“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.”
“Doesn’t protect me personally,” Gil says, apparently unbothered, though Malcolm no doubt catches the brief set of his jaw after he says it. Gil jerks his chin toward the door. “We going inside or going to stand out her gawping while Fall chews on us?”
Neal unlocks the door, goosebumps shivering over his arms. Gil, tapped? They have to know then, that there’s something that ties Malcolm and Neal to what happened at Ellen’s apartment. Even if they thought they got away clean.
Neal is connected to Ellen. Malcolm is connected to Neal. The FBI hates Malcolm. He believes they’re just casting their widest net. Once inside, he takes down two crystal tumblers, for Neal and Gil, and sets them near the decanter of scotch under the Goyas, then returns to the kitchen to put the kettle on.
Neal pours Gil and himself drinks, debating whether or not to text Mozzie to ask the other man if he can search Malcolm's place for bugs. Neal could do it himself, sure, but Mozzie has the equipment.
Then again, the fewer people who come and go when Ellen is here, the better.
Speaking of whom--she descends, raising her eyebrows a little at Neal and Gil's early drinks. "The news is that good, huh?"
"He thinks a rich friend of mine might be interested in investing in his burgeoning alcohol manufacturing business." Gil smirks, pleased that Malcolm is pleased.
"Interesting," Ellen says. "Back in the day, one of the Flynns' big arenas was moving alcohol and fake cigars."
That's more for Neal and Malcolm's benefit than Gil's, clearly. Neal makes a thoughtful noise, sipping his morning scotch and trying not to think too hard about the fact that he's drinking before noon. "That is interesting."
“Thank you, Gil!” Malcolm enthuses, looking at Neal giddily. See? It’s all working out. Malcolm is good at being Rich People. He can talk to this person face to face.
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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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Neal unlocks the door, goosebumps shivering over his arms. Gil, tapped? They have to know then, that there’s something that ties Malcolm and Neal to what happened at Ellen’s apartment. Even if they thought they got away clean.
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Then again, the fewer people who come and go when Ellen is here, the better.
Speaking of whom--she descends, raising her eyebrows a little at Neal and Gil's early drinks. "The news is that good, huh?"
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He clocks it, though, and can’t help but see some of his relationship with Malcolm in her relationship with Neal.
“Are we continuing scrabble, or is there business to discuss?” she nods to Gil.
“Business, then scrabble,” Gil says. “I got in touch with a guy who got in touch with a guy who got us a meeting with the younger Flynn.”
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“Really? When? What does he think it’s about?” he asks excitedly.
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"Interesting," Ellen says. "Back in the day, one of the Flynns' big arenas was moving alcohol and fake cigars."
That's more for Neal and Malcolm's benefit than Gil's, clearly. Neal makes a thoughtful noise, sipping his morning scotch and trying not to think too hard about the fact that he's drinking before noon. "That is interesting."
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