- living on borrowed time - log - ota

[conning]

Who: Neal Caffrey, YOOOU
When: Early September to the beginning of the September event. (Rough timelines specified.)
Where: ALL 'ROUND
Summary: Neal scouts out this place in which he's found himself and gets up to some shenanigans, as well as like... having trouble with the local weirdness.
Warnings: None as yet, will add if necessary.



➥ mirror, mirror (throughout the month until event, feel free to make up your own scenario)
He's in an ADI unisex bathroom, washing his hands, and when he looks up the weaselly face of Matthew Keller stares back at him, ashen with surprise, a hole in his forehead dribbling a trail of blood down across his nose.

Neal jerks back, almost tripping over himself in the need to put distance between him and the image.

It happens again later, though this time it's not Keller's face. Neal notices right away. As hypervigilant as he's had to be over the past few months, anything odd in his periphery gets immediate attention.

A decorative mirror behind a bar where he's been integrating himself. Something shifts in it and Neal looks up sharply, to see the space around him popping, melting, burning and reforming, like traditional film held over heat. He closes his eyes tight, blinks them open again--

And now there's Keller, raising a glass, that hole still in his head. He's naked, Y incisions marked across his body, and when he drinks his beer it leaks out of the cuts with blood and pus.

Neal leaves. Quickly.

The third time lasts the longest. It doesn't matter what building he's in, it doesn't matter what room, it doesn't matter what he's doing. Every mirror gives him the same visual, the same hunted feeling. Eyes and smiling teeth, the room gone dim around them, encroaching and retreating and, at one moment, the teeth snapping shut next to his ear.

He whips around at that to find--of course--nothing there.

Deep breath. Reclaimed calm. He flashes the closest person an apologetic smile.

"Didn't sleep well last night."

➥ haunting tunes (ongoing)
He's out for a jog. Minding his own damn business. Flashing a Hollywood smile at anyone he passes, because it doesn't hurt to be remembered as friendly if one is remembered at all.

The song, the memory, it's the feeling of a distant silver arch and the taste of macaroni and cheese made with spaghetti. It's Meet Me in St. Louis, or something very like it, and Neal can't decide whether he's drawn to it or wants to recoil. Either way his steps slow. His mind starts to wander. Maybe he forces himself awake a moment before running into you, or maybe he's dozing at a bus stop, or walking in front of the bus. Maybe he's keeping you from walking in front of a bus. Anyting is fair game.

➥ they'll probably never miss it (THROUGHOUT THE MONTH, he wants nice clothes okay)
Neal does not like his standard issue ADI habiliments. He does not like the mild improvement of thrift store and off-the-rack pieces, which he still knows how to coordinate with a fashionista's practiced eye. Yes, he has the suit he came in, but that's going to wear out fairly quickly if he abuses it and who wants to wear the same thing every day?

To wit, he is stealing stuff. That is to say, he's picking the pockets of obviously (and not as obviously) wealthy pedestrians, focusing his attentions on tourists. Every once in a while he'll snag a particularly fancy watch, necklace, bracelet, et cetera. At one point he even manages a single earring--more for shits and giggles and because he didn't like the way the woman looked at her server than anything else.

He knows what will pay well at a pawn shop, and he's selective, never staying too long in one area from day to day. He's just a friendly resident, making his way through town with curiosity of someone unfamiliar with their new home.

➥ Wildcard
Neal is rapidly coming to the conclusion that he does not like this place. To put it in socially polite terms. As though the mirrors weren't enough, as though the disturbing reflections haven't spread to other surfaces, as though the eerie songs and ghosts of memories haven't made him balk at going outside. Now there's... this. Whatever it is.

Ugh.

Comments

They'll Probably Never Miss It

[abrightboy]

Malcolm notices him on Tuesday, examining a watch a few paces after brushing past a haughty gentleman in a fine suit. He sees him again on Thursday, in a cafe, holding the door for a woman who was rude to the waitress. She walks past the window wearing only one expensive earring.

When the man walks out of the cafe, Malcolm does too, jogging to catch up and draw alongside him.

"Is it a Robin Hood sort of thing?"

[conning]

Neal looks sidelong at the short man keeping pace with him, eyebrows going up. If there's one thing he's learned since his wayward youth, it's not to act dumb in the face of someone who's clearly part of the game unless you're in it to annoy them. This guy... He doesn't quite have a read on him yet. The clothes are cheap, as cheap as Neal's, inexpertly coordinated shades of "dark" without much adornment. The watch, though, is anything but cheap, and worn on the inside of his wrist.

It gives Neal an inkling, but he won't move on it yet.

He palms the earring lightly, letting it see the sun for a moment before it vanishes back into the pocket of his close-cut jeans. "You don't think it suits me?"

