Chapter Text
Neil has never fucked up this badly with Andrew before. He’s sure about that, because all Neil’s other worst mistakes have brought Andrew running after him. Neil has never messed up so badly that he made Andrew run away. Until the handcuffs.
Neil first finds them while helping the cousins move back into Fox Tower after summer break. He’s unpacking a box of Andrew’s old stuff from the Columbia house when he pulls the cuffs from a jumble of spare armbands, Eden’s Twilight beer koozies, and old comic books.
For a couple seconds, Neil doesn’t know what he’s looking at. The wide leather cuffs have soft, padded interiors, and look nothing like the metal bracelets Neil was locked in by his father, Lola, Riko, or the FBI. Neil’s first, dumb thought is that maybe this is some kind of unfamiliar workout gear. But then Neil registers the thin metal chain connecting the leather pads, and realization clicks. “Oh,” he says.
Andrew, who’s been transferring clothing from a suitcase into a dresser across the room looks over at Neil, then down at the handcuffs.
“Sorry,” Neil says, even though Andrew didn’t mention anything about this box being off-limits, and he doesn’t exactly look angry or embarrassed by Neil’s find.
All Andrew says is, “Forgot those were in there,” before looking back up at Neil, expression utterly impassive — waiting, apparently, for Neil to react first.
For a few moments, Neil struggles for any reaction at all. “You still have these?” he says stupidly.
Andrew doesn’t dignify that question with a response, which — fair. Neil rubs his thumbs absently along the soft inner lining of the cuffs while he figures out what he actually wants to ask. “Do you,” he says eventually, “still want to use them?”
“I do not need them,” Andrew says, and Neil’s stomach floods with warmth at the unexpected admission of trust.
“That’s not what I asked,” Neil points out.
Andrew is silent for so long that Neil starts to think he won’t respond at all. But then Andrew says, “Would you want to?”
It’s enough of an answer to Neil’s question that he doesn’t call Andrew out for deflecting.
Neil weighs his response carefully. It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it. Ever since Roland made that careless comment last spring, Neil figured that Andrew might ask him about using handcuffs eventually, and he wanted to be prepared.
Neil can be reckless about a lot of things, but not about this. Never about Andrew.
The first point to consider, obviously, is that Neil doesn’t exactly have the greatest history with handcuffs. But Neil doesn’t exactly have the greatest history with knives, either, and that’s never been a problem with Andrew. Besides, Andrew holds Neil’s hands over his head all the time, and Neil likes that. Handcuffs, he reasons, would achieve basically the same effect while leaving Andrew’s hands free for — other things.
Plus, this is something Andrew clearly wants. Maybe not right now, but at least to have as an option on the table later. Andrew isn’t used to getting what he wants, and Neil likes being the one Andrew trusts enough to ask. He likes being able to tell Andrew yes.
“I might be open to it,” Neil says, aiming for a response that’s vaguely positive enough to tell Andrew yes, without being so definitive that Andrew will dismiss it as thoughtless.
Neil must strike the right balance, because Andrew accepts his answer with a single nod and goes back to unpacking.
For a while, that’s that. The handcuffs go in the bottom of Andrew’s sock drawer and aren’t mentioned again, until Neil and Andrew finally have a Saturday night to themselves in October.
The first two months of sophomore year have been a hectic blur. With six new freshmen to train, Neil is spending more time than ever on the court, day and night. His new vice-captain duties also involve regular meetings with Dan and Wymack to discuss practices, devise new plays, and analyze other teams’ new lineups. On top of all that, Neil’s multivariable calc class is kicking his ass, so he barely has any time for the boxing lessons he finally set up with Matt.
The only times Neil feels like he can really catch his breath are when he’s exchanging smokey kisses with Andrew on the roof or lying beside him in bed. So when Nicky suggests they hit up Columbia for Columbus Day weekend, Neil is relieved that Andrew agrees to stay behind with him.
Aaron, predictably, doesn’t care. Kevin, predictably, says that if Neil and Andrew are going to be on campus, they might as well get some practice in. Nicky, predictably, arches an eyebrow and makes a suggestive comment about what Neil and Andrew are likely to get up to with the suite all to themselves — before Andrew shuts the door in his face and there’s finally quiet.
