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[abrightboy]

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[abrightboy]

"Brought up what? Dealing with hard things by being dead?"

He shifts and puts Neal over his shoulder in a fireman carry, grunting only faintly as he starts up the stairs.

[conning]

Neal makes a slight noise of surprise and protest as Malcolm lifts him, more protest at the indignity than the necessity. His ears are ringing again.

"You're really strong," he says, still surprised. "She didn't mean it like that, just that... This flood is... taking away people's option to choose what they want to share. If they want to share. That it could be easier for people to wait it out instead of having to choose between stacking deaths up or baring their souls."

He has to enunciate carefully. His dizziness is building into a kind of fatigued nausea, the which isn't helped by Malcolm's rhythm on the stairs. "You're really strong."

[abrightboy]

"I do a lot of push-ups. Please explain how what you said is different from what I said, substantially," Malcolm responds a little breathlessly.

[conning]

Neal closes his eyes, hoping to stem the nausea a little with darkness, but his head is starting to pound with every step they take.

"Motivation," he mumbles.

[abrightboy]

"The motivation is avoiding the effects of the flood. Same motivation," Malcolm argues. "Same motivation as when you got here and suggested that maybe not dying was the wrong choice."

[conning]

"No," he says, a little irritated. "Different emotional motivation."

Which implies there was a distinct emotional motivation behind the whole dying thing but he's going to ignore that.

[abrightboy]

"Is there? I don't see it. You'll have to explain."

And if that also keeps him talking, it's a total coincidence.

[conning]

"Not tapping out permanently," he says, trying to find a more eloquent way of putting it and failing. He's tired. His head hurts. His eyes ache, weirdly, and his fingertips are tingling a little. "Not going out with the intent to stay gone."

[abrightboy]

"And if it works for this? How many times will you pull that tool out of the toolbox? What's the difficulty threshold for offing yourself to get out of it?" Malcolm asks.

[conning]

He hadn't thought of it like that. He doesn't have an answer for the question, and he's starting to drift too much to think of a deflection.

"Anklet," he murmurs instead. "It's where the anklet was. I don't know the anatomy. I do. But. Visual anatomy, not actual anatomy."

[abrightboy]

"Okay, why did you have a tracking anklet? They thought you were a flight risk?" Malcolm asks.

[conning]

"I was," he murmurs. "Got around it more than once. Cut it before."

A faint wisp of amusement colors his tone. "Drove them crazy when I was undercover and got to take it off."

[abrightboy]

"If you came back after that... why didn't they trust you?" Malcolm asks.

[conning]

Neal stays quiet. He doesn't know how to answer, because he's asked himself that question endlessly. Endlessly. Until it made him want to claw the thoughts out of his head through his own ears.

"I'm a criminal," he finally says, closing his eyes and letting them stay closed. The lids are annoyingly heavy.

[abrightboy]

“Wasn’t the point of working with them redemption?” Malcolm asks.

[conning]

“It was to get out,” he says, tired beyond words. It’s scaring him, the way he feels loose and limp across Malcolm’s shoulders. The way the spots where Malcolm’s angles dug into him feel more tingly now than painful, like his whole body is falling asleep. This is the way it felt on the floor of Rebecca’s apartment, with Peter desperately ordering him to hold on.

“Sorry,” he says, the word slurred.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm bursts out of the stairwell with him.

“Bullshit,” he says plainly.

[conning]

It takes a moment for the word to permeate. “What?”

[abrightboy]

“You heard me. That answer was bullshit. Don’t lie to me. Try again,” Malcolm tells him.

[conning]

“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.”

[abrightboy]

“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.

[conning]

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.

[abrightboy]

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.

[conning]

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.

[abrightboy]

“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.