abrightboy | Voicemail (IC Contact Post) OLD

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.

Malcolm presses his lips together.

"We're still trying to decide," he tells her. "Give us a minute?"

He doesn't wait for permission before walking Neal back away from the counter.

"That's exactly what you said," Malcolm tells him. "That's what you said. But I... I mean, you were nice about it. You said it wasn't that you wouldn't, but... I thought that was what it was. Being nice. I didn't know you... had... any interest. Before." He wasn't sure Neal had real interest the first time he kissed him at first. He wasn't sure if it was... sympathy more than anything. Until they were together for a little while. "I thought you were keeping enough distance to not."

“Abby,” he says suddenly, and her appearance in his mental landscape hits almost as hard as a physical blow. He forgot her. She’s vanished, and he forgot.

He exhales a little shocked sound. “She cornered me. Asked me what was going on, why we weren’t together when it was so obvious I liked you.”

Neal closes his eyes, throat feeling squeezed. “I told her I couldn’t take it if we tried and then something happened to you.”

"You're a better liar than I am," Malcolm tells him, huffing a breath at the floor. "I didn't know." He looks up at Neal's face. "I didn't know you liked me like that."

Neal laughs, but it's a choked sound. "Lying is what I do."

He lets go of Malcolm's hand, but it's only to take his face in gentle hands and tilt the other man's head up toward him. His throat is too tight for the words, almost. "Hey, you."

It feels like his heart stops. He watches Neal’s face a moment.

“…Do you remember everything?” he asks cautiously.

Neal shakes his head. “Not everything. Not yet. But more. Enough.”

Malcolm slides his arms around Neal’s neck and holds on to him like a life preserver.

“Do you want to get a coffee or go home?” he asks, muffled into the crook of his neck.

“I want to get a coffee and go home,” he says against Malcolm’s hair, tone amused and strained.

It’s coffee! And they came all this way!

Malcolm smiles softly against his neck, then lets go of him, stepping back to gesture towards the counter. He can grab the coffee.

Malcolm will stay here and fidget.

Neal gets himself something that, for him, is on the unusually sweet side--an americano adulterated with a shot of full-sugar flavoring. (Hazelnut.)

Malcolm he gets a turtle mocha, offering it when he returns. "As promised."

The words are soft. He's watching Malcolm's face, practically drinking him in.

Malcolm takes it, looking at it, then he looks up at Neal, his expression teetering on a knife’s edge between relief and apprehension. This feels normal. Right. Will it stay that way? Will Neal remember more? Or forget again?

“Thank you,” he says softly. After a second, he offers his hand. Coffee and home, right?

Neal takes Malcolm's hand and leans in to kiss him firmly.

When he draws back, he pulls Malcolm toward the door, wanting to get away from all these people and back where they can't be as easily listened to before he says anything else.

Malcolm's eyes are on Neal while they walk; hopefully Neal watches where they're going.

"...I missed you," he finally says.

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