"People don't hate you. You're likeable. They meet you and they like you. Don't get your hopes up, okay? I was looking right at his face and he believed everything he said," Malcolm. "I'm not likeable. People meet me and they don't like me. I'm used to that. This... this funk is a cumulative effect. I'll get over it."
"I'm likable because I know how to read what someone wants from a conversation and I give it to them," Neal counters quietly. "The only reason we're so close now is because the Breach gave us a shared life and shared memories, and we... kept the feeling. You're honest and blunt and can't help analyzing out loud. But you're honest above all, and that... I mean, that's why I like you. Among other reasons."
"I don't know what to do here anymore. I'm not effective." He looks at Neal. "I want to be. I want to help people like I came here to do, but everything I try is a disaster."
"I don't know if you're the most objective judge at the moment, Malcolm." He leans forward a little, voice dropping a little in the urgency of persuasion. "You are effective. Kikimora likes you, you do have friends here, you have... you have Will."
I don't want to leave Will. I won't leave him, Malcolm says, and it knocks the wind out of Neal a little to hear it. No or you. But he deserves that, really.
It takes him a moment to gather his thoughts again.
"You just need a little space to breathe, Malcolm," he says softly. "Some real time to think. To orient yourself, without having to focus on chaos."
“It’s not… it’s not the chaos. You said you wanted to come with me so Lestat knows that what he did to me wasn’t okay. Which means you talked to him right after it happened and you didn’t say that. You don’t have to put on a show for me, you know.”
He looks down into his tea.
“I’m tired of trying and not making a difference, that’s all,” he says softly. “I prepared for that meeting. I kept focused on the important issues. Nobody noticed that. Before that, I tried to get everyone to give counselling a shot. People here have a lot of issues; it could do a lot of good. We know how that worked out. When Reid calls, I’ll go talk to Lestat, but he doesn’t want to do it and we know how me plus counselling goes. So. I’m not sanguine, as it were. So shelving books. It’s sensible and they don’t have to like me for it to go well.”
"W-- I didn't--" It's a jab-twist of an accusation, and Neal... can't take it. He's left staring at the countertop feeling gutted and then salted, his throat still sore from throwing up. There's a rockslide of hurt feelings he tells himself again that he deserves.
His needs seemed more urgent, Malcolm's voice says in his head, the words themselves feeling like an accusation even if the tone didn't. Neal closes his eyes, and lifts his cup to finish his tea with his unburned hand.
He doesn't know what else to say. He could tell Malcolm he heard wardens talking about pulling out Lestat's teeth and filing down his nails, could say he heard about Shaw's surveillance and the fact that she destroyed an instrument to make a point. He could point out that Will wanted to go after Lestat, that Lark was in the middle of doing it, that he had no way to know none of those people would come to Malcolm's defense the same way they did when it sounded like Lestat was about to be mobbed and torn to pieces. His friend. His flawed, violent, entirely-in-the-wrong friend. All he thought to expect from the meeting was more of the same from the wardens in attendance.
Neal flexes his bandaged fingers, looking over to see George creeping back out from his hiding place under the couch. "Sorry buddy," Neal murmurs.
He finishes his tea and clears his throat, straightening up. "I should--I should leave. You probably..."
Will is probably coming over to be a better friend on top of all the other things he's better at. Neal drags a hand through his hair and moves to stand up.
He hesitates. He doesn’t mean to hesitate. He’s emotionally exhausted and unraveled and weirdly let down around the things he readied himself to argue about, and feels a bone-deep weariness at the idea that he made what he thought was the right choice and managed to be a disappointment yet again. He hesitates, because for him, in this power structure, it means sit down so I can tell you exactly how ashamed you should be.
But if he still leaves, it’s rejecting Malcolm. Again.
"I warned you that it wasn't fair," he says, trying to make light of it. "I don't do anything by half measures, huh? People always say that." Maybe not in so many words. Too much, too intense... those words.
Neal holds the cup in his burned hand, inviting the way the hypersensitive skin starts to feel like it's being broiled. It makes him think of Kate's murder, the way he would hold his hands over candles and try to imagine what her last moments had been like. The difference was he always got to take his hands away from the flames when it got to be too much.
"Me too," he says softly. "The... 'too this, too that.' It's always too something."
"But you can figure out what normal looks like. You know how to pretend so people don't get upset. I never could figure that out. It comes out like... a T1000 serial killer junkie, I guess. Moderation. It's hard."
He should have said something to Eiffel in the room. He shouldn't have let shock and anxiety get the better of him. He should have done something other than simply trying to get Eiffel to let Malcolm pass.
Neal sets his cup down on the coffee table and resists the urge to flex his fingers and help dissipate the slowly fading sting.
He wants to say it's not all it's cracked up to be. That Malcolm at least has no illusions about the people around him. That he gets a clear picture of who he can trust when he's himself.
"He doesn't know you," is what he says. "He never should have said that."
It was mean and humiliating, and said in front of a room full of people Malcolm was already upset by. Neal stares hard at his glass, brow slightly furrowed. "It wasn't... It wasn't a show. I didn't talk to Lestat after it happened. I didn't talk to him until I knew you were okay. And I... maybe I shouldn't have, I probably shouldn't have, but everyone was ready to--"
No, it doesn't matter. Neal rubs his uninjured palm against his slacks and stands up. "I should really go."