Andrew and Neil spend most of Saturday driving to and from an apple orchard. Mostly because they’re both in the mood to drive somewhere, anywhere, but also because Betsy apparently says this place has amazing cider doughnuts that Andrew wants to try.
The orchard is… quaint. When Neil and Andrew pull into the gravel parking lot, several families are picking through a pumpkin patch outside a general store.
“I’m not apple picking,” Andrew says, when he catches Neil reading the sign over the entrance to the orchard.
“Of course not. Apple picking is a tall man’s game,” Neil says, which earns him an elbow to the ribs, rather than a knife, possibly only because they’re passing a flock of small children gathering for a hayride.
Inside the store, Neil follows Andrew around the creaky floorboards to browse the merchandise. Neil had no idea it was possible to make so many different kinds of things out of apples. “What the fuck is apple butter?” he says, holding up a jar.
“Delicious,” Andrew says, taking the jar from Neil and picking up another, which Neil assumes is for Bee.
Neil buys a pack of black licorice to chew while Andrew sips hot cider and eats doughnuts on the store’s front porch. The whole place as the rich, bitter smell of autumn leaves, and the clouds are so white they look painted on the sharp blue sky. It’s nice.
Neil is still getting used to this — having nice things, and learning how to enjoy them without constantly wondering when and how they’ll end in gruesome tragedy. Sometimes it’s hard. After living so much of his life on the defensive, Neil’s first instinct is still to brace himself through every pleasant moment like it’s the calm before a storm. Luckily, Andrew is usually there to flick Neil on the forehead or snap his fingers in front of Neil’s face to make him “stop thinking so goddamn hard.”
Today, though, it’s difficult to worry. Holding Andrew’s warm — always warm — hand over the Maserati console on the drive home, Neil Josten genuinely does feel absolutely, perfectly fine.
Oh, the fucking irony.
At home, they eat Chinese takeout on the sofa, Neil’s feet kicked up on the coffee table and Andrew’s wedged between Neil’s thigh and the couch. Neil watches the Chicago Thunderbolts take on the Miami Warriors, while Andrew does the crossword in a paper he stole from Kevin’s room.
Andrew, Neil recently learned, is a huge nerd about crosswords. He even has an app on his phone where he races against other online players to solve puzzles.
(“When do you have time for this?” Neil said, scrolling through the hundreds of solved crosswords in Andrew’s app history.
“You didn’t think I actually watched your night practices, did you,” Andrew said.)
Andrew never does crosswords with anyone else around — the same way he only listens to pop radio when he’s alone with Neil in the car, and only ever reads crime novels up on the roof. Neil doesn’t know whether it’s because Andrew is just naturally private, or because the Foxes make such a huge deal out of it whenever Andrew does anything normal. (The first time Matt saw Andrew wearing reading glasses, he did a literal spit-take.)
Whatever the reason, Neil knows not to take these small gifts of trust for granted.
Neil mutes the Chicago-Miami game as it goes to halftime and makes a grabby hand at Andrew’s newspaper. “Comics?”
Andrew gives Neil’s hand an unimpressed look over the top of the paper. “You are a child.”
“I’ve seen you eat Fun Dip powder with your finger,” Neil reminds him.
Andrew elects not to answer that as he hands Neil the comics section.
Neil only started reading comics while on the run because an open newspaper was a pretty good way to hide his face on public transport, but he actually kind of likes them now. He’s in the middle of a Garfield strip when Andrew flexes his toes under Neil’s thigh to get his attention. “French word for ‘gentleman,’” Andrew says.
“Monsieur,” Neil says.
“Spell that.”
Neil does.
Andrew shakes his head. “Something else. ‘A gentleman, in Paris.’ Eight letters.”
“It’s definitely monsieur,” Neil says.
“That definitely doesn’t fit.”
“Then another one of your answers is definitely wrong.”
It shouldn’t be possible for someone to express such profound skepticism without making any discernable facial expression at all, but somehow Andrew manages it.
Neil rolls his eyes and takes the newspaper to scan Andrew’s answers.
“See,” Andrew says. “Like I said — ”
“Thirteen down is wrong,” Neil says, handing the paper back to Andrew with a smirk. “It ends in ‘i,’ not ‘a.’”
Andrew narrows his eyes at Neil, then at the puzzle. “‘Et al’ is short for ‘et alia.’”
