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.”
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.
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."
"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.
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."
"I knew my actions put people at risk," he counters. Rubs the corner of his eye with his fingertips. The protest on his side is tired. Just tired. This isn't an argument he needs to have, or one that's going to change his mind. He knows what happened and he knows why.
"I truly don't believe that you'd do anything knowing someone would get killed because of it, but you seem pretty adamant, so..." Malcolm shrugs. "Okay." He takes a sip of mocha.
Survivor's guilt is hard to shake and Neal can believe what he believes, but if he thinks Malcolm is going to decide it makes him a bad person, he's got another thing coming.
The look Neal gives him is... confused. Incredulous.
He wants to say you don't understand again. He wants to say it until Malcolm does. He wants to shake the other man, or hit him, or do something that will really, finally get him to walk away.
"Why do you like me?" It's not a try for compliments. It's a genuine, frustrated question.
"The first day I saw you, you stole a trinket from a woman who was rude to the barista. That didn't involve you. It wasn't your responsibility. But you care about people. For real. That wasn't a show; you didn't even want anyone to see it."
"I'm not," he insists. "I never was. I stole things because I liked to. I fixed gambling tables, acquired pieces for private collectors when the owner wouldn't sell."
Maybe not often, but every once in a while, when he needed some extra money. "It's fun. Working alone or with a crew, living on that side of the line, coming and going in peoples' lives and never holding a vanishing act against anyone--that's what I'm from. That's who I am. I'm not Robin Hood."
Neal rests both elbows on the table and drags his hands back through his hair. He doesn't have energy left to contradict Malcolm any more. He doesn't have the energy to try and fight off the self-disgust laying over him like humidity.
"You said stealing is fun. You like doing it. But... would it be fun to steal the last piece of valuable jewelry an eighty year old woman owns, that she inherited from her mother, from her subsidized housing that she can barely afford to heat while she's helping out at the food bank?" Malcolm asks.
Neal's frustration spikes again. "It's a challenge. It's something to be proud of. Stealing one, or forging one good enough to trick spectrometers--it's a skill."
He forces himself to rein it in. "And stealing a painting that means something, a something of real importance... it's like touching the past. Leaving a little impression on a thing that's going to be around a long time after you're gone, being even an unknown part of its history. It's the only kind of immortality or afterlife I need."
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“I’m glad,” he says. “Glad that I gave it to you. Glad that it helps.”
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"Mocha? Pretty sure I owe you this one."
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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."
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"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."
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Survivor's guilt is hard to shake and Neal can believe what he believes, but if he thinks Malcolm is going to decide it makes him a bad person, he's got another thing coming.
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He wants to say you don't understand again. He wants to say it until Malcolm does. He wants to shake the other man, or hit him, or do something that will really, finally get him to walk away.
"Why do you like me?" It's not a try for compliments. It's a genuine, frustrated question.
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"The first day I saw you, you stole a trinket from a woman who was rude to the barista. That didn't involve you. It wasn't your responsibility. But you care about people. For real. That wasn't a show; you didn't even want anyone to see it."
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He looks down again.
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“That wasn’t the only time.” He smiles into his own cup. “Gil asked me what you do, once. I told him you’re Robin Hood.”
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Maybe not often, but every once in a while, when he needed some extra money. "It's fun. Working alone or with a crew, living on that side of the line, coming and going in peoples' lives and never holding a vanishing act against anyone--that's what I'm from. That's who I am. I'm not Robin Hood."
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“Who did you steal from?”
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"Why?"
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"Of course not."
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He forces himself to rein it in. "And stealing a painting that means something, a something of real importance... it's like touching the past. Leaving a little impression on a thing that's going to be around a long time after you're gone, being even an unknown part of its history. It's the only kind of immortality or afterlife I need."
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