"So what are you going to do now?" Malcolm asks. "Having shot yourself in the foot, I mean. How are you going to get what you want? Pardon me, the other thing that you want."
“Malcolm?” It’s Neal, distracted, having turned to tell the other man something—the thought dissipating into mental champagne bubbles at the realization that he’s not right there.
“Hey, Neal,” Peter says, and Neal looks at him again.
Rebecca pauses, then goes on with a touch of anger. “He wouldn’t be in this situation if you’d let me have him to begin with. Mozzie is doing his best—he’s got the glyphs all copied out, which was its own adventure. Apparently it creates some kind of mathematical problem when arranged in the correct way, but he hasn’t found it yet.”
Another pause, another twinge of irritation in her voice. “Neal is an excellent mathematician, too. Brilliant. He’s wasted in the FBI offices.”
"Sorry, I don't throw people to the wolves to make an easier Thursday. But you didn't answer my question. Mozzie probably can't do it. You know he's not as good as Neal. So what are you going to do?"
“We would have been amazing together,” she says, and that resentful heat is back. “I could have helped him get past the things that held him back. You highlight all his weaknesses, and he loves you for it.”
She sucks in a breath. Reins herself in. “I’m going to let him have his high, and when it starts to hurt, I’m going to give him a chance to figure out my equation in exchange for making it stop.”
“If you want to gamble on him being able to do it in that state of mind. You know where you went wrong? He would have done it if you just asked. You’d already have it. And now you’ve jeopardized your chances at it because you are only the brawn. You’ll enjoy the pain for as long as it lasts, but when it’s over you’ll leave without the spoils and without him, alone and empty handed.”
“He can do it. You’re right—he’s that good.” A longer pause, and she adds with venomous sweetness, “Practically speaking, it’s safer for him to get counteragents to the bad stuff once he doesn’t have so much feel-good stuff in his system. Besides, I want you to see it start to hurt. I want you to see what I can do to him without lifting a finger. I want you to see it and not be able to help. Because that’s your thing. Helping. Saving. Trying to protect. I want you to watch me come an inch from ruining the one person who ever put you first, instead.”
Malcolm is silent for just a moment, glancing over his shoulder at Peter and Neal, then turns away from them again.
"But you did lift a finger. You mixed the cocktail of drugs. Probably tested it extensively before now. Injected it. Probably injected it each and every time. Watched it work. Savoured its work. Nobody will ever appreciate it, you know. Your savage genius. People don't love the sort of thing that you are, but I think you know that. That's why you spend all your time pretending to be something else. Investigators think it's a means to an end, but the end is just a pretence, isn't it? You enjoy it, that time they spend believing you. Believing in you. But you also know you can't keep it up for any length of time, because there's always been something wrong with you and you've always known it."
A long silence on her end. Neal, in the background, rambles to Peter about the time he ended up spending a month in a foursome with a prince, his wife, and their mutual female lover, and how they were all very interesting people.
"I have tested it," Rachel says calmly. "I'll call you back before he starts screaming."
As though in answer, there's a knock on the door. It opens without whoever it is waiting for approval to enter. They're dressed like an EMT and accompanied by Diana. She studies Neal worriedly.
"How's he doing?"
The EMT doesn't bother repeating the question, just goes to work taking Neal's temperature, swabbing the inside of his mouth, and prepping his arm to take a blood sample. Neal himself has lapsed into blissful silence.
Peter studies Neal's face, lips pressed into a tight line. "He's out of it at best. Not making a lot of sense. Talking about..."
He trails off and shakes his head, forcing irony into his tone. "Well, he's shared some romantic stories that I really didn't need taking up visual space in my brain."
"Where's Malcolm?" Neal looks around, brightens when he sees Malcolm, and then jerks and recoils from the EMT as they try to jab him in the arm with a needle. "Ow?"
"Hold him still," the woman says implacably. "And someone get him some mineral water. He needs to a steady intake of fluids. I'll get an IV going too."
"He just drank a glass," Malcolm tells them, slightly more subdued. He picks up Neal's glass and goes back to the kitchen to refill it, bringing it back but standing back while they hook him up.
"I have reason to believe we're dealing with a cocktail of drugs," Malcolm tells them. "And whatever could prove fatal is what we want to focus on counteracting."
Peter holds Neal still as the needle goes in. Neal turns his face away from it, face scrunched up in almost childish discomfort. The EMT is brisk and efficient, listening to Malcolm as she takes the samples she needs and sets up the IV.
She gets to her feet, kisses Diana on the temple, and lifts the case she has her samples in. "I'll get these to my friend at the NYU Emergency Department, she knows people in their bio labs too. We'll get you a result. Leaving a couple of saline bags behind too."
"Thank you," Peter says firmly. "Really. Thank you."
Neal stares at the IV drip, lips parted slightly, wonder in his expression. "I can feel it."
