He gives a soft not-really-laugh and rubs his face.
"I might need you to remind me a few times. It's still not a reaction I'm used to."
It's meant as a joke, but it also isn't one. Neal exhales quietly, rests his head on the back of the couch and stares up at the ceiling. He reaches out blindly to pet the nearest dog.
"It made me so fucking angry," he says, even more tired. "Jedao saying that to me on a public feed, you wanting to know where I was, Hakkai condescending to me about my own damage, like I--"
He stops a second. Sorts his thoughts, closes his eyes briefly. "Everyone tells me I need help. No one offers to help me with the thing that's most important to me, the thing that would actually make a difference. Not in a way that moves things forward. It's like telling someone at the side of the road with their car on fire that they should call a mechanic and considering that contribution a job well done. And every time someone tells me how fucked up I am it's another little needle under my skin, another voice in my head saying nothing I want to do to make things better matters. Wardens--always wardens--tell me no one will use it, no one will want to, no one will trust it, on and on, when what 'they' don't trust is that anyone gives a shit to begin with. And why should they. But the majority seem fine with that, so what's the point. After all we're not here to help each other, we're here to help ourselves and our inmates and whoever else we happen to personally care about, and screw the rest."
His soft cadence goes gradually more monotone, like the relief of saying it aloud sucks the energy for animation out of him.
"My inmate has spent more of our acquaintance unconscious than on his feet. We barely know each other, I haven't read his file, he wouldn't miss me. But anyone I could leave with, that I would want to leave with, isn't going anywhere yet. Probably not for a while. And unless I want to go back to prison or be trapped by the FBI again, it's inadvisable to go home."
Another long, slow exhale, and this time he closes his eyes and keeps them closed. "So, here I am, useless, being told how damaged I am whenever I try to get anyone on side with an idea they won't give a chance at a chance, picked to pieces by a bunch of people who can't seem to stomach the thought that this place isn't a utopia for everyone on board. So maybe it's me. Maybe it's just me, and the Admiral fucked something up somewhere dragging me in."
The nearest dog is Bear, but he chooses not to get up from his sprawl across Shaw's lap; he does thump his tail against the couch cushions, though. Jet, on the other hand, happily launches himself in Neal's direction and presents himself hugging.
Shaw says nothing, still not wanting to interrupt here. But she spreads her legs further and further, until she's close enough to press her right knee into Neal's left.
He hugs Jet without reservation, presses back against Shaw's gentle contact, relieved at the warmth and presence of the animal and his siblings. His siblings. People he found here, in this place he can't just be grateful for.
Neal rests his face in the dog's fur with a long, soft exhale.
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"I might need you to remind me a few times. It's still not a reaction I'm used to."
It's meant as a joke, but it also isn't one. Neal exhales quietly, rests his head on the back of the couch and stares up at the ceiling. He reaches out blindly to pet the nearest dog.
"It made me so fucking angry," he says, even more tired. "Jedao saying that to me on a public feed, you wanting to know where I was, Hakkai condescending to me about my own damage, like I--"
He stops a second. Sorts his thoughts, closes his eyes briefly. "Everyone tells me I need help. No one offers to help me with the thing that's most important to me, the thing that would actually make a difference. Not in a way that moves things forward. It's like telling someone at the side of the road with their car on fire that they should call a mechanic and considering that contribution a job well done. And every time someone tells me how fucked up I am it's another little needle under my skin, another voice in my head saying nothing I want to do to make things better matters. Wardens--always wardens--tell me no one will use it, no one will want to, no one will trust it, on and on, when what 'they' don't trust is that anyone gives a shit to begin with. And why should they. But the majority seem fine with that, so what's the point. After all we're not here to help each other, we're here to help ourselves and our inmates and whoever else we happen to personally care about, and screw the rest."
His soft cadence goes gradually more monotone, like the relief of saying it aloud sucks the energy for animation out of him.
"My inmate has spent more of our acquaintance unconscious than on his feet. We barely know each other, I haven't read his file, he wouldn't miss me. But anyone I could leave with, that I would want to leave with, isn't going anywhere yet. Probably not for a while. And unless I want to go back to prison or be trapped by the FBI again, it's inadvisable to go home."
Another long, slow exhale, and this time he closes his eyes and keeps them closed. "So, here I am, useless, being told how damaged I am whenever I try to get anyone on side with an idea they won't give a chance at a chance, picked to pieces by a bunch of people who can't seem to stomach the thought that this place isn't a utopia for everyone on board. So maybe it's me. Maybe it's just me, and the Admiral fucked something up somewhere dragging me in."
no subject
Shaw says nothing, still not wanting to interrupt here. But she spreads her legs further and further, until she's close enough to press her right knee into Neal's left.
no subject
Neal rests his face in the dog's fur with a long, soft exhale.