“For the neutral plural, sure,” Neil says. “Et alii is the masculine plural.”
Andrew’s gaze returns to Neil. “Since when do you speak Latin?”
“Since I was twelve.”
“What, for all the time you and your mother spent on the run in Ancient Rome?”
“For all the times we couldn’t risk being overheard in public,” Neil says.
“And you didn’t think to mention this before we started learning Russian,” Andrew says.
“I need at least one language to myself,” Neil says, then switches to Latin. “For when I need to call someone a psychotic midget to his face without getting stabbed."
Andrew leans toward Neil, a dangerous glint in his eye. “Are you shit-talking me in a dead language right now?”
“Why?” Neil says with a wicked grin. “Is it hot?”
“No,” Andrew says, hooking a finger in the collar of Neil’s shirt to drag him in for a kiss.
Neil’s snicker breaks off with a gasp as Andrew’s teeth sink into his lower lip. He allows Andrew to push him back against the armrest, reveling in the closeness. Andrew braces one hand on the armrest to hold himself just above Neil and tangles the other in Neil’s hair, gripping just tight enough to set the nerves on Neil’s scalp tingling pleasantly.
Neil breaks the kiss to ask, “Shoulders?”
“Yes,” Andrew says, and Neil hums appreciatively against his mouth. Andrew has nice shoulders. Neil trails his fingers up Andrew’s biceps to hold on tight, resisting the urge to pull Andrew flush against him.
No one else has ever gotten this close to Neil with the intent of bringing pleasure rather than pain. It’s still a shock, every time, just how much Andrew makes Neil like inhabiting his own body. For most of his life, Neil has regarded his body as nothing more than a blunt tool necessary to maintain for survival. A liability when it wasn’t properly disguised. A harsh reminder, whenever Neil had to remove his shirt or contact lenses, of everything he had to fear.
Neil doesn’t know whether it’s like this for everyone, or it’s just because he’s still so new to it, but when Andrew kisses Neil like this, desire cascades down his spine and pools so sweetly in his lower belly that Neil thinks he could lose himself to the sensation forever.
“Bedroom,” Andrew says, voice tight, and Neil nods. Andrew’s hand slips into one of his own to pull Neil off the couch and into the other room.
“Your bed or mine?” Neil says, because sometimes Andrew can’t stand messing around in his own bed. Other times, he can’t stand doing it anywhere else. If there’s a pattern, Neil hasn’t figured it out yet.
“Mine,” Andrew says, kicking the door shut behind him.
Neil flops down on the pillows against Andrew’s headboard, but Andrew pauses on his way over to open the bottom drawer of his dresser. When he stands up, he has the chain of the handcuffs hooked over one index finger. “Yes or no?”
Neil is surprised, but doesn’t ask Andrew why. It’s been a while since they’ve done this — that is, since Neil and Andrew have had enough time and space away from the rest of the Foxes to do more than steal a few minutes behind a closed door or a shower together. Maybe Andrew needs the handcuffs tonight.
Neil knows that Andrew trusts him. But trust does not equal comfort. Neil is reminded how close they are to the edge of Andrew's comfort zone every time Andrew orders Neil out of the room to finish alone, or places Neil’s hands on his hips only to move them back to his hair moments later. Which is fine. Neil has never felt safer than he does with Andrew, and he would do whatever it takes to make Andrew feel as safe with him.
“Yes,” Neil says, and when Andrew doesn’t move, “It’s a yes, Andrew. Come here.”
Andrew does, dropping the handcuffs onto the mattress in favor of taking Neil’s face in his hands and kissing him again. Neil smiles against Andrew’s lips and fists a hand in the front of Andrew’s shirt to invite him closer. But Andrew pulls back just enough to say, “Shirt.”
It sounds like a command, but Neil knows better. “Yes,” he says, ducking forward to steal another kiss before tugging his shirt over his head. As soon as it’s discarded on the floor, Andrew pushes Neil back against the pillows. Andrew’s eyes rake over Neil’s bare skin in a way that, a year ago, would have made Neil go cold with fear, but now warms Neil’s whole body with anticipation.
“Anywhere,” Neil says, preempting the question. “I’ll tell you if I need to stop.”
