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[abrightboy]

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[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.

[conning]

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."

[abrightboy]

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

[conning]

“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.”

[abrightboy]

"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?"

[conning]

“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.

[abrightboy]

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

[conning]

“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.

[abrightboy]

“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?”

[conning]

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.”

[abrightboy]

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

[conning]

“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.”

[abrightboy]

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

[conning]

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

[abrightboy]

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

[conning]

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.”

[abrightboy]

“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.”

[conning]

“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.”

[abrightboy]

“Why them?” Malcolm presses.

[conning]

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

[abrightboy]

“Do you resent them for that?” Malcolm asks, even as he can feel the bleeding slow. “Don’t you think you deserve better from them?”

[conning]

He does resent them. He resents them enormously, resents every joke at his expense, every time they teased him about his radius, every time they assumed the worst without giving him a chance. He can’t make himself say it. There’s a part of him that wishes, imagines, contorts itself into believing if he could just do a little better next time, they’d stop.

[abrightboy]

"Don't you think you deserve better than that?" Malcolm pushes.

[conning]

"Yes," he grates out, wanting to shout and dropping his voice to a whisper instead. "Yes. Yes I do."

He finally opens his eyes to stare at the ceiling. "One of the last things I said to Peter, before I got shot, was when... we found out Rebecca wasn't Rebecca. We were searching her apartment, and I said 'you think I deserve this.'"

He presses his lips together for a moment. "He said no one deserved it. Not that he didn't think I did. Just that no one deserved it."