THE OG AU

[conning]

[summary tk]

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[conning]

Peter stares at him, the thought of food clearly making him feel ill. Edrisa, on the contrary, bobs her head eagerly. “God, yes, that sounds great.”

Neal shivers, moans, then rolls on to his side to retch. Peter gets there with a garbage can before he can do it on the floor.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm picks up the cold cloth and wipes Neal's face.

"Can you order?" he asks Edrisa over his shoulder. "Just some plain cucumber rolls for me." He just feels like it will help Neal, somehow, if he eats something. It's a thing that usually pleases him.

There isn't much in Neal's stomach after all these excruciation hours, but catching bile in a trash can is better than mopping it up off the floor.

"There you go. Better out than in," Malcolm assures him.

[conning]

Edrisa nods hastily and busies herself with that. Neal studies Malcolm’s face fuzzily.

“Mom?” His voice is higher pitched than usual, and very confused.

[abrightboy]

"She's not here. It's Malcolm," Malcolm tells him softly. "But you're safe here. Rest."

[conning]

“Who’re you? The new nurse? I didn’t know you could be a nurse if you’re a guy.” Nonetheless, he shifts around so he can rest his head on Malcolm’s thigh. He shivers. “She might not come. It’s not her fault, she works a lot.”

[abrightboy]

"A guy can be a nurse if that's what he wants to be. Anyone can do anything if they work for it," Malcolm tells him. "Anyway, I have lots of time to wait for her. Just get comfortable. Close your eyes. I'll wake you when she gets here."

[conning]

Neal gives a convulsive little shudder, gags again, the pain made all the more confusing by his current state of mind. “Am I dying?”

“No,” Peter says quickly. He moves the garbage aside so the smell is out of the way before he crouches down. He pitches his voice soft and reassuring. “No, you’re not.”

For a second he pauses, but the curiosity is too much. “Can you tell me where you are right now?”

Neal gives him a confused look. “…School…?”

[abrightboy]

"Good job!" Malcolm says quickly. "You passed the cognitive test." He gives Peter a dirty look before turning his attention back to Neal. "You'll be okay. I know you don't feel well, but it will pass."

[conning]

“What’s happening to me?” The question is only half directed at Malcolm. It’s also spoken in simple delirium.

Edrisa inches over, watching him with anxiety. “He really does need diagnostics done to see what kind of damage that stuff did before we got him turned around.”

[abrightboy]

“He’ll get them,” Malcolm tells her. “Not today. And maybe not in New York,” he adds, looking at Peter, the man who has to make that happen.

[conning]

Peter growls in frustration. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Neal drags in a breath, trying uselessly to sit up. His voice is hoarse, but forceful. “Leave him alone. He didn’t do anything. He’s never done anything.”

[abrightboy]

Malcolm steadies Neal, urging him to stay on the couch.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. He looks at Peter. “I told you already: we don’t know who did this or how they admire their handiwork, but whoever did it will want to and keeping tabs on hospitals is the most likely way.”

[conning]

There’s something in Peter’s face that says he wants to say more, that he knows more, but he glances at Neal and stops himself. “I can make it happen.”

Neal shudders, little involuntary tremors rolling through him, breathing picking up to an irregularly quick rhythm as he watches something move across the ceiling.

Peter grits his teeth. “Why not today? I want to at least get that EMT back, get him set up with… with fluids or…” He trails off helplessly.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm gets up, but lingers within Neal’s reach.

“Then get the EMT back,” he says heatedly. “Get anyone you know you can trust without reservation, but I told you why not. We don’t know this killer. We don’t know if this was random or if Neal was targeted. We do know it’s the work of a sadist and other people’s pain is what gives them pleasure. We don’t know how they intended to watch that play out. We take no chances. We admit nobody that at least one of us doesn’t know and trust beyond reproach. We stay careful until they dare to test whether he’s alive or assume he’s dead.”

[conning]

"He has been pretty clear," Edrisa says helpfully. Peter glares at her and she deflates, but only a little, and only for a moment. "Well, he has."

Peter turns away and pulls out his own phone to make another call.

"It's okay," Neal murmurs, still in that little-kid cadence. He's so tired. His muscles twinge and he grimaces, shifting on the couch. That makes him wince again. "I'm okay. You don't have to be mad."

[abrightboy]

“I’m not mad at you,” Malcolm says almost automatically, but not without sincerity. “Rest. You’re through the worst of it. Get some rest,” he urges, feeling Neal’s forehead again.

[conning]

Neal watches him with glassy eyes for a moment before speaking. His tone is distinctly suspicious. "You're not mad?"

[abrightboy]

Malcolm looks down at him, then returns to his chair and sits.

“Not at you. Want me to read to you?”

[conning]

He perks up at the prospect of being read to, but there are are other priorities afoot as well. In a whisper that isn't really a whisper, Neal says, "Why are you mad at the other guy?"

Edrisa, mercifully, has gone back to the wine.

[abrightboy]

“Because he knows everything,” Malcolm whispers back just as indiscreetly. “And people who know everything don’t listen.” Then in his normal voice, he says “What book do you want me to read?”

[conning]

Neal grins, then coughs, which sets off another wave of coughing, which in turn makes his muscles ache. He closes his eyes against involuntary tears, wheezing a little. "I didn't think he hit me that hard. I guess I underestimated him this time."

Right. Reading. What does he want to read? He blinks Malcolm into focus. "...You won't laugh at me?"

[abrightboy]

“If you pick a comedy, I might laugh with you, but no. Otherwise, I find it exceedingly unlikely,” Malcolm assures him.

[conning]

Neal looks vaguely guilty when he says, "My mom reads me poetry."

[abrightboy]

“Which poet do you want to hear?” Malcolm asks him.

[conning]

“I like Derek Walcott and Maya Angelou and Wordsworth and Blake and Keats and Henry David Thoreau…” He trails off, the brief surge of enthusiasm tempered again by embarrassment. “They’re okay.”