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."
"That hasn't stopped me," he says, trying to stay frustrated, because frustration is better than the other things he could feel. "You remember when I told you about Rebecca? I met her casing a museum where she worked. I lifted her ID so I could get through a snag in security. She got fired. That was me."
Never mind what happened after. Those things are still true.
“You can only control what you do, not what other people do. Probably, being a professional confidence man, you feel like you can control what other people do, but… you can’t. If you want to prove you’re evil, you have to show me evil that you’ve done. And bear in mind I hold evil to a pretty high standard of monstrousness.”
Malcolm smiles down at his coffee, then looks at Neal with a softness in his eyes.
“When your dad murdered at least twenty-three people, it does put evil on a pretty steep bell curve. And there’s no room in it for the secret white knight of the service industry.”
He wants to feel better. He wants Malcolm's good opinion to tip the scales toward a better mental space. But for some reason instead of being happy that Malcolm sees him that way, all Neal can do is be revolted by himself for being well-thought-of when the opposite is true.
"I think I'd hit him," Neal says, apropos of nothing. More to change the topic than anything else. "Your dad. If I ever met him. Well, maybe I'd put your dad in a cage with my dad and then punch whoever came out of it. Odds on yours."
“Mine is very experienced at murder. An actual professional assassin got in his cell once to kill him. My father - in cuffs and a tether - put him on the floor and then gouged his eyes out with his bare hands.”
Which was both a relief and an absolute horror to witness.
“I got there just in time to see it through the door.”
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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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Never mind what happened after. Those things are still true.
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“You can only control what you do, not what other people do. Probably, being a professional confidence man, you feel like you can control what other people do, but… you can’t. If you want to prove you’re evil, you have to show me evil that you’ve done. And bear in mind I hold evil to a pretty high standard of monstrousness.”
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He looks down again. "Maybe it's a skewed standard."
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“When your dad murdered at least twenty-three people, it does put evil on a pretty steep bell curve. And there’s no room in it for the secret white knight of the service industry.”
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"I think I'd hit him," Neal says, apropos of nothing. More to change the topic than anything else. "Your dad. If I ever met him. Well, maybe I'd put your dad in a cage with my dad and then punch whoever came out of it. Odds on yours."
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“Mine is very experienced at murder. An actual professional assassin got in his cell once to kill him. My father - in cuffs and a tether - put him on the floor and then gouged his eyes out with his bare hands.”
Which was both a relief and an absolute horror to witness.
“I got there just in time to see it through the door.”
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Well. "Actually, I can, I just wish I couldn't."
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