abrightboy | Voicemail (IC Contact Post) OLD

“It was,” he mumbles, irritated again. The emotion is a distant, sticky thing. “Wanted out, wanted…”

Except after a while it wasn’t about getting out. The unit is a family, Peter’s family, Neal’s family—but he’s a criminal. He’s a criminal, and family only goes so far.

“Kitten,” he says suddenly, sparking on something important. “B has the kitten.”

“Good. You found the contingency plan. You never really wanted it, right? You’re getting out of here, too. You don’t need us or this place or that cat. Unload it like the baggage it is.”

Malcolm slams open the infirmary door and manoeuvres him onto a bed, then looks down into his face.

“When you get back, we’re going to talk about how all of that is a lie too. Lies are literally killing you right now. I hate to be the pushy Warden, but you need to start owning your feelings. This literally cannot stand. Good night. See you soon.”

He steps back from the bed, grabbing the nearest medical personnel to show them the wound, but he’s not naive enough to think it’s not too late. They can wrap it tight enough he’ll have more time when Neal gets back. He knows what direction they have to pull in now.

Neal tries to say that isn't what he meant, but he's not sure it comes out. Malcolm's words hurt, and then he goes on, and Neal closes his eyes to try and stave off the crushing mix of fear and resignation.

He doesn't have to fight it long. He starts losing his grip entirely moments later, and reaches out limply with one hand to try and grab on to someone as he dies.

Malcolm's still there. He never went far. He holds Neal's hand until he's gone, then lays it on his chest.

But he won't let him just sit this out. That's not an answer or a contingency plan. He contacts the Admiral.

And Neal... wakes up. It's just like any other return to consciousness, except as soon as he's aware, he's also aware he feels terrible. He feels terrible, and this isn't his apartment or Peter's place or, from more recent memory, his cabin.

He groans softly and tries to lift one tired arm to shield his eyes from the lights of the infirmary.

“Oh good; you’re back. We have to make this fast because I’m sure your appetite to keep doing this is at least as little as mine. The tracking anklet: it chafes. Emotionally. Tell me why,” Malcolm says, leaning close over the bed.

He doesn't say What? which is what he wants to do, both to stall and because it's a little disorienting to have that question posed the moment he opens his eyes. His vision burns and blurs. He tells himself it's from the lights.

"They don't trust me," he manages. "They don't trust me. They never have."

"Why not? You've done what you said you would do. Why wouldn't they trust you?" Malcolm asks.

“I don’t know,” he says tiredly. He closes his eyes, wondering if he lets himself die if Malcolm will hold off on bringing him back again. He’s so tired. “Because they’re feds and I’m a con man. Because I’ve lied to them in the past, because I don’t tell them everything, I don’t know.”

"But you said they were your family," Malcolm points out.

He absolutely won't let you stay dead, Neal. Please.

"Do you think that was fair of them?"

“No,” he says, though there’s a defeated undertone to the word.

Is he still bleeding? He’s pretty sure the dampness at his ankle is new, or at least new to the last few minutes. It’s warm, anyway, and presses close to his skin like it’s being held there by a bandage.

"How does that make you feel?" Malcolm asks.

“Tired,” he says.

It’s honest enough. It’s the tip of the iceberg, a veneer that shallowly hides so much more. The conversation he overheard between Jones and Peter, the latter advising Jones against volunteering to be his handler, plays in Neal’s head with a thousand other dialogues as a backing chorus. His eyes burn, and and he gasps in pain as a fresh injury starts to form in the spot where Agent Seigel got shot, blood blossoming against Neal’s shirt as it feels like someone with very sharp nails is digging their thumbs down into his skin.

“What’s this?” Malcolm asks, putting pressure on it with both hands, unable to school his voice into something less shrill and panicked. “What’s this from?”

He gasps in pain, meeting Malcolm’s eyes with fear and helplessness of his own. “My handler. Got shot, my fault.”

He gasps again, this time for air. “Trying to protect Peter. Couldn’t tell anyone what happened.”

"How is that your fault?" Malcolm asks desperately.

“He got shot by the person who shot me.” This isn’t going to work. He has to start sooner for it to make any sense. Does it have to make sense to the person he’s telling, is that part of the curse, or does it just have to make sense to him? The academia of the situation distracts him a moment, making him drift, but he doesn’t have time, he can’t afford distraction. He orients on Malcolm again. “I was protecting Peter. Broke the law to do it. Seigel… must have seen, something, don’t know what.”

“But how is that your fault?” Malcolm presses again. “Who made you think it was?”

“Should’ve been more careful,” he says softly. “Made more sure I wasn’t followed. Overconfident, distracted…”

"Victim-blaming," Malcolm says. "You can't control who chooses to prey on you."

Neal hates how close he is to tears again. He’s still bleeding, oblivious to the fact that it’s at least slowed a tiny bit. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I want you to tell me why it hurts you,” Malcolm says. “Why do all these things hurt you? I think the reason is the same.”

“I don’t know,” he says, and he believes it, or half believes it. There’s truth to the statement, though a thousand emotions he can’t pin down boil underneath. “I just. Want them to…”

He gives a helpless little sound of frustration. “I don’t know what I want. I want them to trust me.”

“Why them?” Malcolm presses.

“They’re my family,” he finally says. “They’re the only family I have.”

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject