Neal Caffrey (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
conning) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
apocalypsehowcomm2021-09-20 07:08 pm
conning) wrote in apocalypsehowcomm2021-09-20 07:08 pm
- living on borrowed time - log - ota
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.
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.
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“Whennnn do you think you might come by?” And if he happens to be way overdressed for sitting around the house, pretend you don’t notice. He has one suit, which he arrived in, and he wants to make sure it’s been dry cleaned before then…
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Bad enough that Malcolm is insightful as he is, and as good at puzzling out people as he is. Hopefully their third roommate, Tim, isn't some kind of detective.
"When do you think would be convenient for you and your roommates? I told Meredith I could cook, that we could do some kind of inter-apartment mingle, but I don't mind kicking this off myself."
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“Most evenings are fine. None of us is really a party animal.” A beat. “You cook? What kind of cooking?” He can make scrambled eggs not horribly.
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“A puzzle? How so?”
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Neal smiles a little. "And sometimes when you have a cupboard half-full of random ingredients and don't feel like shopping, you can take what's there and make something good out of the chaos."
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“Maybe you could come on Sunday night.”
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He pauses. Wonders if it's fair or right to ask this when he knows how willing to talk Malcolm is. Is it related to the C-PTSD? Is that because of...?
Neal sighs. That's easily a, what, tenth date question? Not fair or right, regardless.
"I should probably head out. Going to hit the men's room beforehand, but walk with me a bit?"
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That was nice while it lasted.
But then he goes on and Malcolm looks up. He almost spills his mocha as he moves to get up and pick it up at the same time, but he manages to grab it.
That’s a yes. He’ll walk.
“I can… just wait outside,” he says, gesturing.
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"Sounds good. I'll be right out."
He keeps his promise--he's out fairly quickly, but not before charming one of the baristas and snagging a bit of scrap paper and a pen. He stops next to Malcolm, gesturing down the street in invitation.
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“Heading back to ADI?”
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He gives Malcolm a sidelong, teasing smile.
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He slips his hand around Malcolm’s back to the opposite pocket, claiming his own wayward goods and leaving his note behind. When he holds up his hand, the stolen earring is between two fingers. “Wouldn’t want to risk you being caught with hot merchandise.”
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“You’ve decided not to turn me in, then,” he teases lightly.
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Well, he still left his note in Malcolm's pocket, anyway.
Number, username, See you soon. - N
Nothing flirtatious there.
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