trying, and he doesn't deserve that heaping pile of bull, and Tim rocks back on his heels and sighs out his defeat (he needs to breathe). "I don't understand what you're asking, sorry."

Malcolm leans forward slightly.

“I’m not sure what you’re looking for with Jeff and I don’t think you are, either, and I’m concerned that that is where someone is going to get hurt.”

Oh. Yeah, he'd been way off. Tim stares back, like he's taking another moment to digest the concern. To not take offense to it because it's coming from a place of worry and it's not that Malcolm is considering his shortcomings.

"I have it planned," he repeats. "It's fine."

He wouldn't be doing any of this if there wasn't a plan.

“What’s the plan?” Malcolm asks him.

He’s not sure ‘plan’ is the way to approach your crush, but he could be wrong.

Tim spreads his hands again.

(He forgot they're buried deep in the coat pockets and he's stuck, like a nerd, until he wrangles himself free and tries again. Ta-da.)

"We're gonna watch Titanic."

It's so hard to stay straight faced through the idiocy but Malcolm needs to suffer.

“That is a romantic movie,” Malcolm agrees. “What happened to Jurassic Park?” he asks.

Leo and Kate and boobies and a cautionary tale of the dangers of self-preservation with a side of crusty old lady. What's not to love. Tim gives another airy little laugh, and he figures he's at least averted the anxiety attack for today. "That's the treat. And, uh. Galaxy Quest."

Or like, Napoleon Dynamite.

Or literally anything else he can scour from the bottom of a gas station bargain shelf.

But not Austin Powers, and there's nobody to blame for that decision but Neal. Tim feels giddy. It's really, like, stupid. But whatever. He tugs at the jacket again and shoots Malcolm a meek-shy-worried sort of puppy-dog look and he asks, "You're okay? With me borrowing this?"

“I’m not sure that’s going to be the treat,” Malcolm muses rhetorically. Tim’s still planning on having sex, right?

He tugs the lapel to straighten the collar at Tim’s question. “Of course. Do you need anything else?”

He barks a laugh, a dumb and genuine delight passing through the sheer mortification of "Ohmygod, shut up."

Of, like...

He doesn't know.

He stands still and lets the fussing happen and he doesn't wanna wonder about when the last time was that he connected with a guy this way; it's...

Nice.

That's all.

For all the repulsive things Tim's said and thought he's still... Feeling okay about this, maybe.

Cool.

He clears his throat.

"No, it-- okay. No, thanks. I'm... good."

“Good. Have fun.” He stands up. “And if you want to talk about it later, you know where to find me.”

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