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.”
“You know, I don’t sleep, really,” he says too casually. “So if you want to just… hang out or… “ His voice trails off. Does he sound like he’s hitting on him when he’s down? “I mean. If you’re feeling like you want someone to hang out with and talk to, I’m almost always free. No real. Social… commitments to speak of. Or. Anything.”
"A couple of people," he admits with a shy smile. "But whether I believe them depends on my mood." He expects Neal can relate today. He takes a sip of his drink. "We could do something to distract you. I'm good at squash and axe throwing, bad at pool and bowling. But willing to do any of the above."
"Pool?" He actually perks up a little at that. A distraction, any distraction sounds good right now. "I'm decent at squash, but--is there even an axe-throwing place in Gloucester?"
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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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Malcolm watches his face a moment with open concern.
“Are you okay?”
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"Yeah. I will be." He manages a smile, though he lets it be as fragile as it feels. Something that begs not to be pushed. "Thanks."
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Sees him.
“You know, I don’t sleep, really,” he says too casually. “So if you want to just… hang out or… “ His voice trails off. Does he sound like he’s hitting on him when he’s down? “I mean. If you’re feeling like you want someone to hang out with and talk to, I’m almost always free. No real. Social… commitments to speak of. Or. Anything.”
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