His grip on Malcolm's hands tightens a little, unintentionally, as the man speaks. His throat feels squeezed. It's hard to breathe, but not, ironically, because Neal can't stand what Malcolm's saying.

It's because Malcolm gets it.

"I tried to explain that to Peter. My partner at the FBI. He said he didn't believe it. That I wasn't my father." Neal makes a soft sound. Not a laugh. The bastard stepchild of a laugh, maybe. "I was my father's son before I even knew who he really was."