"They were sick, or... I don't know. I don't know." He doesn't feel okay. He feels like he's going to throw up. "It was like they weren't there, almost, but they were."
Neal nods silently, closing his eyes again and shifting to rest his head against Malcolm’s chest. Listen to his heartbeat, his very alive heartbeat. Neal breathes along with him without really meaning to.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “That hasn’t happened in a while.”
Neal half-laughs, though it sounds more like crying. He turns his head to press his face against Malcolm's chest, kissing him there. "I didn't wake you up, did I?"
Malcolm huffs a laugh. "No, no. If I'm not screaming, I'm probably not sleeping," he says, carding his fingers through Neal's hair. "But, no. Really. I wasn't asleep; I was thinking about the case."
“I just… feel like there’s a piece missing. Something I’m not seeing. Like if one more piece were slotted in, I could see the picture, you know? But I’ve racked my brain and I just can’t figure it out,” Malcolm explains.
"Yeah. And if that was never her intention... then why did she run when we questioned Alessa about her? I feel like she's an important piece of this puzzle but we don't know enough about her yet. Maybe when Dani and JT turn up more about her, we'll get a clearer picture," Malcolm muses.
"She knows who killed him," Neal says, confident in the conclusion without really having more than instinct to back it up. "She knows, and they scare her enough for her to disappear in the middle of the night."
A pause, then, "If it was me... If it was me, it would be someone I ran away from in the first place."
Neal makes a soft noise of agreement. For a moment he doesn't say anything else, tries closing his eyes, but that vision of Mathias is right there waiting.
It might be a night where sleep just doesn't come. He's had those before. At least this one won't be alone.
"Sing to me again," he says, though it sounds shy.
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Then he starts to realize where he is. He looks around the room like he's never seen it before, and then his focus falls on Malcolm. Whole, healthy.
This one, at least.
Neal shudders and wraps his arms around the other man, pressing his face into the curve of Malcolm's neck. He's still crying.
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“It’s okay,” he says, because it is, now that Neal is back. “It’s okay now. You’re home.”
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“Right,” Neal whispers, “you’re right. It just. Felt… real.”
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“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “That hasn’t happened in a while.”
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“I love you,” he mumbles. “I love you.”
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"People run because they got caught or because they're trying not to. It's always one of those things."
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A pause, then, "If it was me... If it was me, it would be someone I ran away from in the first place."
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It might be a night where sleep just doesn't come. He's had those before. At least this one won't be alone.
"Sing to me again," he says, though it sounds shy.
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“Any particular song?” he murmurs.
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