[abrightboy]

"Maybe if you get your ear pierced," Malcolm notes. "You'd look like a pirate." He gives him a cheeky look. "Fitting."

[conning]

All right, Neal likes this guy. In that superficial way he takes to someone or doesn't immediately, that measure by which he decides if conversation is worth it.

"I've never been a fan of on-the-nose styling."

[abrightboy]

“And yet you are a fan of style.”

The man had managed a lot better than he had with what’s on offer. Malcolm is accustomed to being dressed. This man dresses himself to the same effect, he expects, though on a level playing field he dresses far better.

“Is that what you need the money for?”

[conning]

Neal's studiously friendly expression crimps into the slightest smile. So that's the game. He does like this one.

"Some of us have to learn color coordination the hard way." He raises his eyebrows, reaching over to dust an imagined bit of something from the breast of Malcolm's shirt. "You've made a good start, but I can definitely give you some notes."

When he pulls back, he has Malcolm's watch in hand, studying it carefully. A little battered, but still worth a number significantly north of fifty grand. Too bad there isn't a pawn shop in a hundred miles that would give that much for it. He offers it back to Malcolm. "If I needed it, there are a half-dozen places within a few blocks that would provide more than enough in one go. Let's say I'm saving toward some personal improvements."

[abrightboy]

“I’m doing okay without notes. My roommate helps me out,” he says, watching Neal handle his watch. “You won’t rob a place like that. You rob people who can afford it.” A beat. “Or you think deserve it.”

[conning]

He gives an amused little huff of a laugh, a few more small pieces clicking into place.

“Someone was a criminal profiler in a past life. Old money, though—-very old, I’m guessing. So you’re in it purely for the chase or for the justice.”

He cocks his head consideringly. “Or both.”

[abrightboy]

“One more than the other,” he concedes. “You’re not in it for the money either, but you want it to look like you are.”

[conning]

Neal shrugs expansively, keeping his sudden quiet discomfort hidden away.

“What can I say, I’m an adrenaline junkie. The money is a nice bonus. Who doesn’t like the finer things in life when they’re there to be had?”

[abrightboy]

“Adrenaline isn’t the chemical that’s released when you take revenge for someone who can’t. That’s endorphins,” Malcolm points out helpfully.

[conning]

Neal gives him an oh, you kind of glance.

“You just haven’t seen me do anything adrenaline-worthy.” His attention, at least seemingly, drifts to their surroundings. “How long have you been with ADI?”

[abrightboy]

“A couple of months,” he responds. He gestures to the bauble in Neal’s hands. “Are you done with my watch?” he asks, unconcerned about the prospect of the man making off with it. It doesn’t fit his MO.

[conning]

Neal offers it back, giving it a mock-tempting little wriggle.

“Is the damage from before or after you got here?”

[abrightboy]

“The damage? Oh. It’s. Just been through a lot,” he says, reaching for it. He buckles it with the face on the inside of his wrist. “Before here.”

It. Him. A lot was going on.

[conning]

"So you're in the field, not an armchair acronym."

Neal tucks his hands into his pockets as they walk, an unquestionable saunter in his step. Unquestionable confidence, regardless of their situation. He fiddles with the earing without realizing he's doing it.

[abrightboy]

He looks at the face of his watch, then looks at Neal.

"Some of it was in the field, yeah. But I have a... pretty hectic family life, too."

[conning]

Hectic. Neal raises an eyebrow.

"Must be a very physical kind of hectic."

[abrightboy]

Malcolm looks at him sidelong.

"I stabbed my father right before I came here," he says without a hint of a joke in his tone. "Again," he adds.

[conning]

He's well-practiced at keeping his emotions to himself. Yeah, he doesn't bother around people he knows and trusts, but he doesn't know this guy and he definitely doesn't trust him. So what Malcolm gets is raised eyebrows and a tilt of the head that brings Malcolm a little more into the center of his attention. Like Malcolm made an interesting point about an article they both read.

"I'm guessing it wasn't voluntary."

[abrightboy]

Malcolm shrugs. "I could have let him stab me. It's not like I didn't have a choice."

He just feels he took the understandable option.

[conning]

For a fleeting breath, a microsecond, there’s something sad and sympathetic in Neal’s eyes, but then it’s gone into irony and a very small laugh.

“There’s choices and then there’s choices. Sounds like that one was forced on you.”

[abrightboy]

"Yeah," Malcolm concedes. "And he worked hard for a long time to make it that way."

Even as he bled on the forest floor, using the self defense manoeuvre to suggest it made Malcolm the same as him remained a priority.

"He wants me to kill. Like he did."

[conning]

That gets a second, sharper look, one Neal doesn't think needs to be masked with anything else. "How's that?"

[abrightboy]

“He’s a serial killer. He was convicted of twenty-three counts, but there were probably more.” He looks at Neal. “He was arrested when I was ten.”