abrightboy | Voicemail (IC Contact Post) OLD

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."

“It’s not your fault,” Malcolm tells him simply. Matter-of-factly. “I just… I wanted to help you when you got out of medical not… make it difficult for you. Honestly. I’m. I’m here as a…” It catches in his throat. ‘Friend’ doesn’t feel right in his mouth. It’s what he called them when he was helplessly pining for the other man. A facade he put on it for other people so they didn’t feel sorry for him. “….helper,” he finishes weakly.

Anyone who knows Neal well--which isn't many people, these days, and even fewer here--would be able to see what happens next coming.

He pulls Malcolm to a halt, draws him in close and tries for a Disney Prince kiss of his own.

It doesn't exactly take Malcolm by surprise, but he's not sure if it means he's done well or if it means he's messed up.

But he returns it.

When it breaks, he's clutching Neal's bicep more tightly than he realizes. He looks up at his face.

"Does that mean I'm doing okay at it?"

Neal makes an amused little noise, then frowns as something occurs to him without context.

“Large mocha. Sometimes a turtle mocha, because it’s heavier on the calories. What does that mean?”

He clears his throat, then grins at the ground, though the expression isn’t really heartfelt. “Not that I’m grasping at straws.”

“That’s what I drink at the coffee shop,” Malcolm murmurs. “Well. The first one is what I drink at the coffee shop. Until you suggested the second one.”

“You don’t eat much,” Neal says, the words unsure. “For… a lot of reasons. You have trouble with it. Don’t like to, really. I’m always looking for little ways to get more into you in a way you’ll enjoy.”

A pause. “Does… Is that right?”

“You’ve never told me that,” Malcolm tells him. “But… it tracks with what you do.”

It really does, he realizes.

“….You do it all the time, actually.”

The uncertainty transforms into something brighter. Tentative hope. “Well, in that case, I’m going to take the excuse to get you a turtle mocha.”

Malcolm’s expression softens and, after a moment, he realizes his still has a death grip on Neal’s arm and he loosens it, but doesn’t let go.

“You want to?”

“I want to.” He does. The longer they talk, the more he wants it. Wants to remember, wants to connect, wants…

Neal instinctively stops that train of thought before it can travel any further toward the loneliness at the end of the line.

When the coffee shop comes into view… he knows it. Maybe. Maybe? Is he just projecting now, hoping the familiarity into existence?

“We met here,” he murmurs experimentally, repeating Malcolm’s words. Willing the specifics to come back.

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

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject