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[abrightboy]

 This is Bright. Leave a message.

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[conning]

"Malcolm, I..."

Neal stops on the verge of an explanation, realizing he doesn't have one. He could tell Malcolm that something happened last night. That he lost control. But he liked it. It was freeing, it was the first time in so long that he hasn't felt the background tug of sadness or anxiety. Once upon a time, Neal Caffrey would have taken the out and dodged responsibility in a heartbeat.

He closes his mouth, jaw working a moment as he tries to figure out what to say.

It doesn't occur to him that he has no reason to feel bad about this. Not really. He's not beholden to Malcolm, he's not responsible for his feelings, he's not... They aren't anything.

He starts to say coffee sounds perfect. He starts to say mind if I come.

"I should. Check in with my roommates."

[abrightboy]

Malcolm was kind of hoping he would come but he isn’t surprised that he doesn’t. Still, he stammers “Oh. No. Yeah. They’re probably. Worried.”

Or not. Maybe this isn’t the first time. Maybe he does this brand of… not having a relationship. Maybe he does have a relationship and he doesn’t know how to say he found the exception to that self-inflicted rule and it just isn’t Malcolm.

Still, he doesn’t look well. Malcolm gestures between him and the building with an awkwardness that’s tinged with anxiety and the same thing (embarrassingly) colours his voice as he blurts out, “Do you need help?”

No reason not to be a good friend. Because they’re friends. They decided to be friends. Mutually.

[conning]

"No, that's, I." He pushes himself upright and his head starts to pound, making him stagger.

He does, in fact, need help, but he feels horrible at the thought of asking Malcolm for it.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm reaches out to steady him.

“Let’s just… get you inside,” he suggests, one hand holding Neal’s arm while he reaches for the door with the other.

[conning]

The guilt as Malcolm supports him up to the apartment is almost as nauseating as the hangover. Neal can't make himself look at the other man.

He fumbles his keychain out of his pocket at the door, leaning against the wall next to it as he sorts through the innocent-looking things that are actually picks to find the key. "You can. I've got it from here. Thanks. Really. Thank you."

[abrightboy]

Malcolm looks uncertain, looks like he might turn away, then doesn’t and gestures towards the apartment instead.

“I could… make you some coffee or something. That’s what friends are for, right?”

[conning]

Malcolm is too nice. He's too nice. Neal wants to tell him as much, wants to prompt Malcolm to be upset or angry or something, but he swallows the urge, fumbling his key into the lock.

"Thanks, but you don't need--"

--which is about when the door opens.

[retisense]

Abby had been sleeping...for a few hours, anyway, before she woke up out of a dream, which is pretty normal for her. So she's up and making herself some hot chocolate when there's the sound of a key being fumbled very, very awkwardly into the lock.

The sound continues. And continues. So she turns off the burner under the milk and heads over to the door, not particularly caring that she's dressed in an thigh-length t-shirt that says 'Good Vibes Only' and a pair of panties. After all, it's probably just Neal, since the person in question has a key.

Opening the door, she's confronted with not just Neal but also Malcolm.

"Oh, hey boys."

[abrightboy]

Malcolm looks over at the voice, blinks, then looks at Neal.

“I… guess you’re in good hands now,” he admits.

Neal doesn’t need his help anymore for real this time.

[conning]

"Um... yeah."

He can't meet Abby's eyes, or Malcolm's, and pretends to inspect a spot above the door for a moment before he forces himself to at least look at Malcolm's face. "Thanks. For walking me here."

[retisense]

Okay so this is just...impossibly awkward. Something has obviously gone down here and she doesn't know what it is, but there are just so many possibilities, some of which are amusing and some of which are horrifying, considering they live in spooky central.

"Thanks for walking him here. I kinda like the big lug and him coming home safe is important."

For a moment, she pauses, still impossibly awkward, then makes a snap decision.

"Malcolm, you should come in and have a cup of tea. I think tea would be good."

[abrightboy]

“Oh. Um. I….” He looks at Neal. “…Would… that be okay?”

[conning]

Neal's attention jerks to Abby, but he doesn't have time for more than a moment's dismay before Malcolm is asking if it's okay, and Neal doesn't know when or why it happened but he's pretty sure he would tell Malcolm just about right now if it meant making him happy.

"Yeah, sure. That's--yeah."

[retisense]

Well, this is just getting even more awkward. It's so awkward it's almost palpable in the air, and so cringey it hurts.

"Okay uh, why don't you two hang out at the table, I'll make tea. Do you have any preference? I've got...regular black tea, earl grey, green tea..."

[abrightboy]

“Green tea, thank you,” Malcolm tells her, folding his hands on the table as he sits, the steady one enveloping the shaky one and squeezing.

“I guess… stumbling home in the same clothes is the sign of a good night,” Malcolm observes in an awkward attempt at lightening the situation.

[conning]

"Do we have any mint left?" Neal looks at his hands on the table rather than at Malcolm or Abby. "It..."

For a second he frowns, then finally looks up at the two of them. "You didn't hear about anything strange happening last night, did you? Stranger than usual?"

[retisense]

"Okay, one green, one mint. Got it." she says, heading into the kitchen and turns on the electric kettle, getting three cups set up and putting tea bags into all three of them from various containers.

When Neal asks about something strange happening, she laughs, "Isn't something strange always happening around here? What kind of thing?"

[abrightboy]

Malcolm watches him curiously, letting Abby’s question linger for a moment before asking “That sort of situation isn’t something you normally… indulge in?”

[conning]

Neal looks down again, for a half-second, then forces himself to meet Malcolm's eyes again. This is good. It's a good thing. Don't deny it. "It isn't that, necessarily."

He frowns, rubbing his temple while he tries to put his aching skull to thinking about what he remembers. "But there was..."

His skin crawls as he remembers the last place, the only other place he felt that slipping control before. In that psychiatrist's office almost three years ago, when she drugged him. The only difference is, this felt good. Better than good.

"I was on a walk, and I heard music," he says, the words almost experimental. "Not like what was happening before, real music, and the people around me heard it too. It..."

He trails off again. He doesn't want to tell them how good it felt to let go. To stop thinking. To stop caring about anything but that moment of feeling good, and then the next, and the next. Neal leans forward and rubs his face with both hands.

"I don't know, maybe it was just a really good concert or something."

[retisense]

Neal's explanation is a little...confusing.

"So you heard really good music? That's not all that weird."

[abrightboy]

“And then he didn’t come home,” Malcolm clarifies. “Like the land of the Lotus Eaters?” He pauses. “Or more like the Sirens. Or… more like being tired of being tired and traumatized and burying yourself in a good time to feel anything else.”

[conning]

He looks at Malcolm again reluctantly, then back at Abby. Does he have to elaborate? Malcolm pretty much spelled it out, to Neal’s extreme discomfort.

“I heard the music and I lost track after that. I don’t remember a lot of last night.”

[retisense]

"Oh."

For a moment, she's quiet, then she speaks again, quietly, "Ohhhhhh."

Then a much longer moment of quiet, because she's now wondering if Neal and Malcolm finally did what they've been needing to do for quite some time, though maybe not in the best way possible.

"So, uh...did you two...?"

[abrightboy]

“No,” Malcolm tells her softly, squeezing his own hand against his tremor again. “Not me.”

[conning]

Neal studies his hands, feeling a little sick to his stomach. He doesn't even know the names of the people he slept with. He doesn't even remember their faces. It occurs to him, in an incidental way, that he should go to medical at some point after he gets some sleep.

Neal leans forward, pressing his face into his hands.