Neal smiles at that, keeping his expression calm and even and not at all reactive to Malcolm's verbal stumbles. "That would be great. I haven't seen Rockefeller Center done up for Christmas in way too long."

He's about to say something else when the old woman from Bonnie's plugs the lights in. They're painfully bright, and Neal holds up an arm to try and shield his eyes, glad to see Malcolm is out of the immediate blast radius.

"Oh, sorry dear, I think maybe these aren't the kind I wanted."

A little chill walks its way down Neal's spine, goosebumps pebbling the back of his neck and his arms. It's like knowing you've been made during a high-stakes con. It's the only feeling he can think of that compares.

She unplugs the lights, muttering to herself as she goes back inside, but the feeling doesn't go away.