"Please don't," Malcolm tells him. "You were there. I remember. When I was... fading in and out. It meant a lot to me. And you still made sure one victim didn't turn into two victims. That means a lot to me. You did what was right when it was hard. I'm proud of you for that. Much, much more proud than hurt. I want you to know. Before you...... go. Because it's more important than that other stuff. It's going to matter for so much longer and make so much more of a lasting difference." He fidgets with his own teacup. "I'm not a good Warden, Neal. There are things I'm good at, but this isn't one of them. But if I were a good one, I would have told you that first and just... not the rest of it, because it's what's really important and it's what you should be doing to graduate and getting you there is my job."
Neal shakes his head at the declaration that Malcolm isn't a good warden, denying it while he waits for the other man to finish. When Malcolm stops, Neal isn't sure he's actually done. He's been programmed to expect a different turn to these conversations.
He sits, slowly, more perched on the edge of the couch than comfortable.
"Peter did that the other way around," Neal says, trying to make a joke of it himself. "Told me he was proud of me first, then said I was a disappointment. Though to be fair, he spaced it into two different conversations."
"Well, you shouldn't. You shouldn't have to feel like a failure for what you had to do to survive."
Was that counseling?
"Anyway. You're allowed to choose your friends. If someone is sad that they're not your favorite, that's just a compliment about your friendship; you shouldn't feel bad."
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It takes him a moment to gather his thoughts again.
"You just need a little space to breathe, Malcolm," he says softly. "Some real time to think. To orient yourself, without having to focus on chaos."
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He looks down into his tea.
“I’m tired of trying and not making a difference, that’s all,” he says softly. “I prepared for that meeting. I kept focused on the important issues. Nobody noticed that. Before that, I tried to get everyone to give counselling a shot. People here have a lot of issues; it could do a lot of good. We know how that worked out. When Reid calls, I’ll go talk to Lestat, but he doesn’t want to do it and we know how me plus counselling goes. So. I’m not sanguine, as it were. So shelving books. It’s sensible and they don’t have to like me for it to go well.”
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"I wasn't... There was no show."
He hates how defeated the words sound.
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“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, but earnestly. “That wasn’t fair. And I’d like it if you were there. If you’ll still come.”
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His needs seemed more urgent, Malcolm's voice says in his head, the words themselves feeling like an accusation even if the tone didn't. Neal closes his eyes, and lifts his cup to finish his tea with his unburned hand.
He doesn't know what else to say. He could tell Malcolm he heard wardens talking about pulling out Lestat's teeth and filing down his nails, could say he heard about Shaw's surveillance and the fact that she destroyed an instrument to make a point. He could point out that Will wanted to go after Lestat, that Lark was in the middle of doing it, that he had no way to know none of those people would come to Malcolm's defense the same way they did when it sounded like Lestat was about to be mobbed and torn to pieces. His friend. His flawed, violent, entirely-in-the-wrong friend. All he thought to expect from the meeting was more of the same from the wardens in attendance.
Neal flexes his bandaged fingers, looking over to see George creeping back out from his hiding place under the couch. "Sorry buddy," Neal murmurs.
He finishes his tea and clears his throat, straightening up. "I should--I should leave. You probably..."
Will is probably coming over to be a better friend on top of all the other things he's better at. Neal drags a hand through his hair and moves to stand up.
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“I’m just tired.”
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But if he still leaves, it’s rejecting Malcolm. Again.
“Yeah,” Neal says softly. “Okay.”
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cw self-harm mention
"Me too," he says softly. "The... 'too this, too that.' It's always too something."
Re: cw self-harm mention
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Neal sets his cup down on the coffee table and resists the urge to flex his fingers and help dissipate the slowly fading sting.
He wants to say it's not all it's cracked up to be. That Malcolm at least has no illusions about the people around him. That he gets a clear picture of who he can trust when he's himself.
"He doesn't know you," is what he says. "He never should have said that."
It was mean and humiliating, and said in front of a room full of people Malcolm was already upset by. Neal stares hard at his glass, brow slightly furrowed. "It wasn't... It wasn't a show. I didn't talk to Lestat after it happened. I didn't talk to him until I knew you were okay. And I... maybe I shouldn't have, I probably shouldn't have, but everyone was ready to--"
No, it doesn't matter. Neal rubs his uninjured palm against his slacks and stands up. "I should really go."
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He sits, slowly, more perched on the edge of the couch than comfortable.
"Peter did that the other way around," Neal says, trying to make a joke of it himself. "Told me he was proud of me first, then said I was a disappointment. Though to be fair, he spaced it into two different conversations."
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For a second he's not sure what to say, but he lands on a very quiet, very genuine, "Thank you."
Neal rubs gently behind George's ears. "I always feel like one."
Which is probably the most straightforward thing he's ever told Malcolm about his general emotional state.
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Was that counseling?
"Anyway. You're allowed to choose your friends. If someone is sad that they're not your favorite, that's just a compliment about your friendship; you shouldn't feel bad."
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