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[abrightboy]

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[conning]

Neal lets out a breathy laugh at his own omission of that from consideration. "It wasn't the first time. I guess I didn't count them."

[abrightboy]

"Sounds like you should count them more than once," Malcolm points out.

[conning]

Neal shrugs. "They're the FBI."

He's pretty sure he doesn't have to explain that to Malcolm--Neal has always had a very loose degree of concern when it comes to the people who lie to him and the ones who tell him the truth. He's forgiving of it, for the most part. And with some people--some groups--the lie is too expected to be a factor.

That's what he's told himself for the past year, anyway. The past two. It's not a betrayal if you were expecting it. It's how he's hidden that particular injury from himself.

[abrightboy]

"That should hold them to a higher standard, not a lower one," Malcolm tells him.

[conning]

"Maybe." He shakes his head. He'd certainly thought so, until everything with Rebecca. He'd thought so much of everyone until then, until he got kidnapped and they all assumed he ran. Assumed the worst, again. "Let's... talk about something else."

His elegant redirections are getting rusty.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm lets that inelegant redirection happen, though.

"Do you want some breakfast?"

[conning]

He smiles at that. "Sure. Want to practice something or stay simple?"

[abrightboy]

Malcolm smiles down at the blankets, letting his fingers fidget along Neal's forearm.

"What would make you happy to eat?"