Privacy Act

timothy_icon.png zan_icon.png

Where: Timothy's Apartment

When: July 12, 2012; Evening

What: Who knew a camera could further strain sibling relationships?

Like many nights, Tim's brought work home this evening, and it's taking up most of his attention. He sits at his dining room table with his MacBook Pro out, music on, and a file in front of him, a legal pad to one side. He's dressed for around the house, though, loose pyjama pants and a white tank top, hair slightly messy from the day. The music on is a little harsher than Tim's usual taste, Lacuna Coil at moderate volume.

The lock rattles with a key turn, and Zan lets himself into the apartment. Earbuds hang from his shirt collar, the tether connected to his ipod hidden beneath his shirt and tucked into a pocket. He closes the door and sets his pack on the floor beside it, then turns to make his way into the kitchen. A glance goes to Tim in passing, brows arching upward a touch. "Evening."

Timothy looks up from the table, setting the pen down in the file and looking over at his younger brother. "Hey Zan," he says. "Never did ask, how was the vacation? You missed some jerks making a big fuss at the fourth party and such. Guy got stabbed in the knee."

"It was alright," Zan answers, grinning. "We had a great time." He pokes through the cupboards, shifting foodstuff around in his search for some sort of snack. "Actually, I don't think I missed the party. Especially if someone got stabbed." He settles on a box of cereal, shaking it experimentally while he fetches a bowl and spoon.

There's a chuckle, and then Timothy pushes to his feet, going to the fridge and pulling out a beer. "Probably not. It sucked like the fourth party always does, Dad made me talk to the press, my boss was there…" Timothy rolls his eyes, opens the bottle, then returns to his work. "And work's been insane. Anyway."

Zan looks up from pouring cereal into his bowl, giving his older brother a look. "Seriously? This from the guy who always knew what to say and how to act with those people? Man." The box is set on the counter and exchanged for milk, fetched from the fridge. "Better you than me, anyway. I did Memorial Day, about chose to ignore Rylie's request that I play it cool to kick Gordon Crain's ass." The milk is set on the counter as well, beside the open box of cereal.
"Just because I know how to act and can do it doesn't mean I like it," Timothy says, shaking his head and setting the beer down, before crossing a few things out on the notepad. "It's just easier than the alternative of digging my heels in and bashing my head against the wall." The older pauses for breath and looks back at his brother. "Which, you know, is pretty much what you seem to do. My way, I do what they want for thirty minutes and they leave me alone for twenty-three and a half hours."

"And in essence, you're no different from them." Zan grabs his spoon from the counter and takes a bite from his so-called supper before heading to the couch. "I never liked it growing up and I was still forced to try and fit into their mold. I'm an adult now, I don't have to do what mom and Dad want. Or be what they want."

Timothy rolls his eyes and picks up his beer, taking a long sip. "I'm nothing like them," Tim says, a little more quietly, but he doesn't press the point. In fact, he doesn't seem inclined to continue the conversation, picking up his pen and frowning at the file.

"Right," Zan answers as he hooks his bag with a foot and slides it over to the couch. He sits then, indulging in a couple more bites of cereal before tugging his pack open. "So what're you working on," he asks, using one hand to free up some papers and his video camera. The other carefully balances his bowl, saving it from spilling.

Timothy continues looking at his work for a few minutes, ignoring his brother. "Things that I'm supposed to have prepared for filing tomorrow," he says, slight irritation.

The papers are set on top of his pack so his full attention can be turned onto his camera. Zan balances it on one leg while he shovels in the last of his cereal. He sets his bowl aside and picks up his camera, glancing toward his older brother. "Look, I'm working on getting out of here as soon as I can, Tim. I know it's inconveniencing you, me being here, and I don't like it any more than you."

"I'm sure you'll find something soon enough," Timothy says levelly. "It's fine. You seem to mind it more than I do."

"This from the guy who's growing irritated from my attempts at conversation." Zan puts the viewfinder to his eye and focuses on Timothy. "Come on, Tim. You protested as much as I did when Dad suggested it."

Timothy glares at Zan, but it seems to be mostly glaring at the camera. "Would you put that thing away, Zan?" he asks. "I'm annoyed because I had to bring work home in the first place."

The lens zooms in slowly, red LED showing that he's recording to some extent, until Tim's face takes up the view. "No," Zan answers, entirely unconcerned with his brother's annoyance toward being filmed. "I'm thinking of taking Mrs. Crain up on her offer. In the interim. And you're annoyed that you can't work in peace. Just remember, you chose the career."

"Put that thing away," Timothy says again, though his voice is level and face is neutral. The file folder is closed, legal pad stacked on top of it, laptop stacked on top of that, and Timothy rises to his feet, picks up his work, then the beer in the other hand. "And once you put that thing away, you may work on editing film footage in my house but you may not have the damn thing on." He looks at Zan a moment longer, and then Timothy moves down the hallway towards his room.

Standing, Zan follows Timothy. The view zooms out a little, focusing more on the back of his older brother's head and the unknown that is the bedroom. "Now you really do sound like Dad. Didn't he say pretty much the same thing when I was twelve? Yeah, didn't end so well for him either."

"Turn it off," Timothy says, leaning against the closed door. "Or leave."

"It's like it was scripted," Zan says to himself. He looks up, lifting his face away from the viewfinder to look at his brother, brows arching upward. "And if I don't do either? What then? You planning to kick me out? That'll go over well." His free hand lifts away from the camera, as if showing a marquee. "DA Caldecott Kicks Out Brother Over Pettiness. Yeah, might win brownie points with some people, but I think they'd laugh at you around the water cooler."

Timothy sets his work down at the base of the door, strides over, and simply pulls the camera from his brother's hand. With whatever means necessary to do so. Then he turns the camera over, ejects the card, and pockets it. "Next time I tell you to put the damn thing away, you do so. You will not film anything in my home, because I have a reasonable expectation of privacy, and you are a guest in my home." The camera isn't handed back, either.

It's more for not wanting the camera broken than for any means of acquiescence that Tim gets the camera. Zan's expression darkens slightly, and whether it's handed back or not, he takes it with as much care. "Nice to know you haven't changed," he says, a little hollowly, as he returns to the couch. His camera is turned off, put away, along with the papers. It's all zippered closed, then pulled onto his shoulder while he turns for the door.

Tim's expression is still very, very carefully neutral, although the lines of trouble are evident around his eyes. He doesn't say anything, or move to stop Zan from leaving. "Nice to know you still don't give a fuck about other people's privacy," is all he says.

"What privacy?" Zan's hand grasps the door knob, though he turns to look at Tim. "Are you doing anything that shouldn't be filmed? Was I looking at anything I shouldn't see? Did you say anything incriminating? You didn't… Never mind." He shakes his head, sighing. "Just like Mom and Dad. Never got any kind of support or tolerance from them either. Don't worry, Tim. I won't cramp your style much longer; I'll find somewhere else I can crash until I've managed to find a place."

"You never did get it," Timothy says, arms still crossed, still annoyed. "Some people just don't want to have the fucking camera around. It's nosy, it's annoying, and it's a distraction. This is my apartment, I shouldn't have to worry about saying something that I wouldn't want the entire world to see on television." There's a sigh, and he looks at his brother. "You can stay. But the camera stays off, and away, and the next time you turn it on, I will break it." And then Timothy picks up his work again, hand digging into his pocket to unlock the deadbolt to his bedroom, then the handle. And then there's the distinct click of Tim locking the deadbolt behind him, leaving Zan to decide to stay, or go.

"It's the first time it's been out," Zan calls in protest. "Give me a little credit, Timothy. Not like I'm going to film everything. Not here, anyway. It's so…" Boring would suffice, but he lets it drop when the door closes. The front door he hits with a closed fist, venting though not hard enough to warrant notice, then drops his head against it with a sigh. After a long few moments, he returns to the couch to dig his pillow out from behind it, then lays down with the pillow covering his head.

For a long minute, there's no response from behind the locked door of Timothy's room. "And it's the last time," Timothy calls in response. And then music can be heard to be turned up, just loud enough that Timothy can get back to work.

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