It’s taken a lot to get to this point, where Andrew will accept a yes-until-it’s-a-no from Neil. But now, Andrew doesn’t hesitate to brush his fingertips over the ridges across Neil’s chest. Andrew must have long memorized the extensive topography of Neil’s scar tissue, but he still looks at Neil’s body like it’s the first time, every time.
Neil vividly recalls the actual first time he felt Andrew’s calloused fingers skim across his bare chest. Andrew’s gaze was hungry then, too. Determined and demanding. In hindsight, Neil understands that Andrew had needed to see the ugly proof that they were the same — that whatever brokenness Andrew recognized in Neil wasn’t as fake as the rest of him.
Andrew’s hands are attentive in a different way when they trace Neil’s scars now. Instead of demanding confirmation, they offer their own reassurance: Andrew sees Neil. He knows Neil. Somehow, he wants Neil anyway.
“Andrew,” Neil says, breathless and a little helpless as Andrew’s hands graze over Neil’s ribs, down to his hips, fingers curling just enough to drag blunt nails over Neil’s skin and send a tremble through him. Nothing has never made Neil feel more invincible and exposed, more reckless and protected, than having Andrew touch him, and he makes a slightly embarrassing noise when Andrew removes his hands.
“Yes or no?” Andrew says again, holding up the handcuffs, eyes dark with intent.
“Still yes,” Neil says, and means it. He’s fine. He wants this.
It doesn’t even really feel like getting cuffed. There’s no bite of cold around Neil’s wrists when Andrew secures his hands to the headboard. There’s only the soft padding against his skin and the warmth of Andrew interlocking their fingers as he covers Neil’s mouth with his own.
It’s not that much different than the other times Andrew has held Neil down — until Andrew’s fingers slip from between Neil’s, leaving Neil to grasp at thin air. The sudden emptiness feels strangely like freefall. Adrenaline jolts Neil’s stomach.
Excitement, he thinks.
Neil is glad, though, that Andrew’s hands don’t immediately go back to roaming his body. Instead, Andrew holds Neil’s scarred cheek in the palm of one hand, fingertips against Neil’s temple. He curls the fingers of his other hand around Neil’s neck, thumb against Neil’s racing pulse. Neil strains up toward Andrew to deepen the kiss, ignoring the slight twinge of discomfort in his right shoulder. Must have overextended it during practice. Neil subtly adjusts his body into a more comfortable position and allows the heat of Andrew’s lips to burn him down to embers.
But then Andrew is gone — no, not gone, just shifting down to pepper kisses along Neil’s jawline.
“Andrew,” Neil breathes, arching up into the contact, despite the pinch in his shoulder, as Andrew sucks a mark that Nicky is going to give them so much shit for into Neil’s neck. Neil doesn’t care. He clenches his fists in an attempt to anchor himself, unmoored as ever by the thrill of having someone — having Andrew this close.
It’s a little overwhelming. Overwhelming in a good way, sure, but Neil needs — he needs something more grounding than Andrew’s hands, now on his hips, holding him down. Without thinking, Neil reaches for the designated safe zone of Andrew’s shoulders and —
Neil doesn’t know whether it’s the violent jerk of restraint, or the horribly familiar clatter of the chain, but all his molten arousal suddenly cools over into solid, heavy dread.
It doesn’t make sense. Neil was fine. More than fine. He’s safe at home with Andrew, and this should be the best possible ending to one of Neil’s best days in a long time, but when Neil squeezes his eyes shut to try to get a grip on himself, all he can see is —
Riko grinning down at him with vicious pleasure as he slices Neil open.
Riko’s eyes reflecting the orange glow of the lighter licking Neil’s skin.
Riko dragging his tongue through the blood on Neil’s neck.
Riko watching Neil strain against his handcuffs despite the pain shooting through both his shoulders.
Riko laughing as a tattoo gun needle digs into Neil’s cheek.
Riko, Riko, Riko, dark and smothering and impossible to escape. Panic knifes through Neil as he yanks uselessly against the cuffs. No, no, no —
And then he’s saying it aloud, “No, no, no,” because Neil can speak. Because there isn’t a gag cutting into the sides of his mouth. Because Neil isn’t at Evermore. He’s at home with Andrew, who’s right there when Neil opens his eyes — only kneeling near the foot of the bed now, not touching Neil at all.
