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[abrightboy]

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[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."

[abrightboy]

"Do you ever want to tell him it's not enough? His... stern chiding?" Malcolm presses.

[conning]

Neal subsides again. "He loves me."

He squeezes his eyes shut. "He cares about me. More than most people. More than--he really is family. I wouldn't have done everything I've done to protect him if he hadn't earned it. He's risked everything for me. More than once."

[abrightboy]

"So why won't he trust you?" Malcolm asks.

[conning]

"Because I'm a criminal," Neal says, the words tired. Tired in multiple senses of the word. He doesn't have a better answer.

[abrightboy]

"But isn't that what he brought you there to do?" Malcolm asks.

[conning]

Neal tries to parse the question for a moment before answering. "Brought me where?"

[abrightboy]

"To the FBI. To his family. Because you understood things he didn't and you could do things he couldn't. Crime things. He doesn't trust you because of things he asked you to do and you did them?" Malcolm clarifies.