Neal reaches out with both hands, muscles aching, feeling the effort of holding up his own weight. He cups Malcolm’s cheeks in his palms. “Thank you. For everything. I’m never going to be able to say it enough.”
That scares him, that fact. That owing. It would scare him more with anyone else.
The rest isn’t totally restful. At least not mentally, even though he does have Malcolm close at hand or snuggled up against him for most of it. When he’s awake he’s worrying, trying to eat in small mouthfuls, trying to get more fluids to stay down. Neal sleeps fitfully, painfully, muscles still spasming on occasion and his whole body aching between occasional disorienting swathes of dream. At some point the next morning he wakes up and stays conscious long enough to realize that’s what he is, staring at the freshly refilled IV bags on the stand next to the bed. He lifts a hand to wipe his forehead and his fingers graze over a thick dusting of stubble on the way there. He hasn’t shaved for what, three days now? Ugh.
“Malcolm?” Neal grimaces at the chalky taste and sound of his own voice.
Malcolm isn’t far. He’s on the couch, his feet pulled up under him, but he practically leaps off of it when Neal calls for him, perching on the edge of the bed, picking up the water from his nightstand to hold it out to him.
"I'll keep." He eases upright, taking the water with slightly numb fingers, holding on a little too tight to make sure he doesn't drop the glass while he drinks from it. He at least drinks slowly, feeling less dried out, if no less thirsty. It's weird. "I'll be fine."
He lifts his free hand to trace his fingers over Malcolm's skin, worry squeezing at his gut. "My fingers are a little numb."
Malcolm nods grimly. “That’ll clear up as the toxin flushes out of your system,” he says. “Keep taking fluids.” He takes the hand from his face and rubs Neal’s fingers between his fingers. “Do you have enough sensation to do the work that needs done to solve Rebecca’s puzzle?”
"Yeah?" A wash of relief goes through him. He nods, closing his eyes so he can focus on the pressure of Malcolm massaging his hand. "Yeah. It's math, at this point, not any detail work or art recreation. Geometry."
"Okay. Well, we meet her and gather the materials on our terms, not hers. She's already killed you; we have reason to distrust her," Malcolm points out.
“I hope I can do this.” It scares him that he might not be able to. That they might come this far and he’ll fail at the finish line. He opens his eyes to search Malcolm’s face. “What if I can’t?”
That’s a little alarming. But Neal believes him. He believes him, and it’s heartbreaking. He draws his hand away from Malcolm to hold his face gently in both hands. “I wish that wasn’t true. I mean I wish there was someone else, too.”
Neal nods, suddenly a little afraid of the pressure in a whole new way. Malcolm only believes in him. What happens if he fails that faith? What happens to Malcolm's heart, his stability, if Neal can't keep it together?
He leans forward to kiss Malcolm, starts to, then hisses a little in pain and leans forward even more, doubling up a little as muscles in this stomach and back twitch involuntarily.
“Pain doesn’t do a whole lot to mitigate your sexiness. Let’s get this over with,” he says, grasping Neal’s elbow to keep him upright. “Remember: you call the shots. She’s got nothing without you and she knows it.”
He smiles, feels a little thrill of excitement and nerves. The taxi pulls up and Neal eases himself into it with Malcolm's help, supplying the address Rachel gave them. It's a nondescript building on a nondescript block. She doesn't emerge until the taxi has pulled away, stepping out from between two buildings to study them both. Malcolm with loathing, Neal with a possessive worry. A hurt that he can't interpret.
"I'm here," Neal says. "Where's the work?"
Rebecca holds up a pair of heavy wire cutters. "Lose the anklet, then we drive."
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method rp
That scares him, that fact. That owing. It would scare him more with anyone else.
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He doesn’t owe Malcolm anything, either. He’s doing this because seeing Neal free is the right thing. He’s been wronged. Badly. Malcolm wants to help.
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He squints at his own words. “Did that make sense?”
He can’t tell.
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“Yes. It does. Do you want to rest on the couch or the bed?” he asks.
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“Malcolm?” Neal grimaces at the chalky taste and sound of his own voice.
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“How are you feeling?”
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He lifts his free hand to trace his fingers over Malcolm's skin, worry squeezing at his gut. "My fingers are a little numb."
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He leans forward to kiss Malcolm, starts to, then hisses a little in pain and leans forward even more, doubling up a little as muscles in this stomach and back twitch involuntarily.
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"Well. Can you imagine me enjoying you wearing swimtrunks?"
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Then he winces. “Mmh. Probably sexier when I don’t back it up by twitching with pain.”
Still. They have work to do. Neal eases to his feet, using Malcolm to stay balanced.
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He flexes his fingers, wincing. Glad June isn’t present in the moment to see this. “What did she give me?”
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"You can thank me by beating her at her twisted game," he says softly.
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"I'm here," Neal says. "Where's the work?"
Rebecca holds up a pair of heavy wire cutters. "Lose the anklet, then we drive."
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