Ever since Andrew came off his meds, Neil has gotten a lot of practice reading the faint shades of emotion that pass for expressions on Andrew’s face. But never, not even in Andrew’s medicated, manically expressive days, has Neil seen him wear anything like his current look of horrified shock. While Neil struggles for breath, Andrew doesn’t appear to be breathing at all.
For the first time in a long time, Neil is left to bring himself back from the brink of a panic attack without the benefit of Andrew’s grounding touch on the back of his neck. It’s harder than he remembers. Neil sucks in shallow inhales and releases them in uneven exhales while mentally counting to ten in German, French, English, and back again. Neil gradually regains control of himself, but as his panic ebbs, horrified guilt quickly rushes in to take its place.
“I won’t be like them,” Andrew said. “I won’t let you let me be.”
But now Neil has, and he has no fucking clue what to do. The yes-or-no system has never broken down. There’s no fail-safe for this.
Neil’s first instinct is to reach for Andrew, and the fact that he can't brings the specter of Riko looming large again in Neil’s mind. Neil shoves the thought violently away and, as steadily as he can, says, “Can you unlock me?”
He hopes Andrew can stand getting close enough to him for that.
Luckily, Andrew doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t touch Neil in the process of releasing him, either. As Neil sits up, Andrew sits back, just as far away as he was before. His face is utterly bleached of emotion, now — so blank that not even Neil can get a good read.
Neil, shivering in the absence of Andrew’s body heat, draws his knees up to his chest. “Thanks,” he says, rubbing phantom pains around his wrists.
Andrew doesn’t respond. The brittle silence lasts several seconds before Neil realizes he’ll have to be the one to break it.
“Sorry about that,” Neil says, ignoring the goosebumps rising along the backs of his arms. It was always cold in the Nest. “I’m fi — ”
“Don’t.”
Andrew’s tone is cold as liquid nitrogen, and sets Neil’s every hair standing on end. Neil wraps his arms around his shins and tucks his chin between his knees. But it does nothing to shield him from the deathly chill of Andrew’s voice when he says, “What happened.”
Neil swallows and rubs the juncture of his neck and shoulder where Riko bit — no, where Andrew kissed him mere minutes ago. Neil doesn’t want to unpack what just happened, especially not when he’s just barely succeeded stuffing all the unpleasantness into a back corner of his mind. What Neil wants is to curl up in the space between Andrew’s arms, like he curled up on Wymack’s couch after New Year, and pretend Evermore never happened.
Neil knows why Andrew needs an explanation, though. And he knows there’s little chance of Andrew ever touching him again if Neil doesn’t give one.
“It wasn’t you,” Neil says, because that’s the most important thing. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Andrew says nothing.
Neil cards a hand through his hair and hooks it around the back of his neck. “I shouldn’t have reacted like that,” he says, which is true. Neil was fine. “I just — Riko — ”
The rest of Neil’s explanation gets stuck behind a sudden, unexpected lump in his throat.
Andrew, however, seems to have no trouble filling in the blanks. His eyes drop to the arm Neil has wrapped around his shins. Neil never gave Andrew all the details of what happened at Evermore, and the damage Riko did to Neil’s wrists is mostly obscured by the mess Lola left. But Neil has no doubt that Andrew’s memory has a perfect record of every scar Neil has gotten since they met.
There’s something dangerous in the emptiness of Andrew’s expression, now. The quiet threat of dark, impenetrable waters.
Neil tucks both arms between his legs and chest. “I thought it would be fine,” he says, but the excuse sounds weak even to his own ears.
Andrew’s eyes cut up to Neil’s, incandescent with anger. His jaw works. His hands curl into fists.
Neil wishes he would say something — an “I hate you,” a percentage, anything.
But when Andrew finally speaks, the words crack Neil open like none of those half-assed insults ever could. “I can’t be here,” Andrew says, voice unnaturally even, and stands up.
Neil’s stomach lurches. “What?”
Andrew doesn’t respond. He yanks a sweatshirt over his head and shoves his bare feet into a pair of still-tied gym shoes.
Neil’s heartbeat thunders in his ears. Andrew can’t leave. Not when Neil has made him so angry that he looks ready to wreck a car about it. Not when Neil is still so fucking cold.
But what right does Neil have to ask Andrew to stay?
He numbly watches Andrew grab the car keys from atop his dresser and exit without looking back, leaving Neil alone with his body.
