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[abrightboy]

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[abrightboy]

Malcolm scritches his fur gently.

"Then we'll figure out how to work with it. But I think it's a bit early to jump to that particular scenario."

[conning]

"Work with it?" He relaxes slowly under the attention, even though he wants to stay wound up. There's still too much animal in him, and that part responds to the pleasant touch and soft words more than what's actually being said. "Work with it how? I'm a... a weasel. I don't have thumbs. I can't cook for you. I can't help with the house. I can't-- we can't..."

Kiss. Be intimate.

Still, he's going gradually limp with relaxation, and nuzzles his head a little more firmly against the spot under Malcolm's ear.

[abrightboy]

"Do you think I want to marry you because you cook? I survived for a long time before you came along, Neal. Alone. It wasn't as good as after you got here, but whether I would starve if you left was never a consideration," Malcolm tells him. "Anyway, you're not really a weasel. You were. For a bit. You've been changing back. You don't see it, do you?"

[conning]

"I'm a big weasel now instead of a small one." The words are miserable, but he can be both miserable and relaxed, at least. "What if I stop getting better? What if I just..."

What if he's just a giant freak of nature forever?

"I can't... I don't... I don't want to be like that. Like this." He stirs a little, the agitation starting to bubble up again. "You can't be happy with the idea of, of, of taking care of a giant pet when you should have a husband."

[abrightboy]

"You're sentient. You have all your memories and thoughts and feelings. Why can't you be a husband?" Malcolm asks. "We'll adapt."

[conning]

"I'm an animal," he says, plaintive. "I can't do anything for you. I'm... useless. Except maybe at catching mice."

Malcolm's hands stroking along his back are disarming. A jab of pain shoots through him, making his muscles tense briefly. "I can't do anything for you."

[abrightboy]

“Anything like what?” Malcolm counters. He notices the moment of physical tension. Growing pains, he thinks.

[conning]

"Like... people do for each other." Another little pang, another shudder. "I can't... can't get you presents, or... work, and help pay for the house. Or. I'm just a burden, I'm just a thing for you to take care of, I'm like a glorified dog, I saddled you with this house and I made you all these promises and now my ring doesn't even fit--"

[abrightboy]

“Name one promise you made me that you can’t keep.”

Malcolm knows full well there’s only one thing Neal has ever actually promised him.

[conning]

He goes quiet, tries to think of one, but the one that he thinks of is... leaving. He promised he wouldn't leave. Neal curls up on Malcolm's lap, folding in on himself miserably, the little splinters of pain going through him now steadily. "Why do you still want me?"

[abrightboy]

"Nothing's changed. Why wouldn't I?" Malcolm points out. "You're just a different shape. You're still you."

[conning]

"Am I?" It's mournful, but a little, little tiny bit hopeful. He doesn't know. He genuinely doesn't. "I can't. All the things I could do before... I can't do most of them. Like this. What if ADI won't keep helping because I can't work? I could steal, probably, but it would be. Different. Harder. I can't use tools."

[abrightboy]

"Doesn't Rue work for the ADI? Lives in their housing and everything. They're not human. Eda? Magnificent wings. Not human either. You can still work for ADI. Maybe you'll be better at security and investigations. Think of the spaces you can squeeze into. Think of your heightened sense of smell. You just have to figure out what your new talents are. And that's if you don't change back. You're in pain, aren't you?" Malcolm observes.

[conning]

"You'd still love me? Like a person, not a pet?" It's tiny, even as small as his voice already is right now. That's the thing that scares him more, he realizes. More than being stuck like this, more than almost anything. Having his mind, full and intact, and being treated like an animal.

When Malcolm asks about the pain, he shivers a little. "Yes."

[abrightboy]

"I do talk to my bird, I'll concede that. But she doesn't talk back, Neal. It's like you're asking me if I'd still love you if you lost your legs in a car accident. Do you think I'd abandon you if that happened? Or treat you like a pet?"

[conning]

“That’s different,” he says, though it’s not as certain as he sounded a minute ago. “That’s… a normal kind of loss. A normal kind of needing to adapt.”

He’s almost ashamed to admit that he was thinking about what the Lonely might be able to do when Malcolm joined him on the couch.

He doesn’t notice, not yet, but the fur is starting to come away under Malcolm’s hands and leave bare skin underneath.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm would not be amenable to that idea, but at least Neal knows the things he's saying are his honest reactions and not some kneejerk effort to keep him from making a deal with the Devil.

"It's exactly the same. 'Normal' is a setting on your dryer." A beat. "Do we have a dryer?" He shrugs off the thought. "Anyway. The pain. You experienced that when you changed, so you're probably still changing. Unless this..." He lets weasel hair fall from his fingers in front of Neal's face, "is Weasel Pattern Baldness."

[conning]

He straightens abruptly in Malcolm’s lap, looking from the hair to Malcolm to the hair again. Trying not to hope, trying not to let his spirits lift as quickly as they are.

His eyes, Malcolm will notice, are starting to freckle blue, and look a little disturbingly human in the oversized mustelid face. He looks at his back, the bare skin there that looks the a human kind of pale—is that wishful thinking?—and he yanks at another patch with his teeth.

That patch rips and he lets go with a little yelp. Apparently it’s not all ready to go yet.

But the pain, which has been persistent enough that he started to ignore it, is getting worse. Which is good, that has to be good, right?

He hides his face against Malcolm. “God, please, please, please please please.”

[abrightboy]

"It's okay," Malcolm tells him. "It's the change that you want. You're just changing. Don't try to force it."

What helps growing pains in kids? Heat. He looks at Neal. "Do you want a heating pad? It might help."

[conning]

“Yes please.” A spasm rockets through him and he whimpers, then grabs onto Malcolm with paws that have shorter nails and more dexterity. “No. Don’t leave me.”

[abrightboy]

"Gil and Tim aren't here," Malcolm tells him. "You can come with me, if you can manage it. I think it's in the bathroom in the cupboard."

[conning]

He tries, he really does, but he makes it as far as their bedroom before he gives up and curls into a ball on the bed to make noises he’d be embarrassed by if he was clearheaded enough to notice them. As it is he just hurts, hurts in waves, in stabs and crackles, hurts in tremors and pangs, and his inner landscape moves in a way that makes him want to throw up. He can feel it, feel it all, and it’s enough that he almost doesn’t even notice when Malcolm comes back with the heating pad. The smell of the other man, the warmth of him, makes Neal reach out with one fur-streaked hand.

“Please don’t leave me,” he whispers, tears blurring the world. Is he changing back? Is he changing back or is he dying? It feels like every piece of him is in motion in ways it shouldn’t be. And he’s pretty sure he just swallowed a tooth.

[abrightboy]

"You know I never will."

He turns on the heating pad.

"Where does it hurt the most?"

[conning]

“I don’t know. Everywhere.”

And it goes on and on and on.

He falls asleep from exhaustion before the pain fully fades, barely conscious of the fact that—naked and human—he practically climbs onto Malcolm’s lap on the bed before falling asleep again.

He doesn’t stir until morning, except to make tiny protests whenever Malcolm tries to get up.

[abrightboy]

"Neal," he whispers, trying to shift him. "I really have to pee now. I'll leave the door open. Okay?"