abrightboy | Voicemail (IC Contact Post) OLD

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.

Malcolm nods.

"We met here."

He opens the door, holding it for Neal. Part manners, part a desire to watch him enter, to keep an eye on his face, to look for any hint of a sense of familiarity.

It’s a blink-and-miss-it moment, really, the way Neal pauses at the threshold, hit by a wave of deja vu almost strong enough to be vertigo. His defenses are too high for it to be more than that pause, but it’s there.

He breathes in the smell of the place, the conversations, struck again by another thought that feels random and disconnected. He’s had pretty good luck so far, though.

“Earring,” he murmurs to Malcolm as the other man comes inside. “Something about an earring?”

Malcolm nods, drawing alongside him, standing at his elbow.

"I saw you steal it from a customer that was rude to the barista. She didn't see you steal it, though." He smiles faintly. "I told you you were Robin Hood." A beat. "I told Gil you were Robin Hood when he figured out I was smitten with you."

Neal makes a softly amused noise as the line moves forward, looking down to find and take Malcolm’s hand again.

“I’ve never been Robin Hood. I like it, though.”

"You've definitely been Robin Hood many times here and you just don't want people to know about it," Malcolm counters. "It's probably like that in your real life, too. You do crimes to help people, but secretly."

He doesn’t counter Malcolm, just shakes his head a little. Even though really, it’s true, isn’t it? Everything—almost everything—he did with the FBI, he did to help people. Or at least he tried.

“…Did we ever go to New York City?”

He wanted to do that. He remembers. He remembers, proposing it at Christmas time, talking about the tree downtown and the skating rink. It’s fuzzy, unreal, but it’s there. His grip on Malcolm’s hand tightens a little.

"No, but we talked about it. You were talking about going before we started going out and I offered to come. And tried not to make it sound like a proposition," he admits with a slightly embarrassed laugh.

Neal gives a startled little laugh.

Studies Malcolm’s face.

Weighs each word for truth as he says it and knows he isn’t lying, to himself or Malcolm.

“I wanted to be with you. Even then I wanted to.” He grins at the floor briefly. “Christmas in New York with a smart, attractive man who likes me—I wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

Malcolm looks at him.

"You... did... did you remember something?"

Because Neal did a good job of telling him he didn't want that.

“Nothing specific.” He feels like he said something wrong, provided an incorrect answer on a test, but he has no idea what the right answer is.

So he flounders on. Slow, considering, still testing his own reactions to his words. “I told you I didn’t… that I couldn’t be with anyone?”

His hold on Malcolm tightens a little. They’re next in line, but he doesn’t want to be interrupted yet. He’s so close, he can feel it. It’s maddening.

“…I told you I didn’t think I would be a very good partner.”

He does remember that. Like a ghost of an impression. Malcolm asking him out, the words muffled and fuzzy, and his own shock at being asked.

His throat feels tight. “I—”

I was scared.

The memory of the feeling is as choking as the feeling itself.

“Oh hi boys!” The barista behind the counter grins at them when they step up, and Neal automatically smiles in reply, trying not to panic at his inability to call up any details about this person.

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