After having felt so many different kinds of pain, Neil is almost surprised by the entirely new kind of hurt building in the pit of his stomach.
He wonders if he’s going to be sick.
Deciding he can’t completely rule it out, Neil clumsily unfolds his legs and stumbles into the bathroom. He sinks down beside the toilet and tips his head back against the wall, breathing through his nose. But that turns out to be a mistake, because the shower rod that cuts across Neil’s line of vision invites back another memory. This one involving Neil’s hands locked high above his head, icy water cascading down his back and running pink between his toes, Riko’s laughter bouncing off the tiles.
Neil hunches forward and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. What the fuck is wrong with him? Neil hasn’t had so much as a nightmare about Evermore since the spring. Not since before Baltimore, probably, and certainly not since Riko died. He should be fine.
When he lowers his hands, Neil has to blink blue splotches from his vision. He kind of wishes he could take a shower to warm up, but the bathroom suddenly seems claustrophobically full of reminders of Riko. Neil grabs the trash can, in case he really does get sick, and forces his feet to carry him back to the bedroom.
He drops the trash can beside his bed and burrows under every blanket he owns without turning off the light. It was always dark in the Nest. Neil curls up on his side and stares across the room at the glint of metal visible amidst the tangle of Andrew’s sheets.
Neil thinks about the stinging sweetness of cider on Andrew’s lips, and the wide stretch of blue sky over their drive home. He thinks of spearing shrimp on a single chopstick to annoy Andrew, and the steady contact of Andrew’s feet beneath Neil’s leg on the couch.
Neil was fine. This should have been fine.
But Andrew doesn’t know that.
As nine o’clock gives way to ten, then eleven, then midnight, Neil sends an are you ok text to Andrew, followed by a ??? when he gets no response. His call half an hour later goes to voicemail. By one in the morning, Neil is out of bed and pacing the room.
Renee is visiting her mother this weekend, so Andrew can’t be with her. Wymack and Abby are out of town, too. It’s not unprecedented for Andrew to drive several hours at a stretch, but not usually without Neil — and not usually after someone’s fucked with his head as badly as Neil just did.
Neil considers texting Renee to see if she can get ahold of Andrew, but dismisses the idea almost immediately. Andrew hates when Nicky uses Renee like that, and Neil doesn’t like involving the other Foxes in their business. Which leaves exactly one other person that Neil is ninety-nine percent sure Andrew will answer a call from.
“Neil?” Betsy Dobson’s voice is groggy when she picks up the phone.
“You need to call Andrew,” Neil says.
There’s some rustling on the other end of the line, and the clink of a lamp chain being yanked. “What?” Betsy says, sounding much more awake now.
“Andrew,” Neil says, shoving a hand through his hair. “He’s been gone for a few hours. Driving, I think. Alone. He’s not answering his phone.”
“I’ll try him,” Betsy says. “Are you okay, Neil?”
“I’m fine,” he says. “Call Andrew.” And hangs up.
Neil laces his fingers together around the back of his neck.
Everything about tonight was a mistake. Neil should never have taken the chance, however small, of something like this happening. The whole fucking point of Evermore was to protect Andrew from reliving his past. But Neil failed to protect Andrew then, and he’s doing it again now.
Neil startles at the sound of his phone ringing.
“Andrew is safe,” Betsy says. “He’s a few hours off campus, but he’s heading back now.”
The vice grip of anxiety around Neil’s heart loosens. He drops onto his bed and holds his phone against his chest to muffle his deep, shaky exhale of relief. With the phone back at his ear, he says, “Thank you.”
“Thank you for calling me,” Betsy says. “I know that can’t have been easy for you.”
Neil has no idea what to say to that, besides, “It’s Andrew.”
“Yes,” Betsy says, in a tone of deep understanding that makes Neil deeply uncomfortable. He’s casting around for some excuse to hang up quickly, when she adds, “Try to get some sleep. I’ll call Andrew in the morning to check in.”
“Okay,” Neil says, and ends the call.
Feeling exhausted and strangely hollow now that all the adrenaline has been sapped out of him, Neil reburies himself under his pile of blankets. He does close his eyes for a while, but he knows he won’t be able to fully relax, let alone sleep, until Andrew comes home.
When the sun rises, Neil is still awake, and Andrew still isn't back.