"I'm not mad at you. I'm afraid for you," Malcolm tells him. He presses his lips together, then looks at Peter. "My father's first four victims were killed after he injected them with his own proprietary cocktail of drugs. His cocktail put the victims into paralysis. They could feel everything happening to them and they couldn't move. This drug will have an effect that appeals to a sadist. We'll see what it is soon enough, but it's not going to be six hours of euphoria and a hangover, Peter. Your people, they understand the urgency, right?"
Peter rubs his lips with one hand, his own worries shining through the motion. “Diana does, so the rest of them will whether they want to or not.”
Neal finishes the water and sways to his feet, making his way toward Malcolm. Peter has to follow, IV bag held high.
Neal reaches for Malcolm, savoring the feeling of his fingertips tracing over Malcolm’s skin. He’s tracking the conversation, barely. It’s just hard for him to care past the floating in his head. “It’ll be okay.”
“Who was on the phone?” The question is aimed at Malcolm, but his attention is on Neal.
Malcolm lets himself be led by Neal, even as he pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials.
“Edrisa, hi, it’s me. Yeah. Listen: how fast can you get a tox screen on a blood sample? Yeah? What about compiling an antidote to the substances found? Okay. I’m texting you an address. Bring a med kit so you can draw blood,” he tells her. “We’re dealing with an unknown toxin and a short window.”
Peter follows again, still holding up the IV bag, but once Neal and Malcolm are sitting he rigs up a spare easel to keep it elevated. Neal snuggles up to Malcolm, playing with his hair absently, rambling to Peter about how wonderful Malcolm is and how little people recognize it. The words start to run together a little, both in Neal’s head and on his tongue. When Edrisa knocks about twenty minutes later, Neal barely qualifies as conscious. He’s curled into a little ball against Malcolm, utterly blissed out and oblivious to his surroundings, shivering with pleasure every time something touches him or moves against his skin.
He blinks slowly. “Headache,” he mumbles, as Peter goes to open the door. If Malcolm moves, Neal will give another little groan as oversensitive nerves send a fresh wash of positive stimulation through him.
Malcolm doesn’t move. He’s afraid to move. He sits almost too still, like a person does when a butterfly lands on them and they don’t want it to fly away.
“Is that Dr Tanaka? Send her over and get Neal another glass of water,” he requests to Peter.
Peter does as he’s told. He’s almost frantic with worry himself at this point. Edrisa rushes to Malcolm and Neal, taking in Neal’s current state with a mix of curiosity and near-panic at the prospect of his alive-ness and grim focus at the possibility of him becoming less so.
Neal keeps up a continuous shivering as Peter helps him drink the water, barely seeming to notice as Edrisa takes blood. His own disconnect, weirdly, puts her more at ease. She starts working on the tox screen right at the kitchen table, glancing their way over and over again.
“Well I can tell you for free that part of what your poisoner is trying to do is overload his sensory system. If he hasn’t already, he’s going to start getting confused between pleasure and pain soon. There’s only so much input the body can handle before it starts trying to make things stop, and… wow. Not sure on dosages yet but I’m coming up with traces of LSD, ecstasy, some meth, and more than a little heroin. That is one hell of a speedball. No wonder he’s checked out.”
“But it’s not an overdose, though, is it? I guarantee this substance is meant to kill. What else is in it?” Malcolm asks, still carefully, unnaturally still.
“No, not an overdose. All that crap in him, if it was an overdose he’d already be dead.”
Edrisa is focused now, her tone a little absent as she answers Malcolm. “Those ones always come up fast on a tox panel, working my way through some of the less common now.”
Neal turns his face against Malcolm’s arm. The shivering hasn’t stopped, and he can’t get his tongue to cooperate with words. Peter hovers, holding the empty glass, glancing at the mostly-drained IV bag.
“Gonna change that,” he says of it, and goes to do it.
Neal moans lightly, biting at the cloth of Malcolm’s shoulder. “Want to kiss you,” he says, his heartbeat hard and fast enough to make talking difficult. “Want to take you to bed and…”
He stops. Aware on some level that there are people present.
Edrisa hisses under her breath. “I’m getting indications of strychnine, Botox, and very mild arsenic. There’s got to be some damage from those already that he’s just not feeling.”
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“Hey, Neal,” Peter says, and Neal looks at him again.
Rebecca pauses, then goes on with a touch of anger. “He wouldn’t be in this situation if you’d let me have him to begin with. Mozzie is doing his best—he’s got the glyphs all copied out, which was its own adventure. Apparently it creates some kind of mathematical problem when arranged in the correct way, but he hasn’t found it yet.”
Another pause, another twinge of irritation in her voice. “Neal is an excellent mathematician, too. Brilliant. He’s wasted in the FBI offices.”
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"Sorry, I don't throw people to the wolves to make an easier Thursday. But you didn't answer my question. Mozzie probably can't do it. You know he's not as good as Neal. So what are you going to do?"
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She sucks in a breath. Reins herself in. “I’m going to let him have his high, and when it starts to hurt, I’m going to give him a chance to figure out my equation in exchange for making it stop.”
