“My mother’s a Milton,” Malcolm tells him. Neal is from New York. He pays attention to money. He knows what that means. “He really painted murals all over his house? That’s one way to get lead poisoning; no wonder he went crazy.”
Neal knows who the Miltons are. Holy fuck, does he know who they are. The fact that he does gives him a little squeeze of hope that maybe they’re from the same place. Malcolm doesn’t pay attention to the art scene, Neal has no interest in serial killers—it’s very possible they never came across mention of each other, and even if they had, would either of them taken real notice?
He’s recovering himself a little now, at least, even though the name drop means a seismic reorientation of how he categorizes Malcolm in his head. “The broken spirit and vocal political ideology making him a target of people in power probably didn’t help. That and the fact that his eyesight was failing.”
“You know… paintings are a lot more interesting when you talk about them. Maybe when you get tired of being Robin Hood you could teach art history or work in a gallery or something,” Malcolm notes.
Good save. That’s why you don’t know much about your own paintings: you needed a handsomer teacher.
He puts his hand over the phone again. “Shut up! Shut up!”
He puts the phone back to his ear, adding shakily, but trying to sound upbeat “You could even have a television show.”
"Nobody's here," he says quickly. Neal can't see the helpless expression on his face but there's probably a bit of it in his voice. "Nobody... I just..."
Well, that was nice while it lasted, wasn't it? Don't feel bad, son. He had to find out sooner or later. What's the old saying? You can't hide crazy or a cough?
He covers the phone with his hand. "You can't hide love or a cough. Stop! Why are you trying to ruin this?" he asks desperately.
Because you don't NEED it. It's a distraction. A complication. A frivolous side show...
"I do need it!"
He puts the phone back to his ear, the shake in his voice going completely unmasked this time.
Malcolm takes a breath. A deep one. In through the nose, out through the mouth, like Gabrielle showed him when he was eleven.
"There's nobody here. I just. Hear things sometimes," he admits glumly. "...See things sometimes," he concedes. "Sorry. For not..." He swallows. "I understand if this isn't what you signed up for."
"I'm... I'm not sure what I am ever qualifies as 'all right'. I'm." He's not sure he wants to tell Neal what he hears. If all is not yet lost, he's pretty sure it will be if he knows that. "The voice thinks I'm not really... um. The kind of person you'll be interested in if you get to know me better."
"You're not going to ruin this." There's no doubt in his tone. "Malcolm, think about what we've been through since we met. The things we've seen, or thought we saw."
The latter is very deliberately added.
"'Trial by fire' might be an ironic choice of words at the moment, but I'm pretty sure we've survived it."
"A little," Neal admits. "But not nearly as much as the things here freak me out. I'd rather have you, with or without hallucinations, than not have you at all. ...Let's do it, when the blizzard passes. Go to New York. It's not Christmas any more, maybe, but the city hasn't gone anywhere."
"Go to New York? Together?" He smiles again, but this one doesn't falter. He looks into the corner of the room. There's nobody there. "I'd like that. If my apartment is there, I can show you my paintings."
Neal blinks in surprise at that. "You think it might be? I did some digging when I first got here to see if anyone I knew was in the city and turned up nothing."
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He’s recovering himself a little now, at least, even though the name drop means a seismic reorientation of how he categorizes Malcolm in his head. “The broken spirit and vocal political ideology making him a target of people in power probably didn’t help. That and the fact that his eyesight was failing.”
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Good save. That’s why you don’t know much about your own paintings: you needed a handsomer teacher.
He puts his hand over the phone again. “Shut up! Shut up!”
He puts the phone back to his ear, adding shakily, but trying to sound upbeat “You could even have a television show.”
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But there’s something more concerning to address. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is someone there?”
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Well, that was nice while it lasted, wasn't it? Don't feel bad, son. He had to find out sooner or later. What's the old saying? You can't hide crazy or a cough?
He covers the phone with his hand. "You can't hide love or a cough. Stop! Why are you trying to ruin this?" he asks desperately.
Because you don't NEED it. It's a distraction. A complication. A frivolous side show...
"I do need it!"
He puts the phone back to his ear, the shake in his voice going completely unmasked this time.
"I. I might have to call you back."
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"There's nobody here. I just. Hear things sometimes," he admits glumly. "...See things sometimes," he concedes. "Sorry. For not..." He swallows. "I understand if this isn't what you signed up for."
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“Because of this place? Or before, too?”
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He's been quiet for too long.
"Okay." It's a little shaky, but he pitches his voice soft, reassuring. "All right. Are you all right? What are you hearing?"
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"But you're not... sick," he points out. "I don't want to ruin this," he says quietly.
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The latter is very deliberately added.
"'Trial by fire' might be an ironic choice of words at the moment, but I'm pretty sure we've survived it."
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"You're not freaked out?" he finally asks.
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"A little," Neal admits. "But not nearly as much as the things here freak me out. I'd rather have you, with or without hallucinations, than not have you at all. ...Let's do it, when the blizzard passes. Go to New York. It's not Christmas any more, maybe, but the city hasn't gone anywhere."
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As for the latter question—“That would assume we’d choose a place based on our salaries.”
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“How else would we do that?”