"New York? You want to go to New York?" He pauses awkwardly, then powers through. "I could go with you. Like. Make the trip with you not... go with you with you." He winces. "I mean. I'd like to go to New York, too, if they're okay with it. We could travel together." Unless Neal would prefer to just run far and fast right now.
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.
“Yeah,” Neal says quietly, tone unsettled. “Yeah they were.”
He shakes his head, flashing Malcolm a smile with its own wattage a little bit dimmed. “I’m fine. Just going to be seeing spots for a week.”
God, does Malcolm not feel that? Neal closes his eyes—or rather they flicker closed for an abnormal half-second—-as he gathers himself and tries to refit his comfortably friendly mask.
He can’t keep himself from glancing over his shoulder to make sure nothing is there, though. He laughs faintly, trying to make it a joke. “I swear, an automatic door could open around me lately and I’d get tense.”
He goes up to tell the woman that he’s heading out and she orders him to come back tomorrow at the same time, when she’s had a chance to get proper Christmas lights. He agrees, polite and faking amusement.
When he hits the sidewalk again, he gestures forward, inviting Malcolm to walk with him. “Should we try somewhere new or go to the usual?”
"The, um. Usual. Usual. It's on the way back to ADI, which is probably why it's so usual, right?" He sticks his hands in his pockets. "They use real chocolate. In the drinks." He looks at Neal and then ahead. "I like that."
Neal feels a little flutter of affection that’s promptly overshadowed by whatever is following them. Following him, since Malcolm doesn’t seem to have noticed it.
He stops for a moment to look back, then keeps walking, trying to pick up the thread of the conversation again. “One of their baristas was talking about going to an actual workshop on latte art. They take their coffee seriously.”
He’s distracted though. He knows he sounds distracted, too. Why does he think he should be allowed anywhere near someone like Malcolm? At least with Meredith, there’s the underlying threat. With Kugrash there’s a sense of shared grudging fondness. How can Malcolm look at Neal that way? He wouldn’t, not if he knew half the person Neal really is.
Neal shakes his head. Doesn’t answer at once. Stares hard down the street behind them while instinct screams that some of those shadows are too dark to be empty.
Except whatever is watching him, strangling him with truth, feels like it’s behind him again. He looks sharply in the other direction, sees nothing, and tries to keep his breathing even. Trauma, he thinks giddily. But it’s not only the terror of being physically hurt again. It’s the fact that whatever is out there knows him, knows the heart of him, and it knows he’s not good enough.
Something is going to tell Malcolm if Neal doesn’t do it himself. Something, someone. It’ll explain to this good man exactly the kind of person Neal has been hiding. The pressure of that thought, the absolute certainty of it, makes it a little hard to breathe.
Neal closes his eyes, reaching up to run a hand through his hair, oblivious now to the little peek of color under his cuff that gives away the fact that he’s wearing Malcolm’s bracelet.
“I destroyed evidence,” he whispers. “I had access to one of the FBI’s storage rooms for cases pending review and I destroyed evidence so a forger, a killer, could get out of prison. I did it so a federal prosecutor he had in his pocket would authenticate a false confession recording to stop a murder indictment.”
Neal closes his eyes, talking even though he wants to stop, talking even though everything in him screams to shut up. Talking, because whatever is out there, watching, doesn’t think what he’s said is enough.
“He didn’t do it. But there was no way he’d be found innocent. It was his gun. His prints were on it. He had gunshot residue on his hands and was found standing over the body. So I got a friend’s help to fake a recorded confession from my father.”
Neal can’t look Malcolm in the face. He keeps his eyes shut. “My dad. We were trying to clear his name when he shot a senator. It turned out there wasn’t anything to clear.”
“So… you were trying to clear an innocent man by framing the real killer?” Malcolm clarifies. He pauses, considering what he’s seen on Neal’s face. “Why are you ashamed of that?”
“I stole to do it,” he mumbles. “I stole to get Hagen to buy the prosecutor, and he recorded me making the theft. I had to either keep doing what he wanted or the fact that Peter was cleared on false evidence would come out. He’d lose everything. I stole, I lied, and I got a man killed, and I would do it all again.”
No. No, no, no. He grits his teeth a moment, trying to hold the answer in, but it’s like he can’t actually stop himself now that he’s started.
“My handler,” Neal says, quieter than ever. Like maybe if he makes things harder to hear Malcom won’t know what he’s saying. “He saw me meet with Hagen, and he died for it.”
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"New York? You want to go to New York?" He pauses awkwardly, then powers through. "I could go with you. Like. Make the trip with you not... go with you with you." He winces. "I mean. I'd like to go to New York, too, if they're okay with it. We could travel together." Unless Neal would prefer to just run far and fast right now.
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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.
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He shakes his head, flashing Malcolm a smile with its own wattage a little bit dimmed. “I’m fine. Just going to be seeing spots for a week.”
God, does Malcolm not feel that? Neal closes his eyes—or rather they flicker closed for an abnormal half-second—-as he gathers himself and tries to refit his comfortably friendly mask.
He can’t keep himself from glancing over his shoulder to make sure nothing is there, though. He laughs faintly, trying to make it a joke. “I swear, an automatic door could open around me lately and I’d get tense.”
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He goes up to tell the woman that he’s heading out and she orders him to come back tomorrow at the same time, when she’s had a chance to get proper Christmas lights. He agrees, polite and faking amusement.
When he hits the sidewalk again, he gestures forward, inviting Malcolm to walk with him. “Should we try somewhere new or go to the usual?”
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He stops for a moment to look back, then keeps walking, trying to pick up the thread of the conversation again. “One of their baristas was talking about going to an actual workshop on latte art. They take their coffee seriously.”
He’s distracted though. He knows he sounds distracted, too. Why does he think he should be allowed anywhere near someone like Malcolm? At least with Meredith, there’s the underlying threat. With Kugrash there’s a sense of shared grudging fondness. How can Malcolm look at Neal that way? He wouldn’t, not if he knew half the person Neal really is.
He pauses again to glance back.
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He looks at Neal.
“What’s going on? What’s back there?”
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Except whatever is watching him, strangling him with truth, feels like it’s behind him again. He looks sharply in the other direction, sees nothing, and tries to keep his breathing even. Trauma, he thinks giddily. But it’s not only the terror of being physically hurt again. It’s the fact that whatever is out there knows him, knows the heart of him, and it knows he’s not good enough.
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“Tell me,” he says softly. “Let me help.”
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“I’m not half the person you seem to think I am,” he says, and he’s not sure where the statement came from. But he knows it’s true.
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Neal closes his eyes, reaching up to run a hand through his hair, oblivious now to the little peek of color under his cuff that gives away the fact that he’s wearing Malcolm’s bracelet.
“I destroyed evidence,” he whispers. “I had access to one of the FBI’s storage rooms for cases pending review and I destroyed evidence so a forger, a killer, could get out of prison. I did it so a federal prosecutor he had in his pocket would authenticate a false confession recording to stop a murder indictment.”
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“A murder indictment? Why… why would you want to get a murder indictment thrown out?”
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“He didn’t do it. But there was no way he’d be found innocent. It was his gun. His prints were on it. He had gunshot residue on his hands and was found standing over the body. So I got a friend’s help to fake a recorded confession from my father.”
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“My handler,” Neal says, quieter than ever. Like maybe if he makes things harder to hear Malcom won’t know what he’s saying. “He saw me meet with Hagen, and he died for it.”
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"I might as well have!"
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“Why, did you order someone to kill him?”
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