“I don’t know,” Malcolm admits. “If you’re all really being kept here under a constant reign of terror… like I said: that’s not what I signed up to do.”
"So you're going to leave without trying to fix it?"
It's not accusatory, more... anxious. Neal recalibrating the team he has to work with in realtime, like he's on some kind of job and they're suddenly a man down.
"Get the Admiral to change things. Get the Wardens to get the Admiral to change things. Get the Wardens to change things whether the Admiral likes it or not. Maybe you can't alter the way this place functions on an overarching level, but you can change the way people act on board."
He leans down to unclip George's leash and let the cat loose, keeping his eyes down so Malcolm can't see how pale he's gone.
And for the second time, Malcolm is privy to Neal’s small outburst of violence. He grabs the cup on impulse and throws it, glass smashing against the wall above Malcolm’s sink. Scalding washer splashes his hand, and he hisses, cradling it against his chest and swearing to himself guiltily as George scrambles to cover.
[Malcolm closes his eyes, takes a breath, doesn’t notice his hand is shaking.]
Take the package of peas out of the freezer and put them on it. Running water can damage scalded skin. You can take them with you. I have some cream in the bathroom you can put on after it cools down. Take that too. If you came here to fight… I can’t…… I can’t do it right now.
"It's not your fault," Malcolm says quickly. He takes Neal by the elbow and steers him towards the bathroom. "I'm just... having a hard time downregulating after... all that. I was just. Really holding everything in. If he held me there for, like, one more minute I might have... Well. Done something I regretted. Said something terrible. Hurt him."
He takes a salve out of the medicine cabinet and lifts the peas carefully off the wound, tossing them in the sink before gently dabbing some of the salve on the burn.
"Burned friendships. Burned new acquaintances. Burned my chances of still... existing here."
"Existing how?" He winces again, but doesn't pull away. The touch is gentle and soothing and as close as he'll get to intimacy of another kind with Malcolm. A pause, and he adds with hesitation, "What does downregulating mean?"
The hesitation is both from his reluctance to admit ignorance and a strange worry that it might be something he already understands.
"Because, in general, people don't forgive anger," Malcolm says simply, matter-of-factly. "It's socially costly."
He rummages in a drawer for a non-stick gauze pad and some medical tape.
"Downregulating means controlling your emotions like normal people do." He looks up from Neal's hand to his face. "You haven't read the book I gave you. Various types of neurodivergence have some overlap in emotional dysregulation. I had to take myself back to my FBI days to put a lid on them for that meeting and they tested it."
"That can happen, too." Contrary to popular belief, he didn't have to call out every self-protective lie. He pours a glass of water and puts it in front of Neal to tide him over while he takes down another teacup and fills it. "I'm sorry, though. To you only. If I gave you the impression that I left because I didn't care about you."
Maybe not fair, but it still feels deserved. Neal runs a fingertip over the curve of the cup's handle. "He's... He's got a lot of..."
No excuses. Malcolm deserves better. "I just--I think here even more than other places, sometimes being kind is more important than being right. Which isn't saying you aren't being kind. It's not even saying you should be. He hurt you, you don't have to be."
"I don't want people to be unkind to him. I don't want you to abandon him. The reason it all bothers me isn't rational or fair, okay? I know I hurt you and he... made you feel valued and safe. So it's natural that you'd do the same for him. It's right," Malcolm tells him.
On a better day, Neal would be able to hear this without twisting himself up over it. He isn't sure how to tell Malcolm that he doesn't want him to be rational or fair, doesn't want him to give up his own feelings.
He fusses with the cup before taking a sip, shoulders relaxing a little at the heat and crispness and the way it finally washes out the taste of bile.
"I don't like him better than I like you. I want you to know that."
"I know that." He knows that's objectively true and he says it plainly. "But his needs seemed more urgent." Malcolm looks over. "Before I came here... maybe you read it when you had my file. But before I came here, my father escaped from prison and they asked me to find him. And at every turn they didn't listen to me and at the same time they accused me of maybe not really wanting to find him and everything that has happened since Lestat stabbed me has felt exactly like that week. I thought it was different here. I thought I had real friends here, but it's just the same kind of... you know what JT said to me when I was trying to convince them of a fact of the case that I'd figured out and they weren't listening and my hand started shaking? He said 'I've seen that hand shake when you're ordering a mochaccino.' My friend." He slumps slightly, his voice quiet when he concludes "I was really trying to make friends with Eiffel. He's close to a lot of people who are important to me."
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It's not accusatory, more... anxious. Neal recalibrating the team he has to work with in realtime, like he's on some kind of job and they're suddenly a man down.
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He leans down to unclip George's leash and let the cat loose, keeping his eyes down so Malcolm can't see how pale he's gone.
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Too bad, but he’s noticed the pallor anyway. He pours tea and pushes it towards him.
“I thought you were leaving after you graduated anyway.”
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Take the package of peas out of the freezer and put them on it. Running water can damage scalded skin. You can take them with you. I have some cream in the bathroom you can put on after it cools down. Take that too. If you came here to fight… I can’t…… I can’t do it right now.
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“I didn’t. I really didn’t. I came here to make sure you were okay, not to have a tantrum and destroy one of your dishes. I’m sorry.”
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He goes to the fridge, fishing the bag of peas out and forming it gently around his burned hand. Neal grimaces at the sting.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, softly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t— I just—”
He doesn’t know what he didn’t. He doesn’t know what he just. There’s so much noise in his head, and none of it is useful.
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He takes a salve out of the medicine cabinet and lifts the peas carefully off the wound, tossing them in the sink before gently dabbing some of the salve on the burn.
"Burned friendships. Burned new acquaintances. Burned my chances of still... existing here."
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The hesitation is both from his reluctance to admit ignorance and a strange worry that it might be something he already understands.
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He rummages in a drawer for a non-stick gauze pad and some medical tape.
"Downregulating means controlling your emotions like normal people do." He looks up from Neal's hand to his face. "You haven't read the book I gave you. Various types of neurodivergence have some overlap in emotional dysregulation. I had to take myself back to my FBI days to put a lid on them for that meeting and they tested it."
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After he finishes bandaging the hand, he tilts his head towards the kitchen and picks up the peas from the sink.
"Do you still want tea or....?"
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He squinches up his face, quite forgetting the whole conversation he had with Malcolm about training himself not to throw up.
Yeah, he felt that anxious.
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"No. Absolutely not. You didn't."
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He slides the teacup towards him.
"I don't know if it will help or not. Maybe for some people. Talking to people doesn't exactly endear me to them, though. In general.
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He finishes the water and sets it aside, settling on a stool at the counter and warming his hands with the cup.
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Malcolm leans on the counter from the other side of the island, fidgeting at the handle of his cup.
"You don't have to answer that; I know it wasn't fair."
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No excuses. Malcolm deserves better. "I just--I think here even more than other places, sometimes being kind is more important than being right. Which isn't saying you aren't being kind. It's not even saying you should be. He hurt you, you don't have to be."
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He fusses with the cup before taking a sip, shoulders relaxing a little at the heat and crispness and the way it finally washes out the taste of bile.
"I don't like him better than I like you. I want you to know that."
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