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[conning]

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[conning]

He finally opens his eyes, face and voice almost desperate as he looks at Malcolm.

"I might as well have!"

[abrightboy]

Malcolm stays calm in the face of Neal’s assertion.

“Why, did you order someone to kill him?”

[conning]

"You don't understand," Neal insists, the pressure of that invisible judge getting him to bow his head. He digs his hands into his hair, the cuffs of his shirt pulled back a little more obviously this time. "You don't get it. I knew who killed him. I knew why. I didn't say anything, I just stood there knowing while the FBI tried to figure it out around me."

He closes his eyes again. "My consultation work wasn't voluntary. It wasn't even paid. It was part of a conditional release. I didn't quit, I ran. I haven't been back to New York because I can't go back."

[abrightboy]

“You were caught, doing some sort of thieving and you cut a d…” His analytical voice trails off and he tilts his head as Neal’s wrist catches his eye.

“You kept it.”

[conning]

Neal drops his hands to his sides, looking at Malcolm in near-panicked confusion. Whatever is there is still watching him. It's still judging him, still silently demanding that he get Malcolm to understand the kind of person he is.

"What?"

[abrightboy]

"Your friendship bracelet," Malcolm says, gesturing to his hand. "You kept it."

[conning]

Neal lifts his wrist enough to get a better look at it, as though he doesn't know what's there. How can Malcolm care about that right now?

"Malcolm, you're not listening to me."

[abrightboy]

"What? No, I heard you. You stole something and you went to prison and the FBI got you out to work for them and then someone blackmailed you and killed your handler. Sounds like a bad guy. I hope they put him away. Though it sounds like not, since you said you had to flee the country," Malcolm surmises with a shrug.

[conning]

"He's dead," Neal says numbly. "Rebecca killed him."

He's so confused. Chest tight, head full of static. He turns suddenly to face the empty street again, yelling at it in a pitch that makes his voice crack. "What else do you want?"

[abrightboy]

Malcolm tilts his head as he watches Neal, then looks down the street. Then he looks at Neal again.

"What do you see there?" he asks curiously.

[conning]

"Nothing," Neal says. He wishes he did. "I don't see anything."

[abrightboy]

"So... who are you yelling at?" he asks, still only logical and curious.

[conning]

"I don't know," he whispers. "There's something there. It's... There's something there."

[abrightboy]

Malcolm gestures ahead, towards the coffee shop.

“Do you think it will help to go inside?”

[conning]

“I don’t know,” Neal repeats, then shakes his head, trying to pull himself together. He gives Malcolm a helpless look.

[abrightboy]

“Just… stay with me,” Malcolm says, steering his elbow just enough to get them walking again. “It’ll pass. Mine always do.” He looks up at him sidelong. “You didn’t have to keep it. I mean. If you think it’s dumb. I know I was a little… over the top that day.”

[conning]

Neal resists for a breath before he lets himself be led. He can't think. The judgement, the scorn, it's like there's something breathing disgust against the back of his neck.

He covers the bracelet with his opposite hand.

"I know I didn't have to," he says, clearing his throat. Trying not to look behind them again. Instead he holds his wrist up a little, looking at the bracelet. It's a silly thing, given when Malcolm wasn't himself, but that makes Neal more inclined to keep it for some reason, not less.

The embarrassing truth of it is, "It reminds me that not everything that happens here is bad."

[abrightboy]

Malcolm wasn’t ‘not himself’ when he made those and handed them out. He was almost too much himself, without weights on him, without restraint. He was dying to connect with other people and he failed a lot at it and it made him hesitate to try, but that day he could tell them.

“I’m glad,” he says. “Glad that I gave it to you. Glad that it helps.”

[conning]

Neal half-smiles, holding the door for Malcolm as they go into the coffee shop, trying to relax into the quiet noise of the place. It's hard. There's a lingering sense of something watching, but Neal tries to tell himself that it's just the normal eyes turned toward newcomers.

"Mocha? Pretty sure I owe you this one."

[abrightboy]

"That's right," he says, then pauses awkwardly and clarifies "the drink order; not that you owe me anything."

[conning]

Neal smiles a little at that. Glances outside one more time before forcing himself to go up and order. He stays quiet until they have their drinks and a table, still deeply unsettled and telling himself there's no reason to be. Whatever it was, whatever is out there, the feeling is starting to fade.

At least he's telling himself it is. He's got his attention fixed on his black coffee in its mug when he speaks.

"I got them killed, Malcolm. I don't think you understood what I was saying out there. The agent, Siegel, and Hagen... They both died because of me."

[abrightboy]

"I understand all the ins and outs of murder. Did you know their deaths would be the result of your actions when you took those actions?" Malcolm asks him, wrapping his hands around his cup.

[conning]

"Don't," Neal says, voice quiet but tone fierce. "This isn't about technicalities."

[abrightboy]

"No, it's about survivor's guilt, which is what you have; not culpability. I know a lot about that, too," Malcolm replies quietly.

[conning]

He can still feel it, that quiet pressure at the back of his mind, the judgment, the disgust. Is it really something else? Or is it just him? He rubs his face with one hand, drags it back through his hair.

"Culpability," he says under his breath.

He studies Malcolm's face. "It's not the same. You never had a choice in who your father was. You aren't responsible for what he did."