"Yeah?" He's disoriented enough to be unsure what he said wrong. If he did say something wrong. Neal takes Malcolm’s wrist lightly in on hand, rubbing his thumb against the inside curve of the other man’s skin. “You… I got hurt in front of you and you couldn’t tell if you were awake. Are you okay?”
“I’m still not sure I’m awake,” Malcolm admits in a subdued tone. “But I have to assume I am. If I’m not and I act like I am, it’s fine. If I am and I act like I’m not… it’s bad. Are you sure you don’t want stitches?” he confirms.
“They’re not so deep that you have to have them, but they’ll scar less if you do,” Malcolm tells him. “Up to you,” he adds. “They don’t make you less attractive.”
Neal grimaces a little, then nods. He’s willing to do it even if he doesn’t want to leave the house. He stays almost comically still as Malcolm tapes up the injuries, then writes a note left-handed for Ellen to explain where they’ve gone if she wakes up. His left-handed writing is just as elegant as his right.
They’re at the door before Neal realizes something. He lifts a hand to Malcolm’s cheek. “You don’t have to come if you’re worried they’ll think you did it. You didn’t.”
Neal shakes his head. "You're not. You wouldn't be."
He would like Malcolm there. He's unsettled, and the more time he has to think about it on his own the more unsettled he's going to get, but he's also not going to ask Malcolm to go to a hospital when he has so many of his own issues with them. What is balancing one's own emotional needs with those of another person??
Neal follows him, pulling on a button-up and slacks and leaving it at that. It hurts to move his shoulder too much, and he's getting paranoid. "Okay. All right. I just thought..."
He pinches the bridge of his nose. "I don't know what I thought. I don't know what I'm thinking."
“We don’t know what’s happening,” Malcolm says, pulling on a sweater and jeans, “and there’s no one to ask. I can’t abandon you because they might hurt my feelings.”
The cab ride over to the emergency room, he keeps thinking he sees things keeping pace with the vehicle. Shadows that are a little darker than their surroundings. But every time he looks, there's nothing there. It's hard to get out of the car when they pull up to the curb, even though he doesn't think there's anything present. He doesn't want to get ambushed. Get tricked. He hangs on to Malcolm's hand for dear life as they head inside.
The nurse looks at them in surprise and concern, takes in the way they're dressed--well--and then turns her attention to Neal. "Where are the injuries?"
He turns to show the faint start of a scarlet line on his shoulder, staining white of his button up. Not the best choice of wear, probably, but hopefully some peroxide and bleach will sort it out. The nurse notices the bulk of the bandage underneath and gets up, leading them back to a waiting area behind a curtain. "A resident will be with you shortly."
As soon as she’s gone, Neal murmurs to Malcolm, “Did you see anything on the way here? Any… shadows, or. Anything?”
“…What do you mean?” Of course there were shadows. It’s dark out. There are street lights and lights in buildings and car headlights. There are a million things in New York to cast a shadow.
He leans forward to kiss Malcolm, resting their foreheads together. “Yeah. Perfect. Thank you.”
The resident pushes the curtain back, a no-nonsense young woman with large glasses and a slight smile when she sees the two of them being close. It gentles a little as she looks Neal over. “The nurse said you were attacked? Have you spoken to the police?”
“And tell them what?” Malcolm huffs like the affluent New Yorker he sort of is. “It was like a shadow jumped out of the alley, attacked and melted back into the dark.”
She shrugs, accepting the statement. “I have to report it, so they’ll probably call you later. So you’re aware.”
Neal rubs his eyes. “That’s fine.”
“Show me the injuries?”
Neal undresses gingerly, and the doctor peels back the bandage on his chest first, eyes widening a little when she sees the cut. Recent as it is, it already looks infected.
“When did you say this happened?”
Neal isn’t looking at the cut. He’s looking anywhere else. “Less than an hour ago.”
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Mathias notwithstanding, he doesn’t have a lot of personal experiences with significant physical injuries.
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“Stitches,” Neal says. A pause. “Please.”
Malcolm might not think they make him less attractive, but Neal has his twitches.
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They’re at the door before Neal realizes something. He lifts a hand to Malcolm’s cheek. “You don’t have to come if you’re worried they’ll think you did it. You didn’t.”
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“I can’t leave you there,” he protests.
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He would like Malcolm there. He's unsettled, and the more time he has to think about it on his own the more unsettled he's going to get, but he's also not going to ask Malcolm to go to a hospital when he has so many of his own issues with them. What is balancing one's own emotional needs with those of another person??
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He pinches the bridge of his nose. "I don't know what I thought. I don't know what I'm thinking."
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"Thank you," he says softly. "I don't. I don't want to be there alone."
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“You’ll never, ever be alone,” he says like it’s obvious.
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The cab ride over to the emergency room, he keeps thinking he sees things keeping pace with the vehicle. Shadows that are a little darker than their surroundings. But every time he looks, there's nothing there. It's hard to get out of the car when they pull up to the curb, even though he doesn't think there's anything present. He doesn't want to get ambushed. Get tricked. He hangs on to Malcolm's hand for dear life as they head inside.
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"My friend was attacked. He didn't see who it was." It's dark out. "Some maniac with a knife. He has two cuts."
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He turns to show the faint start of a scarlet line on his shoulder, staining white of his button up. Not the best choice of wear, probably, but hopefully some peroxide and bleach will sort it out. The nurse notices the bulk of the bandage underneath and gets up, leading them back to a waiting area behind a curtain. "A resident will be with you shortly."
As soon as she’s gone, Neal murmurs to Malcolm, “Did you see anything on the way here? Any… shadows, or. Anything?”
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“…What do you mean?” Of course there were shadows. It’s dark out. There are street lights and lights in buildings and car headlights. There are a million things in New York to cast a shadow.
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He drags in a breath and looks up. “Can we go talk to your therapist? Not… right now, obviously, but… soon.”
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The resident pushes the curtain back, a no-nonsense young woman with large glasses and a slight smile when she sees the two of them being close. It gentles a little as she looks Neal over. “The nurse said you were attacked? Have you spoken to the police?”
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Neal rubs his eyes. “That’s fine.”
“Show me the injuries?”
Neal undresses gingerly, and the doctor peels back the bandage on his chest first, eyes widening a little when she sees the cut. Recent as it is, it already looks infected.
“When did you say this happened?”
Neal isn’t looking at the cut. He’s looking anywhere else. “Less than an hour ago.”
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