"I'm glad you're fine," Malcolm says sincerely. "But, um. Beings stuck in a different place is. Inconvenient," he adds wryly. He pauses. "You don't think there are secret tunnels under this place do you?"
Another softly amused little noise. "Given how well I tolerate boredom, it might be a great time."
The pacing amps up fractionally, but he catches himself and forces himself to stop. It works for about five seconds, if that, at the tone in Malcolm's voice. Neal can practically see the uncertainty on Malcolm's face and it's going to drive him insane that he can't be properly reassuring. "It's not weird."
A pause on his end, then, "I miss you too. I don't do well with being cooped up at the best of times, and this place doesn't really count as 'the best of times.'"
"Ah... psychologically claustrophobic," he says dryly. "Is that a thing? I know it's a thing, it's psychology--I mean it's less the physical space than the sense of being stuck."
He sits down on the bed. Stands up again. Tries not to growl in frustration at himself over the restlessness. He hesitates in answering, but Malcolm knows who he was, by now. Not the details, but the generalities. "Prison didn't agree with me."
It’s the lack of judgment that earns elaboration. Neal was fully prepared to crack a joke and change the subject.
“I got caught,” he says dryly. It still takes effort to say more. He’s getting better at it, fraction by fraction, but honesty has never come naturally. “…I gambled badly and lost, really. Got arrested by the FBI agent who’d been chasing me for the better part of four years. The judge decided to make things impressive and put me in supermax for the longest possible stretch with the only charge that stuck.”
“Bond forgery? That… pretty piddly for supermax.” Then he realizes how that sounds. “I mean. Compared to all the… murder and stuff… that people in those places usually… do. It’s. Like. Gentle.”
That startles a laugh out of Neal, a genuine and uncommon sound. He sits down on the edge of his bed again, plucking at the perfectly folded sheets for something to do with his free hand.
“They were mad they could only get bond forgery, honestly. That and my alleged ability as an escape artist qualified me, according to the judge, for the category of criminals who, ‘based on reliable evidence of an impending disruption,’ merit the additional security.”
“They can’t punish you for crimes you may or may not have committed at some point. Didn’t your lawyer challenge that? That they sentenced you based on allegations not proven in court?” Malcolm asks.
Neal rubs the corner of his eye, tone staying light and ironic. “Unfortunately for me, the bonds I decided to forge were issued by a bank that did a lot of federal business. I’m guessing that had something to do with it, too. They were supposed to be uncrackable. How could I not at least try?”
The lightness fades a little. “They got their pound of flesh and then some, though.”
“That’s… not a law,” Malcolm tells him. “The law mandates that the punishment fit the crime. You could have so gotten out of that. If I’d been there…” He trails off.
If you’d been in the New York of a renowned art thief? Martin questions from his usual seat in the corner of the room. Are you going with the assumption that, in a city of eight million people, a man like that would even notice you?”
Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut and clears his throat.
"I was at a new school. I just started going by 'Bright'. He, um. He found out who I really was and right before a long weekend he shoved me in a janitor's closet and locked me in," Malcolm tells him. "They didn't find me until everyone came back to school."
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A pause, then he adds, "And I'm fine."
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He paces a little, smiling at the question. "Not that I've been able to find, but that doesn't mean there aren't any."
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The pacing amps up fractionally, but he catches himself and forces himself to stop. It works for about five seconds, if that, at the tone in Malcolm's voice. Neal can practically see the uncertainty on Malcolm's face and it's going to drive him insane that he can't be properly reassuring. "It's not weird."
A pause on his end, then, "I miss you too. I don't do well with being cooped up at the best of times, and this place doesn't really count as 'the best of times.'"
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"Are you claustrophobic? Me too. Did something happen or have you always had that?" he asks.
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He sits down on the bed. Stands up again. Tries not to growl in frustration at himself over the restlessness. He hesitates in answering, but Malcolm knows who he was, by now. Not the details, but the generalities. "Prison didn't agree with me."
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“I got caught,” he says dryly. It still takes effort to say more. He’s getting better at it, fraction by fraction, but honesty has never come naturally. “…I gambled badly and lost, really. Got arrested by the FBI agent who’d been chasing me for the better part of four years. The judge decided to make things impressive and put me in supermax for the longest possible stretch with the only charge that stuck.”
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“They were mad they could only get bond forgery, honestly. That and my alleged ability as an escape artist qualified me, according to the judge, for the category of criminals who, ‘based on reliable evidence of an impending disruption,’ merit the additional security.”
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The lightness fades a little. “They got their pound of flesh and then some, though.”
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If you’d been in the New York of a renowned art thief? Martin questions from his usual seat in the corner of the room. Are you going with the assumption that, in a city of eight million people, a man like that would even notice you?”
Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut and clears his throat.
“Anyway, it’s not right.”
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Malcolm’s declaration about what he would have done, though, makes Neal feel warmer inside.
“I believe you.” There’s an unmistakable fondness in his tone. “For some reason I get the feeling you don’t tolerate injustice well.”
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“I suppose I don’t. Not to anyone, but… I like you more than… anyone,” he admits awkwardly.
Interesting technique you’ve refined of being both needy AND desperate.
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“For the sake of my ego, I’m going to internet that literally.” It’s teasing, though. A pause. “I wouldn’t…”
He dabs lightly at his lower lip with his tongue. Neal feels embarrassingly like a teenage boy with a first crush. “I like you the same way.”
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He smiles, breathing out a breath of relief he didn’t know he was holding.
“I didn’t think I was that lucky of a person.”
INTERNET THAT… signs I should have gone to bed rather than writing more tags
An awkward pause. He clears his throat. “What about you? Your claustrophobia?”
I KNEW WHAT YOU MEANT
"Oh. Um. A kid at school locked me in a closet," he says, like it was no big deal, then awkwardly adding "for three days."
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“He what?”
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It's clear from the tone in Neal's voice that he's not going to be surprised if the answer is 'no.'
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