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[abrightboy]

 This is Bright. Leave a message.

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[abrightboy]

"That must be why the bleed slowed." He talked to Misty. "I thought maybe I was finally clotting or something."

Yes he's missed entire conversations on the network. He has no idea.

"So. Wait." He screws up his face. "Weren't the FBI using you for your skills? ...Did you know anyone who wasn't?"

Stream of consciousness profiling.

[conning]

Neal blinks in surprise at the question. "Of course."

Of course he does. Doesn't he?

He shakes off the moment of uncertainty.

"You talked to someone, though. That's good."

[abrightboy]

"Is it? Oh. Well. That's what I do. Talk to people. They usually don't like it much, though," he admits.

[conning]

He frowns. "What? Why not?"

[abrightboy]

"I make people uncomfortable. People don't like to be seen," Malcolm tells him dreamily.

[conning]

That dreaminess makes Neal's arms tingle with goosebumps.

"No," he says, because Malcolm is right. The confirmation is gentle though. "They don't. We don't."

Because he doesn't, either. "Do you talk to people about themselves? Or do you talk about yourself, too?"

Maybe he can redirect the other man into helping himself.

[abrightboy]

“Both. …Don’t I? I think I do.”

His head rolls back to centre and he looks up at the empty birdcage.

“How’s your kitten doing?”

[conning]

"B's taking care of him. He didn't like the blood smells, which. Can't blame him." Neal glances toward the birdcage, realizing for the first time that it's not decorative. "...You have a bird?"

[abrightboy]

“At home I do,” he says wistfully. He looks at Neal again. “I’m not trying to be in hospitable. Just the last time this happened, I found laying on the floor conserving energy kept me alive long enough to escape.”

[conning]

"What happened last time?" He's curious. Genuinely, even aside from all the worry. "You escaped?"

[abrightboy]

“I was shackled to the floor. He was going to kill my family. I had to break my hand. He lifts his left hand, flexes it in front of his face. The cuff was three inches. I broke my first metacarpal bone, so my hand would be three inches, too,” Malcolm explains.

[conning]

He internally recoils from the thought of deliberately breaking his own hands. They're his primary tools, his most valuable asset.

If it came down to saving someone or hurting himself that way, though. It wouldn't be much of a choice. "You saved them, right? Your family?"

He'll get to the who from in a minute.

[abrightboy]

“Yeah. It was easy. He was claustrophobic. Like me. From being locked in a closet as a kid. Like me. I hit him with a crowbar and locked him in a box. Neutralized.”

He looks over. “Psychology. See? He was a dangerous psychokiller, but I didn’t need lethal force to defend us. I saw him. He sat in that basement and talked to me for hours. He thought he was teaching me, but I was learning him.”

[conning]

"Like you." Neal's stomach turns over a little at the idea of Malcolm being locked in a closet. That's another thing to add to the list of questions. First, though, he drags himself to his feet, wincing a little, and he goes to get the other man some water.

He sits back down and tries to ease Malcolm up enough to drink some. "Why... Why did he take you? Why did he want to hurt your family? Did they know he had you down there?"

[abrightboy]

When Neal starts easing him up, he puts a hand tightly over his wound, but he manages a couple sips of water before choking a bit on one.

“He worked with my father before he was caught. He wanted me to take his place. He wanted to mentor me the way my father mentored him. Nobody knew where he took me. Until I escaped, the only people who knew about the tunnels were him and my father.”

[conning]

"Why did he hurt you? Why wouldn't-- how is that mentoring you?" He's horrified, thanks.

[abrightboy]

“It was a ritual, for him. If I passed the trials, then he could teach me how to be like him,” Malcolm explains. “It was also revenge. Apparently I stabbed him when I was ten.”

[conning]

"Good for your ten year old self," Neal mutters. He chews the corner of his lip. "Why do you think this showed up? This injury? Why not... I don't know, your hand?"

[abrightboy]

Malcolm looks pained.

“Because… that’s when I found out.”

[conning]

Neal feels a little guilty. He feels like Malcolm wouldn't be saying this if he was more coherent. But it will help, he also knows that.

And he's curious.

"When you found what out?"

[abrightboy]

“I’d seen too much. The chloroform was losing efficacy,” he recites miserably. “He told me they took me on the camping trip to kill me.” Dull eyes look to meet Neal’s. “My father wanted to kill me.”

[conning]

It's worse than Neal expected, somehow. Yeah, sure, Malcolm's dad is a serial killer. He never kept that a secret. But Neal knows. He knows what it's like, to want something more from a man who won't give it. He knows what it's like to be betrayed. The look on his own father's face the last time they saw each other, the threat of violence hanging in the air-- Neal bites his lip.

"I'm sorry." He blinks a few times to keep himself from getting too obviously emotional, clears his throat, ignores the ache of the gunshot wound that comes with the use of those muscles. "I'm sorry."

[abrightboy]

“He wants to use me, too,” Malcolm tells him. “What did she want you for?”

[conning]

"She was looking for the Hope Diamond's lost twin," he admits. "Well. We were, I guess. A man named Mosconi hid it, once upon a time, and left clues to its whereabouts in case of his death. Which happened, predictably enough."

A pause, then, "How are you feeling?"

[abrightboy]

“A bit better. Did you love her?” Malcolm asks.