abrightboy | Voicemail (IC Contact Post) OLD

Neal isn’t exactly starry-eyed, the way he’s looking at Malcolm, but there’s something inherently romantic to him in the details that Malcolm chooses. He’s not starry-eyed, quite. He is clearly (quickly) becoming infatuated.

Neal looks down, forcing himself to break eye contact long enough to think things through. “Do we have a spot? That we go? Or something I make for you a lot? Or…”

Malcolm considers that. He thinks hard, because that look is everything and he doesn’t want to let Neal down.

“The coffee shop,” he blurts out suddenly. “We met there. We go all the time. It’s the place you first…” His voice trails off and he watches Neal’s face. “Kissed me.”

“Tell me about that,” he says, a request in spite of the phrasing. He reaches out to touch Malcolm’s temple, brush a fingertip through his hair.

Malcolm looks at him with a tentative hopefulness. Like he wants to be happy, but isn’t sure whether he can trust it.

“I was sick. I… was making myself sick because I wanted to be normal. But. You said you liked me the way I was,” he explains hesitantly.

It doesn’t make him look good, does it? It doesn’t make him look confident and desirable, that story.

"It has bothered me all my life that I do not paint like everybody else,” Neal murmurs. “Matisse said that.”

“I’ve always had a hard time connecting with people,” Malcolm admits. “I get along with my roommates. I have Gil. But.” He shrugs a shoulder. “I liked you a lot. And I tried to make friends around ADI. I just wasn’t having great luck with any of it. And that was… that’s how my life is, but for a minute I just wanted to be like everybody.”

Neal hesitates. Tells himself not to get caught up in this. Tells himself it's a terrible idea.

But the hopeless romantic in him is still powerful, even after everything he's been through, and looked at through a certain lens... this entire situation is kind of romantic.

He shakes his head, trying to banish that thought, telling himself that this is the best way to remember things, if there's anything there for him to remember.

"Let's go. Get coffee." Neal flashes a crooked smile. "First date. You can tell me about..."

The uncertainty creeps in again, and he looks down, then back at Malcolm's face. "Us."

Malcolm bites his lip and then says “What if I don’t? What if we go have a first date and if you remember, you remember and if you don’t then… there’s nothing you have to live up to?”

The thoughtfulness of it takes Neal by surprise. He hadn't even considered that, the pressure of trying to live up to a past and a relationship he doesn't remember. He'd only thought about what he should be doing. Could do if he knew what to aim for.

He tells himself he can't fall for this guy, no matter the context, and then immediately thinks it's probably too late for that.

"Yeah. Good idea. That's... a good idea." He draws Malcolm to his feet. "Tell me about you instead."

Malcolm looks about to say something, then pauses and meets Neal’s eyes.

“You don’t have to feel… obligated to feel a certain way,” he says. “A different set of circumstances can have a different outcome. You don’t have to think you’re responsible for me.”

Neal makes a softly amused noise. "Even though you're here, being responsible for me?"

Malcolm's expression creases slightly.

"You don't have to have feelings just because I do. I can't... turn it off, just because you don't..." His voice falters. "Um. The coffee shop is just..." He gestures. "Up the street."

This is not going as--what, planned? As though he's planned any of this.

As they head outside, Neal keeps himself from taking Malcolm's hand, even though the instinct is there. He's not sure if it would help or hurt. He feels like he's doing this wrong, like he's messing this up, but he doesn't even know what there is to mess up.

Fitting, really.

"I'm a forensic psychologist," Malcolm tells him as they walk. "I worked for the FBI for ten years and then the NYPD. Exclusively in homicide. I... specialize. I was the FBI's leading expert on serial murder," he explains.

Neal stops himself several times from bringing up his own FBI experience. Malcolm would know that, wouldn't he? He would. He knows about Keller, for god's sake.

When Malcolm pauses, Neal looks around them, taking in the town, the raw spring air. Without thinking about it, his hand strays over to take Malcolm's. He winces and lets go. "Sorry, I'm. I just."

He looks down at Malcolm's hand, feeling squeezed and lonely. "It feels right."

Malcolm looks over at him.

“It doesn’t make me uncomfortable,” he says softly.

At that, Neal very carefully takes Malcolm's hand, half-expecting something terrible to happen as he does. He has no idea what. Just... something.

He looks around again. "I could almost see myself living somewhere like this. In a different life."

Neal flashes Malcolm a crooked little grin.

“What does that life look like, when you imagine it?” Malcolm asks.

Neal’s stomach does an uncomfortable little somersault. That question is so dangerous. So pointless. He gathers breath to answer, stops, then tries again. Very quietly. Still holding Malcolm’s hand.

“I’m married. We have a kid, or are going to have a kid. Two kids.”

He stares into space thoughtfully. “I…” Do art restoration? Own a gallery? Offer security consultations? “I teach.”

A memory of a case that feels like lifetimes ago surfaces and he smiles. “Art, maybe. Or literature. History. If I’m at a high school maybe I teach all three, who knows.”

He makes an amused noise and shakes his head, then looks at Malcolm. “…What about you?”

Malcolm looks up at him, no guardedness in his expression. No shields.

“I never thought about it. There was no future like that for me in my life at home. I lived for the next case. But…” His voice trails off and he looks at the sidewalk.

Neal holds his breath a moment, waits for Malcolm to say something else, then prompts gently:

“But?”

“It was different…… lately. It didn’t have some specific form, it just had… hope. Warmth. It was someplace I could see myself,” he explains awkwardly.

"Lately. With me." It's soft, a request for confirmation.

Malcolm nods, pressing his lips together.

He didn’t want to put expectations on Neal, but he also doesn’t want to lie to him. That someone like him came to like Malcolm back was life altering. He can’t pretend it wasn’t.

”With you. Because of you.”

He looks down at their linked hands, sudden guilt squeezing at him.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I wish I remembered. I hope I do."

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