“But he could,” Neal whispers, closing his eyes for a moment to focus on the touch before he opens them again in paranoia over the darkness. “I wouldn’t be surprised at all.”
Neal shivers lightly. He nests his face against Malcolm’s neck, trying to let that feel true, but it’s harder in the dark with Malcolm fresh from a nightmare. “You’re right.”
He says it again, like that will make it more real. “You’re right.”
Deep breath.
He shifts to kiss Malcolm. “I think a little light bending might do me some good.”
Malcolm smiles, then kisses him, once and then again, before untangling from Neal and the blankets and opening the curtains to the pre-dawn view of the mountains.
“Come on,” he beckons, waving Neal over to the floor between the bed and windows. He pushes an armchair out of the way.
Neal eases into that position, wincing a little as his back twinges, trying to ignore the way the stretch tugs at the leathery patches of scarring around his torso. Pretending to ignore it.
He closes his eyes and makes an affirmative noise. “Meditating does that a little. Sometimes. You showed me that, too.”
He hasn’t done much of it since Mathias. Almost any, except by near-accident.
Now he feels stupid. “I guess it’s not really. Meditation, exactly.”
He shifts back to his hands and knees rather than imitating Malcolm’s pose, watching the other man with a little twist of anxiety knotting into his gut. “I’ll just… focus, or lose focus, and it’s like I’m watching someone else use my body. It’s peaceful.”
"Neal... meditation is an intentional act. It's literally an act of intention," he explains gently. "What you're describing is a psychological defence mechanism known as dissociation. It's a way your brain protects you from trauma by separating your... consciousness from your emotions."
"When we go back to the city," Neal mumbles quietly. "I'll do it. Talk to her, I mean."
He shifts around to sit on the floor, cross-legged, watching Malcolm with a worry he can't explain but also can't shake. That sense that something is wrong, or is about to go wrong. "The last time..."
He doesn't have to think that hard about it. "When I went to see... someone I hadn't seen in a long time. To get that painting, the one that Kramer was after, right before the commutation hearing. When he caught me with it, before you and Sarah and Peter showed up. A little bit after."
Neal hesitates. Not because he doesn't trust Malcolm--he trusts him totally, without reservation. He just isn't sure about what might happen if he really tries to think about that empty, floating place outside of himself.
"Kramer put the cuffs on me," Neal says softly, rubbing one wrist with his opposite hand. "I remember looking at him and thinking 'this is it,' and the world kind of... going bright, almost. Bright and quiet. You and Sarah came off the elevator with the head of her company, and Peter got there right after you, and..."
He frowns. "I don't remember it all, actually. Thinking about it now. I remember... you and Sarah telling Kramer that Sterling Bosch had hired me to authenticate the painting he said was stolen. Peter telling him that if the painting belonged to Sterling Bosch and if they'd hired me to authenticate it, he had no grounds to arrest me."
Neal rubs his wrist again, almost neurotically. "I don't think it really registered, what you all were doing. I was..."
His voice drifts off, his own focus sliding away from Malcolm as he remembers standing in the lobby, staring off into a corner of the building at the shadows gathering into a shape that had no face but he could feel it smiling anyway.
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He says it again, like that will make it more real. “You’re right.”
Deep breath.
He shifts to kiss Malcolm. “I think a little light bending might do me some good.”
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“Come on,” he beckons, waving Neal over to the floor between the bed and windows. He pushes an armchair out of the way.
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“I was never actually much of a yoga guy. Before Mathias.”
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He should probably be able to guess the answer, but he really doesn't see himself as any kind of an influence.
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He bends over to kiss Malcolm’s cheek before mimicking him with only a little less grace.
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“…You were. Relaxing. Doing it with you. So I guess I must have.”
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"It does help me keep my head clear," Malcolm says. He looks over. "It helps me calm the... buzz."
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He closes his eyes and makes an affirmative noise. “Meditating does that a little. Sometimes. You showed me that, too.”
He hasn’t done much of it since Mathias. Almost any, except by near-accident.
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“I… haven’t really, since waking up here. Not on purpose.”
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"How... how do you meditate by accident?" he asks curiously.
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He shifts back to his hands and knees rather than imitating Malcolm’s pose, watching the other man with a little twist of anxiety knotting into his gut. “I’ll just… focus, or lose focus, and it’s like I’m watching someone else use my body. It’s peaceful.”
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"Neal... meditation is an intentional act. It's literally an act of intention," he explains gently. "What you're describing is a psychological defence mechanism known as dissociation. It's a way your brain protects you from trauma by separating your... consciousness from your emotions."
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“I don’t do that,” he says, a soft protest. “I know what you’re talking about. I…”
Does he? Is that what that is?
He sits up as well, fighting something that feels like shame.
“…I should really talk to your therapist, huh,” he says, trying to make it sound like a joke.
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“You can. But if you’re not ready, you can start by talking to me,” he points out. “When’s the last time that happened?”
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He shifts around to sit on the floor, cross-legged, watching Malcolm with a worry he can't explain but also can't shake. That sense that something is wrong, or is about to go wrong. "The last time..."
He doesn't have to think that hard about it. "When I went to see... someone I hadn't seen in a long time. To get that painting, the one that Kramer was after, right before the commutation hearing. When he caught me with it, before you and Sarah and Peter showed up. A little bit after."
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"Kramer put the cuffs on me," Neal says softly, rubbing one wrist with his opposite hand. "I remember looking at him and thinking 'this is it,' and the world kind of... going bright, almost. Bright and quiet. You and Sarah came off the elevator with the head of her company, and Peter got there right after you, and..."
He frowns. "I don't remember it all, actually. Thinking about it now. I remember... you and Sarah telling Kramer that Sterling Bosch had hired me to authenticate the painting he said was stolen. Peter telling him that if the painting belonged to Sterling Bosch and if they'd hired me to authenticate it, he had no grounds to arrest me."
Neal rubs his wrist again, almost neurotically. "I don't think it really registered, what you all were doing. I was..."
His voice drifts off, his own focus sliding away from Malcolm as he remembers standing in the lobby, staring off into a corner of the building at the shadows gathering into a shape that had no face but he could feel it smiling anyway.
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