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."
Too long being told the opposite makes Neal balk internally at the idea that he has nothing to be ashamed of. He can't hear it. It won't reach, not yet.
"It's not a favorites thing," he says, quiet and urgent. "I don't like him better than I like you. I never have."
He can't help himself. He still feels like he has to prove it somehow.
Malcolm meets his eyes. “I believe you,” he says plainly. “And I’m glad. And it honestly wasn’t anything you said, okay? Or did. I promise. It was what everyone else there said and didn’t say. Cumulative effect, like I told you. It was just… easy to get caught in an emotional landslide after that.”
Neal finally, finally starts to relax. Not just from the release of tension in this conversation. Relax from all of it. The anxiety going into the meeting, the meeting itself, after. He'll remember soon that he wants to talk to Eiffel and that he's going to the meeting with Malcolm and both things have heavy potential to blow up in his face.
Right now, though, he focuses on playing with his cat's ears gently.
"Thank you," he says again, and means it. "You are a good warden."
Good warden, good person. Neal thinks about saying a couple of things, doesn't, considers again. He makes soft sounds that seem like the start of I don't and I've never but he doesn't put enough force in the words to get them really into the air.
"People don't compliment me unless there's an addendum." He laughs a little, an aborted sound, trying to make it a joke and not getting far. "Whenever you say something nice, I keep waiting for the other half. What you're putting up with, or what I did to make it a good thing I am whatever compliment you used. Or a question about why I am where I am, with as smart as I'm supposed to be."
"Telling someone something ostensibly nice couched in criticism isn't a compliment," Malcolm clarifies. "Compliment but isn't a compliment any more than 'I'm sorry, but' is an apology."
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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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"It's not a favorites thing," he says, quiet and urgent. "I don't like him better than I like you. I never have."
He can't help himself. He still feels like he has to prove it somehow.
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Right now, though, he focuses on playing with his cat's ears gently.
"Thank you," he says again, and means it. "You are a good warden."
Good warden, good person. Neal thinks about saying a couple of things, doesn't, considers again. He makes soft sounds that seem like the start of I don't and I've never but he doesn't put enough force in the words to get them really into the air.
"People don't compliment me unless there's an addendum." He laughs a little, an aborted sound, trying to make it a joke and not getting far. "Whenever you say something nice, I keep waiting for the other half. What you're putting up with, or what I did to make it a good thing I am whatever compliment you used. Or a question about why I am where I am, with as smart as I'm supposed to be."
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"That's not a compliment," he says.
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Sorry Malcolm he doesn’t really have a counter or anything to lessen the weirdness of this moment for himself.
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