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[abrightboy]

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[abrightboy]

Deflection. Fair enough; they barely know each other.

“Nothing helps me sleep, but lemon ginger chamomile tea helps me feel… slightly less like there’s a nest of wasps inside my head.”

[ployboy]

It's the little things that keep building; can't even crack a joke about horse tranquilizers. Tim snorts and shakes his head again. Even if nothing was supposed to be funny. "It's good," he offers lamely, cautiously. He's pretty sure he's lost his high breeding and good manners in the last years, too. "Thanks."

[abrightboy]

“You’re welcome,” Malcolm tells him genuinely. “Any time.” He means it.

A beat.

“Is your insomnia due to nightmares?”

[ployboy]

"No," he says. He even sounds a little relieved, if only because he didn't even have to think about it. No, the nightmares were worse as a kid. They'd been constant.

Now he can't remember the last time he dreamed. His mind's not built for that anymore. And he gets it, alright? He gets he has to take it as well as he's dished it out, and it stops Tim from bolting. "I don't know what it is, just that it's nothing new. And nothing to worry about."

[abrightboy]

“I don’t know if I’d go as far as ‘nothing to worry about’. Insomnia can be the underlying factor for a ton of health problems. Have they determined the cause?” Malcolm asks with some concern. “Have you seen anyone about it?”

[ployboy]

And here he'd been proud of keeping a straight face.

"I'm fine."

Rote. Practiced. Tim would argue, it's true too. But he presses his tongue to the backs of his teeth and lowers his shoulders that one fraction they had hitched up. There is no they in question, here. And damn it he wants to clarify that.

"Seriously," he presses. Stands his ground, figuratively, and sighs back until the back of the chair presses against him. "Being told it's you versus the end of the world will screw anyone up. It's nothing important."

[abrightboy]

Malcolm cocks his head slightly.

“The end of the world?”

[ployboy]

Detective, much?

Tim glares at his mug.

Moody, much?

He raises his brows, borderline-- really freaking exasperated, honestly. His alibi is at the ready at least. "Is that not what an 'Apocalypse' is?"

[abrightboy]

“Oh, you mean here. Sorry, I thought you meant where you’re from. So… you don’t have these sleep issues at home?” he surmises.

[ployboy]

The jerk did that on purpose.

Tim frowns.

"I do," he admits like he's fighting against keeping his mouth clamped shut. If just because Not-A-Cop will see past his bullshit anyway. "There's always work to do. It's not a big mystery. Or problem. I appreciate the concern, though."

Spoilers, he does not.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm huffs a light laugh. “Do you appreciate it or is that the nice way of saying you wish I would take it and shove it up my ass?”

[ployboy]

"You said it, not me," he mutters. But the olive branch is recognized and Tim can find it in him to smirk, if only for a second before his expression smooths back into nothingness.

He's made mistakes here. Noted. The worst part being that he always knew how to avoid them but, well, it's... nice. That Malcolm's concerned.

Tim's hand grips the handle of his mug, "I think the tea did help."

It's time for a retreat.

Tim makes to stand. "Thanks," he tries again. Awkwardly, boyishly. Genuinely. Go out on a high note and hide your head in the sand elsewhere. "I'll be in my room."

[abrightboy]

Malcolm nods.

“I’m usually here at this time of night,” he points out. “If you ever want to talk some more.”