"Neal... you didn't owe her obedience. You know that, right? A partnership..." He looks down at their hands, then at his face with a wry smile. "I know you know how a partnership works. Did that feel like one?"
Neal meets Malcolm's eyes, the worry that's so common in him now showing. "I wanted... her to be happy, to have a chance to be happy. I wanted to be something that made her happy."
"If she didn't feel happy to make you happy... where does that leave you?" Malcolm asks. He leans forward. "Neal, I want you to have your own needs, too. You understand that, right?"
"That's normal," Malcolm tells him. "Especially after trauma. But we'll figure it out. I just want you to... be open to it. To how you feel. You'll figure out what you want. And, until then, enjoy the freedom you earned."
He lifts Malcolm's hand to kiss the back of it, then run his thumb over Malcolm's knuckles again. "Can I just enjoy getting to go places with you right now?"
"Yes," Malcolm tells him with a smile. He threads his fingers through the hair at Neal's temple. "You know... we finished my case. What if we went somewhere... away?" he proposes carefully.
Somewhere away. Neal meets Malcolm's eyes uncertainly. God, he wants to. He desperately wants to.
Malcolm hasn't mocked anything he's felt, hasn't told him he's being silly, hasn't told him he's overthinking. It's still hard to admit what he does.
"I feel like if I do then I'll break something. Something about this. Or like I'll wake up, or... I'm not sure. I do. I want to. But thinking about it."
The expression on his face says it clearly enough: it ties his stomach in knots.
“You got it,” Malcolm tells him, giving him a gentle kiss.
By evening, he’s done his research and the next afternoon they’re in a private car driving north. When it pulls up to the front doors of the historical resort in the Catsgills, Malcolm looks up at the almost fairy tale castle of a Victorian building, then looks at Neal’s face.
Neal is thunderstruck. As the building comes into view, he’s weirdly sure they’re in the wrong place, and then they climb out and it’s still the same place and it’s beautiful. He hasn’t been anywhere this nice other than June’s in… he’s not sure. He has no idea.
“It was built in 1869,” Malcolm tells him, leading the way in. “Actual Victorian architecture, not a replica.” He checks them in, then looks at Neal. “I hope this room is as good as it looked on the website.” He puts the key in Neal’s hand. He knows he can find the way. He’ll let him lead. Malcolm knows what to expect. He wants to see Neal’s face when he opens the door.
Neal takes Malcolm’s hand lightly, leading him through the place with a delighted kind of reverence. Pointing out paintings, architecture trends, furnishings, what’s a recreation and what’s period-original.
He slips the key into their door and opens it up, his normal fatigue and anxiety subsumed for the moment by eagerness.
Neal exhales in quiet wonder at the room, at the views. That’s when it really clicks that he’s not in New York City. He’s well outside of it, well outside, with Malcolm, and no one coming to take him back to a cell.
He looks at Malcolm, wide-eyed with a dozen different emotions. “This is amazing.”
The art and architecture nerdery was exactly what Malcolm was hoping for when he chose the resort. Neal’s real spirit stirred. Something he could enjoy not just in its disconnection from the things that caused him pain, but in all the little details connected to things he loves.
“You like it? The master bedroom is upstairs,” Malcolm tells him, gesturing to the spiral staircase. “It’s supposed to have an even better view.”
“I love it.” He hangs on to Malcolm’s hand, heading for the staircase like a kid being told Santa just finished with the tree. He at the top of the stairs he stops again, eyes lit up as he takes in the panorama outside their windows.
“I never thought I’d see something like this again,” he realizes. It’s strange, that somewhere along the way he stopped believing he’d get to see all the beautiful things outside of New York City. He looks at Malcolm, delighted, dumbstruck, and pulls him in for a kiss.
Malcolm returns the kiss and adds one more before gesturing around.
“All the mountains in the world are your oyster,” he promises. “All the Victorian architecture and oil paintings and continental breakfasts on the balcony.”
He gives Malcolm a look of little-kid delight, drawing him over to the balcony doors. For a moment he doesn’t want to try opening it. It could break some spell, wake him up, something.
Neal tentatively pushes down on the latch, easing them out into the open air, the crystal clarity of the mountains. No scents of garbage or urine and for a moment Neal feels dizzy with the unfamiliarity of it. “We’re really here.”
Malcolm grins up at him. “Doesn’t get more real than this,” he promises, running his hands up Neal’s chest, across his shoulders and down his arms. “I splurged on the red wine and cheese welcome platter. I think they left it on the bar downstairs. Want me to bring it up here?”
Malcolm tries to recall, scrunching up his face in uncertainty. "...It's supposed to be a pinot?" he offers. He laughs. "I'll just get it," he says, giving Neal a quick kiss and disappearing down the stairs, returning with a platter, a bottle and the stems of two glasses between his fingers. He holds the bottle out to Neal. "Is it good? They said they have a sommalier on staff that pairs these things. It's supposed to be good." He wags a glass at Neal. "I told them my boyfriend would know if it wasn't."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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"I would have been happy to make her happy."
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"I don't know what I need," he admits quietly. "I don't know what I want. I wanted to be free, and now I am, and I don't know what happens next."
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Malcolm hasn't mocked anything he's felt, hasn't told him he's being silly, hasn't told him he's overthinking. It's still hard to admit what he does.
"I feel like if I do then I'll break something. Something about this. Or like I'll wake up, or... I'm not sure. I do. I want to. But thinking about it."
The expression on his face says it clearly enough: it ties his stomach in knots.
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Neal lifts Malcolm's hand and presses Malcolm's knuckles against his forehead. "You pick it. I want to go somewhere you'll like."
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"Okay, I'll do that. But you have to tell me one feature that you want it to have," he bargains.
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By evening, he’s done his research and the next afternoon they’re in a private car driving north. When it pulls up to the front doors of the historical resort in the Catsgills, Malcolm looks up at the almost fairy tale castle of a Victorian building, then looks at Neal’s face.
“What do you think?”
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“This is spectacular.”
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He slips the key into their door and opens it up, his normal fatigue and anxiety subsumed for the moment by eagerness.
Neal exhales in quiet wonder at the room, at the views. That’s when it really clicks that he’s not in New York City. He’s well outside of it, well outside, with Malcolm, and no one coming to take him back to a cell.
He looks at Malcolm, wide-eyed with a dozen different emotions. “This is amazing.”
All of it.
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“You like it? The master bedroom is upstairs,” Malcolm tells him, gesturing to the spiral staircase. “It’s supposed to have an even better view.”
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“I never thought I’d see something like this again,” he realizes. It’s strange, that somewhere along the way he stopped believing he’d get to see all the beautiful things outside of New York City. He looks at Malcolm, delighted, dumbstruck, and pulls him in for a kiss.
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“All the mountains in the world are your oyster,” he promises. “All the Victorian architecture and oil paintings and continental breakfasts on the balcony.”
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Neal tentatively pushes down on the latch, easing them out into the open air, the crystal clarity of the mountains. No scents of garbage or urine and for a moment Neal feels dizzy with the unfamiliarity of it. “We’re really here.”
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