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"But you did lift a finger. You mixed the cocktail of drugs. Probably tested it extensively before now. Injected it. Probably injected it each and every time. Watched it work. Savoured its work. Nobody will ever appreciate it, you know. Your savage genius. People don't love the sort of thing that you are, but I think you know that. That's why you spend all your time pretending to be something else. Investigators think it's a means to an end, but the end is just a pretence, isn't it? You enjoy it, that time they spend believing you. Believing in you. But you also know you can't keep it up for any length of time, because there's always been something wrong with you and you've always known it."
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"I have tested it," Rachel says calmly. "I'll call you back before he starts screaming."
She hangs up.
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"Where are they?" he snaps at Peter.
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"How's he doing?"
The EMT doesn't bother repeating the question, just goes to work taking Neal's temperature, swabbing the inside of his mouth, and prepping his arm to take a blood sample. Neal himself has lapsed into blissful silence.
Peter studies Neal's face, lips pressed into a tight line. "He's out of it at best. Not making a lot of sense. Talking about..."
He trails off and shakes his head, forcing irony into his tone. "Well, he's shared some romantic stories that I really didn't need taking up visual space in my brain."
"Where's Malcolm?" Neal looks around, brightens when he sees Malcolm, and then jerks and recoils from the EMT as they try to jab him in the arm with a needle. "Ow?"
"Hold him still," the woman says implacably. "And someone get him some mineral water. He needs to a steady intake of fluids. I'll get an IV going too."
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"I have reason to believe we're dealing with a cocktail of drugs," Malcolm tells them. "And whatever could prove fatal is what we want to focus on counteracting."
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She gets to her feet, kisses Diana on the temple, and lifts the case she has her samples in. "I'll get these to my friend at the NYU Emergency Department, she knows people in their bio labs too. We'll get you a result. Leaving a couple of saline bags behind too."
"Thank you," Peter says firmly. "Really. Thank you."
Neal stares at the IV drip, lips parted slightly, wonder in his expression. "I can feel it."
The EMT makes an ironic noise. "I'll bet, buddy."
Then she's gone.
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"Drink," he says before crossing his arms and starting to pace.
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Diana left with the EMT. Peter has his eyes on Malcolm too. “What is it?”
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Neal finishes the water and sways to his feet, making his way toward Malcolm. Peter has to follow, IV bag held high.
Neal reaches for Malcolm, savoring the feeling of his fingertips tracing over Malcolm’s skin. He’s tracking the conversation, barely. It’s just hard for him to care past the floating in his head. “It’ll be okay.”
“Who was on the phone?” The question is aimed at Malcolm, but his attention is on Neal.
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He looks at Peter instead.
“My psychopath likes to call my friends sometimes. I called and asked him questions about a hypothetical drug. He was testing a theory as to why.”
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Neal takes Malcolm’s hand lightly and tugs him toward the couch. He moves in for a small kiss. “I want to sit with you.”
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“Edrisa, hi, it’s me. Yeah. Listen: how fast can you get a tox screen on a blood sample? Yeah? What about compiling an antidote to the substances found? Okay. I’m texting you an address. Bring a med kit so you can draw blood,” he tells her. “We’re dealing with an unknown toxin and a short window.”
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He blinks slowly. “Headache,” he mumbles, as Peter goes to open the door. If Malcolm moves, Neal will give another little groan as oversensitive nerves send a fresh wash of positive stimulation through him.
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“Is that Dr Tanaka? Send her over and get Neal another glass of water,” he requests to Peter.
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Neal keeps up a continuous shivering as Peter helps him drink the water, barely seeming to notice as Edrisa takes blood. His own disconnect, weirdly, puts her more at ease. She starts working on the tox screen right at the kitchen table, glancing their way over and over again.
“Well I can tell you for free that part of what your poisoner is trying to do is overload his sensory system. If he hasn’t already, he’s going to start getting confused between pleasure and pain soon. There’s only so much input the body can handle before it starts trying to make things stop, and… wow. Not sure on dosages yet but I’m coming up with traces of LSD, ecstasy, some meth, and more than a little heroin. That is one hell of a speedball. No wonder he’s checked out.”
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Edrisa is focused now, her tone a little absent as she answers Malcolm. “Those ones always come up fast on a tox panel, working my way through some of the less common now.”
Neal turns his face against Malcolm’s arm. The shivering hasn’t stopped, and he can’t get his tongue to cooperate with words. Peter hovers, holding the empty glass, glancing at the mostly-drained IV bag.
“Gonna change that,” he says of it, and goes to do it.
Neal moans lightly, biting at the cloth of Malcolm’s shoulder. “Want to kiss you,” he says, his heartbeat hard and fast enough to make talking difficult. “Want to take you to bed and…”
He stops. Aware on some level that there are people present.
Edrisa hisses under her breath. “I’m getting indications of strychnine, Botox, and very mild arsenic. There’s got to be some damage from those already that he’s just not feeling.”
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