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There is probably a way that Andrew should be handling Neil right now. Is there a guide for caretaking when the man you’ve spent the past day grieving comes back from the dead, then promptly has to spend the day dealing with the FBI? Or at least something comparatively tragic?
Neil is a lump of cuts and bruises, face almost unrecognizable through the swelling and discoloration and bandages. His vicious tongue nearly masks his sluggishness, movement beleaguered by exhaustion and shock and painkillers. It’s a wonder that he’s been able to string together a coherent narrative these last five hours. It’s a wonder he’s still on his feet. Andrew wishes he was more surprised.
Neil should really be off his feet at this point. He’s standing at the table, which has been shoved against the wall to make room for their cots, distractedly fidgeting with the mini toiletries the FBI agents dropped off earlier. They’ve really gone all out to make the small FBI conference room a home. All they need is some cross-stitched throw pillows. Home Sweet Home. Live Laugh Love. You Have The Right To Remain Silent. It doesn’t change the fact that light streams in through the windows out to the rest of the office. There’s agents at their desks, moving about, guarding the conference room door. Andrew would give it a solid two stars. (He can admit he’s had worse accommodations.)
Is there etiquette for taking care of the boy who has turned your whole life upside down after he’s been kidnapped and tortured? Or at least for looking after someone who has just experienced trauma? Andrew thinks it might involve gentle touches and talking about feelings. He imagines approaching Neil now and taking his hand, kissing his cheek, telling him everything will be okay — it almost makes him cringe. There’s never been any need for that kind of affection in his life. The one brush he’d had with softness left him with rough lines down his forearms.
Andrew doesn’t go to Neil. Instead, he kicks at his cot, the metal ringing at the contact. Neil looks over to him, startled out of his trance.
“Shower?” Andrew asks, nodding to the mini shampoo bottle in Neil’s hand. Neil winces, then gestures to the loose bandages over his burn scars.
“Better not,” he says. His voice cracks between syllables. It was already worn thin when Andrew got his hands on him at the motel, and it’s steadily gotten worse through the questioning.
When Neil still doesn’t move, Andrew kicks off his shoes and sits down on his cot. He doesn’t plan on sleeping a wink tonight, but the action spurs Neil to mimic him. Andrew lies down, pulling the tissue paper sheets up to his shoulders. Monkey see, monkey do.
Bee would know what to do with Neil right now. Maybe the other Foxes would too. Is Neil wishing for something more? Is he hoping Andrew will come kneel beside his cot, wind his fingers through his hair, and whisper sweet nothings until he falls asleep? Neil doesn’t seem to crave those kinds of things, but Andrew has been watching him: the way he melts into hugs from the other Foxes, the way he looks up in pleased surprise when Dan squeezes his shoulder with pride. Andrew feels the way Neil shifts into every point of contact he is allowed when they hook up.
Neil is fine. He’s lying on his back, arms curled on his chest, staring in Andrew’s direction. Chances are very slim that he’s waiting for Andrew to comfort him, or to do anything for him at all except exist. Neil never expects anything from anyone. He barely even knows what he needs, what he wants, what he deserves.
“Do you have any more questions?” Neil asks.
Even yesterday — before the disappearance and the frantic fear, the panic and the rib-cracking relief, the truths and half-lies spewed all over this goddamned city — Andrew had questions for Neil. It’s never-ending, the list of things he wants to know. From the day he met Neil, he’s wanted to tear him apart ligament by ligament, committing his construction to memory. Right now, he wants to fracture Neil’s skull and dip his fingers between the wet folds of his brain; he wants to feel the synapses firing, to understand the pattern well enough to predict Neil’s actions so that this never happens again.
For now, though, he just shakes his head.
“Let’s see if you answer them tomorrow.”
Neil groans at the mention of the continued interrogation, lifting his hand to his head. It’s an aborted movement to push his hair off his face. He holds his bandaged arm in the air for a confused moment before letting it drop to his chest again.
Etiquette. Caretaking. Andrew doesn’t know the line between what’s Hallmark and what’s wanted and expected. It doesn’t really matter. He doesn’t know how to be the person who brushes Neil’s tangled curls off his forehead. He’s never even considered the possibility that he could be that person at all.
Neil shakes his head a couple of times, successfully getting his hair out of his eyes but wincing at the fog he’s sure to have stirred up in his narcotic-riddled brain. Andrew doesn’t get up to lay a soothing hand on Neil’s forehead. He doesn’t ask if Neil is okay. Instead, he turns toward the wall as if he’s going to sleep, staring at chipped paint and counting Neil’s breaths. It doesn’t take long for them to even out.
Monkey see, monkey do.
A guard dog is most effective as a deterrent — sharp teeth, loud bark, pass me if you dare, I won’t make it easy. Andrew was never any match for the mafia. When it comes down to it, he’s one man between Neil, Kevin, and an empire that wants to hurt them. But safety and security are not feelings rooted in reason. Despite everything, Andrew felt safe in Cass’s home — he did what he had to do to safeguard that sense of security until he had to shift to protecting Aaron instead.
Maybe he doesn’t have the right bedside manner, but Andrew is here. Deal or no deal, he told Neil what he’d give him if he stayed.
Neil is here. He is staying for good this time. He is resting.
Andrew turns over to watch out the window.