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."
"I'm going to talk to him." Neal says it impulsively. He hadn't been planning on informing Malcolm of that. He didn't want it to go badly and then not have anything good to offer as a follow-up. But he wants Malcolm to know. "I'm going to talk to him, once he's had a chance to cool down, because nothing he said about you in there was true and it absolutely wasn't appropriate. It was just... mean."
"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."
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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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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."
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