He knows. He knows why Malcolm can't, why he won't, and the bitter irony of it makes Neal sick. He can feel the ache of the fight with Raylan in his ribs and in his jaw, and for a moment he wishes he'd kept swinging.

Twenty-four hours. Less than, now. Neal skims his thumb back and forth over Malcolm's temple again, just for a moment, before letting go. "I do," he says softly.

You're in love with Malcolm too, aren't you.

Neal closes his eyes against the mixed lance of anger and longing. Raylan has this man, all of him, and he doesn't care enough to--

No. Just. Stop.

He opens his eyes to study Malcolm's face. "Do you want me to go? I can see if Doc will cover the rest of the night."

He's not asking Raylan. He'd ask Ainsley before he did that, at the moment.