“It showed the fire starting, consuming the town, and when I came out of it it was just… scribbles.”
He shivers, looking down, his apprehension back, unsure what else to say. There’s so much he hasn’t. Malcolm trusts Gabrielle. Why is it so much harder for Neal to? He’s been building toward this, in one way or another, almost since he and Malcolm met. Okay maybe it’s not that long ago, but… Neal shivers.
“I would see things sometimes. I do still sometimes. Less lately. But I still feel like some of the monsters I saw there are watching me.”
“Sometimes. More before. Lately it’s been in drawings and dreams, and sometimes I swear they’re there but I can’t see them. Like they’re hiding, but they want me to know they’re present.”
He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Sometimes it is just a bad feeling, just me feeling like something’s going to happen. Other times… it’s more than that.”
It takes him a few long, silent seconds to put his thoughts in order and decide how much of them to share.
In the end he goes for honesty, hanging on to Malcolm’s hand. “It’s like sitting in a dark room you know well, knowing there’s someone in there with you. Not knowing who, or what they’re going to do. But knowing someone is there, without a doubt.”
“Well. Yeah. Of course. But…” Neal has the air of a student who feels like he should be answering an exam question differently. He goes quiet, unsure what intellectual trap Gabrielle is trying to spring.
“What you’re describing is a sort of flashback,” she supplies. “It’s a common symptom of PTSD, but it doesn’t explain your injuries, just that… dread.” She sets her pen down and looks at Malcolm. “That might be enough for one day,” she suggests. “He’s not ready to go deeper.”
“He suggested it first,” Neal says, feeling Gabrielle’s bluntness like a strange kind of slap, a rejection. Like he hasn’t measured up to the required level of brokenness to get help.
“Neal, it takes time, this process. Whatever you’re holding back, you’re not ready to share it yet. That’s okay. We’ve done a lot of work today. Live with it a little bit, process it and - when you feel like you’re ready - come back and we’ll talk some more. In the meantime, I’ll look into Malcolm’s suggestion.”
It soothes him more than he wants to admit, what she says and how she says it. The gentleness there. He doesn’t answer, no, and he doesn’t speak right away even after they leave and catch a cab back toward Malcolm’s place.
Finally, almost back at the apartment, he says abruptly, “Should I have told her more? I should have told her more, shouldn’t I.”
"She just... How's she going to take it when I say I died? When I tell her you were there? Or. Another you." He rubs his forehead. "She can't tell anyone, right? Not without my permission?"
He takes Malcolm’s hand as the cab slows down in front of his apartment. “I’m sure you’re right, I just. It’s one thing to tell June or Mozzie. It’s another thing to tell someone who can make an official record of it.”
He tightens his grip on Malcolm’s hand a little, reflexive comfort and anxiety both. “I’m being paranoid. I’m just not used to it. Telling people about things when I don’t know them well.”
Neal waits until they’ve paid the cabby and are about to go inside before he draws Malcolm close and kisses him. “I’m being paranoid. We’ll go again, it’ll be good for me, right?”
It’s double-sided encouragement.
“Wasn’t expecting to see you out here.” It’s Gil, eyebrows raised, hands tucked into the pockets of his long trench coat. “I was going to call you, but I’ve been informed by someone who knows that my phone’s been tapped in conjunction with an ongoing FBI investigation.”
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Malcolm looks at him and nods encouragement, like he can see his faith waning.
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He shivers, looking down, his apprehension back, unsure what else to say. There’s so much he hasn’t. Malcolm trusts Gabrielle. Why is it so much harder for Neal to? He’s been building toward this, in one way or another, almost since he and Malcolm met. Okay maybe it’s not that long ago, but… Neal shivers.
“I would see things sometimes. I do still sometimes. Less lately. But I still feel like some of the monsters I saw there are watching me.”
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He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Sometimes it is just a bad feeling, just me feeling like something’s going to happen. Other times… it’s more than that.”
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In the end he goes for honesty, hanging on to Malcolm’s hand. “It’s like sitting in a dark room you know well, knowing there’s someone in there with you. Not knowing who, or what they’re going to do. But knowing someone is there, without a doubt.”
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“Neal, it takes time, this process. Whatever you’re holding back, you’re not ready to share it yet. That’s okay. We’ve done a lot of work today. Live with it a little bit, process it and - when you feel like you’re ready - come back and we’ll talk some more. In the meantime, I’ll look into Malcolm’s suggestion.”
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Finally, almost back at the apartment, he says abruptly, “Should I have told her more? I should have told her more, shouldn’t I.”
He could have gotten a better grade at therapy.
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He takes Malcolm’s hand as the cab slows down in front of his apartment. “I’m sure you’re right, I just. It’s one thing to tell June or Mozzie. It’s another thing to tell someone who can make an official record of it.”
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“I’ve never thought of myself as… as an ‘official record’ in there,” he admits. “…Maybe I have a blind spot,” he concedes uneasily.
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It’s double-sided encouragement.
“Wasn’t expecting to see you out here.” It’s Gil, eyebrows raised, hands tucked into the pockets of his long trench coat. “I was going to call you, but I’ve been informed by someone who knows that my phone’s been tapped in conjunction with an ongoing FBI investigation.”
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He frowns when Gil says his phone’s been tapped.
“Can they do that? You’re the head of major crimes.”
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