- 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

[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.”

[conning]

Neal tilts his head in a way that manages to convey “well, that would do it.” But he’s filing information away now rather than reacting overmuch. Now that the initial surprise is past, he can resume the steady and casual approach.

“I will say that’s the kind of thing you typically save for a third or fourth date. If you want my opinion.”

[abrightboy]

“Maybe if you’re used to getting that far,” Malcolm replies. “I’m not going to tell anyone.” He looks over. “About all the stealing.”

[conning]

Neal gives Malcolm a little salute that’s almost like tipping a hat. “Appreciated. Doubly so because that means I can take back the two necklaces and the earring I left in your pocket, which would constitute possession of stolen property. That wouldn’t look good on either of us.”

He gestures to an upcoming coffee shop. “Here, we can at least have a round one.”

[abrightboy]

“I might hold on to them, in that case. I need a few things.”

He glances at the coffee shop, then at Neal in surprise.

“…You want to drink coffee with me?”

[conning]

“You might like to hold onto them,” Neal says with a heart-meltingly bright grin.

He stops at the door of the coffee shop and holds it open. “Unless you’ve got somewhere to be.”

[abrightboy]

"I don't... have anywhere to be," Malcolm tells him, looking at him like he wants to ask a question, then stepping through the door instead.

He glances around, then walks up to the counter and orders a mocha before looking to Neal for his order.

[conning]

Neal catches the first look--it's hard not to--but joins Malcolm smoothly at the counter. "Dark roast, whatever's on tap."

Another megawatt smile, before he raises his eyebrows at Malcolm. "I'll get it next time."

[abrightboy]

Malcolm hands the barista money and picks up his cup to take a sip, then stops with it halfway to his mouth.

“Next time? What makes you think you’ll want there to be a next time?”

[conning]

"Why wouldn't there be? We've gotten the awkward 'my dad is a serial killer' part out of the way."

Neal guides Malcolm lightly over to a table in the corner, lifting one shoulder in a shrug.

[abrightboy]

“Just the saying it part. We don’t know how you feel about it yet.” A pause. “Oh, is this how you’re taking time to process it?”

[conning]

This guy reminds him, a little bit, of Mozzie. At least as far as the awkwardness, brain-to-mouth filter, and intelligence goes. He doesn't seem the same kind of paranoid.

Neal makes himself comfortable at the table, or at least as comfortable as a person can ever be at a cafe table. He looks comfortable, which is the important thing.

"Before landing here I probably would be more taken aback."

[abrightboy]

“I haven’t killed anyone,” Malcolm assures him. A beat and then. “Well, maybe my father; I didn’t get to see how that turned out,” he muses. He looks at Neal. “I hunted killers for the FBI for ten years without discharging my firearm.”

[conning]

Neal's head tilts. He almost mentions his own FBI associations, but it doesn't get past the thought of sharing.

"Past tense?"

[abrightboy]

Malcolm shrugs, fidgeting at his cup.

“We parted ways a couple of years ago.”

[conning]

"Sounds like there's a story there." He sips his coffee, very blue eyes not leaving Malcolm's face.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm shrugs, then looks down into his cup, where his fingers are still fidgeting.

“It’s the same story as all my stories,” he admits softly.

[conning]

Gentler, both on instinct and because his own heart demands it, Neal says, "No fourth date?"

[abrightboy]

Malcolm looks up from his cup to Neal from under his brow, like just looking at him is taking some kind of a chance.

“You have to have a second date and a third date to get turned down for a fourth date.”

He presses his lips together, glances down into his cup, then looks at Neal.

“I have a very pronounced case of complex PTSD. It doesn’t lend itself well to making friends. Or… retaining employment with the FBI. Or. Anything else.”

[conning]

Neal studies his face silently for a moment, suddenly not surprised that "My dad is a serial killer" was Malcolm's opener. The naked honesty in all of this makes Neal feel like he at least owes a crumb in return.

"The FBI isn't all it's cracked up to be," he says, tone somewhere between conciliatory and dismissive. "I did some consultation work for them. Theft, art crimes, forgery. Extracting fair payment is like pulling an annoyed tiger's teeth."

[abrightboy]

Malcolm looks at him, his expression brightening a little.

“I consult for the NYPD now.” He huffs a self-deprecating laugh. “Sometimes I forget to bill them.” He watches Neal for a moment. “Have you ever recovered any famous paintings?”

[conning]

Neal takes another, deeper sip of his coffee now that it's starting to cool off. It's not terrible. Not as good as some of the places he's found in New York, but that's to be expected, really.

"You're in it for the justice and the chase." He lifts his shoulders in a prolonged shrug. "If you don't need the money, it can be... specialized volunteer work."

Neal tilts his head, grinning a little. He thinks you could say that would be a little too much information. What he goes with is true enough for government work. "We tracked down a cache of art and artifacts stolen during the Second World War. Quite a few famous pieces there. Someone stole a Haustenberg from a private residence and we found the thief and returned the painting to its proper owner. Interesting story behind that one--the painting was "Young Girl With Locket"--I know, creative--but it was smuggled out of Europe in the 1930s by Haustenberg's illegitimate daughter, who turned out to be the girl depicted."

[abrightboy]

“Irony is that now I do need money and there are no jobs like that.”

At the story of the treasure and then the painting, his eyes widen slightly and he leans forward a little.

“Are paintings that have been stolen, historically, worth more? They have a more interesting providence, right?”

[conning]

“They do. And not just paintings. About six years ago—” He stops for a moment as the number hits him. Then shakes his head and goes on. “About six years ago, there was an auction for the Franklin Bottle, a bottle of wine that was gifted by Marie Antoinette to Ben Franklin when he was ambassador there in the 1700s.”

It’s clear Neal is forgetting to maintain his veneer a little as it gives way to simple enthusiasm. “Normally it would have gone for, oh, three hundred thousand? It’s a collectors item, really, there’s no way to tell if the wine had gone to vinegar or not, not when it’s the only one known to be in circulation. Anyway, someone submitted a second Franklin Bottle, which passed every authentication test except the cesium test, which—-doesn’t matter.”

He forces himself to wave off an explanation of what the test is for. “The point is, the auction got held up for hours and the fraud made the digital papers before it even sold. In the end it went for seven figures. Most expensive bottle ever sold by a margin of a half-million dollars.”

[abrightboy]

“Cesium test? …Like… as in the radioactive isotope?” Malcolm asks curiously. He doesn’t know much about four hundred year old wine, but he has more than a passing interest in science.