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[abrightboy]

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[conning]

“Let’s clean you up,” he says into Malcolm’s hair. “Can you get up?”

[abrightboy]

Can he? He is sure he can; there’s nothing wrong with his legs. Reluctantly, he lifts his head again, trying to move to the edge of the bed without letting go of his death grip on Neal.

[conning]

Neal lets Malcolm hang on and gathers Malcolm up into his arms, lifting the smaller man off the bed and carrying him into the bathroom. He sets him down on the closed toilet, starting a hot bath before he turns back to Malcolm and kneels in front of him.

Neal starts carefully unfastening Malcolm’s buttons, trying not to get dried blood under his nails. “I’ve got you.”

[abrightboy]

Malcolm watches Neal’s fingers on his buttons with the wonder of someone who’s never seen hands before. The truth is, he’s never seen hands treat him with this kind of care.

“You don’t have to…” he says weakly. He doesn’t want him to stop, but it seems selfish not to give him an out.

[conning]

“I know,” Neal says, gentle and patient and brushing off the idea that he’s doing this from obligation at the same time. He finishes the last button and stands enough to peel the blood-crusted shirt away from Malcolm’s skin. Neal kisses him gently. “It’s not about having to.”

[abrightboy]

Malcolm cooperates, pulling his arms out of the sleeves as Neal pulls them away, then finds himself staring at one of his own bloody hands.

“I had to carry him back to ADI,” he explains. He didn’t throw himself on the corpse. He loved George, but he wasn’t Neal. “I brought him back on foot.”

[conning]

“Jesus, Malcolm.” Neal leans forward and gives him a chaste kiss, not sure what else to say or do. Then he gets up, lifting Malcolm to his feet as well to get him out of his pants and underwear. The bath is about ready, scented with lavender and steaming.

[abrightboy]

“They just left him there.”

He looks at the water, then looks at Neal suddenly. “Are you coming in with me?”

[conning]

Neal looks at the tub, then at Malcolm. “I was going to stay with you. Help you clean up.”

If Malcolm wants him to get in the tub, though, he will.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm, fingers fidgeting against his leg, looks at the door and then at Neal.

“…But you’re not going to leave?”

He doesn’t want to ask that; he knows it’s childish, but he can’t stop himself. It’s one cut too many.

[conning]

“No, love.” He touches Malcolm’s face gently. “I’m not going anywhere.”

[abrightboy]

He’s mollified by that, by the touch, and he climbs into the bath, sinking down into it.

“Do you think they do it… to get more sadness to feed on? Bring people here and send them away? Do you think they feed on me a lot because I was already messed up when I got here?”

[conning]

"I wouldn't be surprised." Neal gets a wash cloth and soap and lathers it up, gently rubbing at the places where blood soaked through Malcolm's shirt to stain his skin.

[abrightboy]

“Doesn’t that make me a liability? To ADI… to you? To this whole world?” Malcolm guesses.

[conning]

"No," Neal says without hesitation. "You're not the only one who's ever felt those things. Or ever will. You're a source, you're not the source. I'm a source. Tim is a source. Everyone in this building is. We don't know every life story."

He keeps cleaning Malcolm up as he talks.

[abrightboy]

"I just... don't want them to take you when they get hungry again," Malcolm tells him.

[conning]

“If they try, I won’t rest until I get back to you.” He turns Malcolm’s face toward him with a fingertip. “I’m not leaving you. Not willingly, not ever. If they try and take me I’ll fight it. There’s always another way.”

[abrightboy]

That earns a watery smile.

“I love you,” he whispers.

[conning]

“What a coincidence: I love you,” Neal says, softly teasing. He sets the cloth aside and shifts around onto his knees to comb his fingers into Malcolm’s tangled hair. “Lie back. Let me shampoo you.”

[abrightboy]

Malcolm leans back, holding up one still crusty hand so he can look at it.

“Do you think it’s permanent? Death? Can’t he just… come from a different time in his life?”

[conning]

Neal wraps his damp fingers around Malcolm's bloodstained hand, skin prickling as he dips their linked hands under the water. "I don't know. I have no idea what's possible here."

He could plant that as a dream in Malcolm's head. George, back to life, stepping into the world anew--not knowing Malcolm every time. He tries not to heave at the instinct, forcing himself to get his mind back on the moment. "Don't lose yourself to wondering that, though. Please."

[abrightboy]

Malcolm is staring at Neal's hands scrubbing the caked dry blood off his own hand underwater, but then his gaze wanders up to Neal's face.

"I think I used up all the people who can like me now. I probably won't have friends anymore."

[conning]

“I understand that it feels that way.” God, he does, he does. Is that why the Lonely came to him the way it seems to have done?

The water is tinted a lovely shade of rusty red that makes Neal’s skin crawl. That’s blood. That’s George’s blood. That’s Malcolm’s good friend’s blood. He closes his eyes a moment to try and shake the nausea and goosebumps.

“I promise you, there’s not a limit on it. It might feel like you’ll never get that lucky again, but there’s not a limit on it.”

[abrightboy]

"I've never been that lucky before. I blame Dr Whitly for a lot but... I didn't really have friends even before that. I wasn't... shunned, like afterwards, but I didn't have friends. He didn't make me weird and... and off-putting."

[conning]

“Malcolm,” Neal pauses, reaching over to pull the plug on the bath and let the water run out so he can get fresh, clean water in to wash Malcolm’s hair. Something about washing his hair in blood-tinted water makes Neal’s stomach turn over. “I…”

How does he put this. How can he even begin to be convincing, when he feels the gnaw of the Lonely whispering about hot easy it would be right now to feed. Feed, that word, is what gets him to shake it off again. He’s not going to feed on Malcolm. “You maybe won’t ever have the most friends of anyone in the room. But you’ll have good ones. Me. Tim. People like Meredith and George. So you’re not everyone’s cup of tea. That’s why there are so many kinds.”