Neal Caffrey || Log || September/October Catch-All

[conning]

Who: Neal and OTA/some for existing CR
When: September/October Catch-All (with one backdated August thing)
Where: ALL OVER ZE PLACE
Summary: SEPTEMBER/OCTOBER CATCH-ALL. Neal being bovvered by the sleep stuff and rescuing people/needing rescue, Evil Twin TDM prompts, sleepwalking after his murdered adoptive aunt, painting at Bonnie's, a couple of SOL prompts, DEATH BREAAAD both lead-up and hypersensitivity, some talk about mental health.
Warnings: HORROR STUFF.... Awful deaths, possibly drowning, murder of loved ones, gun violence, suicidal ideation, some ableism might crop up in the mental health threads. Toplevels will be labeled with likely subjects.

Prompts TBA below as they're finished! Feel free to PM me or message me at researchboner on plurk for specific prompts or with questions.

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[conning]

Neal flashes him a smile that’s all warmth and affection and, for the most fleeting of moments, an excitement that sparks wrong in his eyes. He sets the coffee aside and presses a kiss against Malcolm’s forehead, one arm going automatically around the other man’s waist.

Automatically, because this is his apartment now. His apartment, his life. This man is his too, his to ruin in a thousand small ways until ruin is all that’s left. The first Neal did so much good work to lay these foundations.

“Just tired. Feeling the music a little more than I’d like, if you know what I mean.” He draws away to take the pan full of dinner off the stove. “Trying to keep the fat lady at bay. Or the little girl in this case.”

A pause, and he laughs with a little bit of gentle irony. “It’s harder than it was last year.”

[abrightboy]

Oh, right. The music. It’s a little bit of a relief.

He smiles in sympathy.

“Maybe she got stronger while she was away.”

[conning]

“Yeah. That’s true. I figured it was because of the nightmares—” He cuts himself off, wide-eyed, earnest, the kind of face Neal makes when he’s misstepped and tries to backtrack. “Mine. I mean. My nightmares, since I’ve got so many these days.”

He clears his throat and moves to the cupboard to grab plates. “Hungry?”

[abrightboy]

Malcolm blinks at the backpedal, then frowns faintly at the question.

“I’m never hungry.”

[conning]

Neal shoots him a look that’s a mix of annoyed and pitying, still at the cupboard. “Willing to eat?”

[abrightboy]

Malcolm nods, stepping backwards to give Neal space to manoeuvre the meal.

“What are we having?”

[conning]

He dishes up the food and carries two plates over to the table, one portion average-sized and one Malcolm-sized. The latter is dished up with somewhat exaggerated care. Enough to be noticeable.

“Something I haven’t tried cooking in a while. I think you’ll like it. I hope you will.”

[abrightboy]

It smells… heavy, but Neal knows what he’s doing. It looks inoffensive. He sits at the table and looks at Neal, then picks up his fork.

“Did you learn it in France?”

[conning]

Neal sits down across from him instead of next to him, a small break in habits he knows exist. He wants to see Malcolm's face when the other man takes a bite.

"New York, actually. One of the recipes I made up when things were lean but I wanted to eat well."

[abrightboy]

“Are things lean here?” Malcolm asks curiously. He never thinks much about how much food costs. They only have any in their fridge because Neal puts it there and Meredith did before him.

[conning]

Neal smiles. "I made it up when things were lean, but it's also easy."

He doesn't want to waste time on something complicated when the goal behind it is so simple. "Good one for tired days. Weeks. Months."

[abrightboy]

Malcolm takes a small bite, chewing thoughtfully. There are tastes he recognizes and tastes he doesn’t. He doesn’t feel bad after a moment, though, so he takes another bite.

[conning]

Neal smiles down at his own plate and starts to eat, waiting for the sting of hot peppers to hit the back of Malcolm’s throat. Wonders how long it will take for the red meat mixed in with the chicken to make him sick.

[abrightboy]

He’s starting to feel sick by the third bite. The peppers are less disturbing than the nausea. He frowns faintly, setting down his fork.

“Wh… what did you say is in this?”

[conning]

Neal gives him a long, confused look, the tines of his fork balanced against his lower lip. “I didn’t.”

[abrightboy]

Malcolm just blinks at him again, looking a little like he’s been slapped, but he doesn’t get to ask questions; suddenly he gets up and retreats to his private bathroom, locking the door like it can keep the sounds of retching in.

[conning]

Neal—the real Neal, the first Neal—has been at Bonnie’s. He slogs back into the apartment, tired but pleased with the day, at least until he closes the door and hears Malcolm throwing up.

He notes the two plates on the table, the half-filled coffee mug on the kitchen counter, but they’re peripheral considerations. He rushes to the locked door, knocking and trying the knob. He forces himself to sound at least mostly calm. “Malcolm? Can you unlock the door? Please?”

He doesn’t bother asking if the other man is okay. The noises from inside make it clear enough that he isn’t.

[abrightboy]

“I’m fine.” He very obviously lies before he retches again. “Go away!” He snaps petulantly around a raw throat.

[conning]

Neal flinches back in surprise, then doesn’t bother asking again, just pulls his picks from one pocket and opens the door. He immediately moves to crouch next to Malcolm, one hand hovering over his back. “You’re not fine. Was it the coffee? It’s late in the day for you.”

[abrightboy]

Malcolm shrugs away from his hand, creeping around the toilet bowl like there’s any room for him to go in the tiny space of its circumference.

“Very funny,” he says with no amusement at all. “Which part did you not understand: ‘go’ or ‘away’?”

[conning]

Neal withdraws a little, enough that Malcolm doesn’t have to duck to avoid his touch any more. He still doesn’t leave. By now he’s stopped hiding in front of Malcolm ninety percent of the time—his confusion and hurt broadcast on all frequencies for a moment before he shuts them off to be dealt with later. “I wasn’t joking. It is late for you to have coffee if you want to get any kind of sleep, never mind it being rough on your stomach.”

A momentary pause, a fumble for something else to say. “Do you—if you really want me to leave I’ll go.”

[abrightboy]

“Why are you pretending you don’t know what’s happening? What was in that food? Was it supposed to be a joke?” Malcolm rasps, vomiting again before Neal can answer.

[conning]

“The stuff on the table?” But then Malcolm is throwing up again. Neal grimaces, trying not to gag in sympathy. “I don’t know. I just got here. I’ve been at Bonnie’s all day. Maybe Steve made something and forgot to label it—why are you so angry at me?”

[abrightboy]

Pale and fed up, Malcolm gives him a look over the toilet bowl.

“You made it in that kitchen. I watched you serve it. You said you learned to make it in New York when times were l…” He doesn’t finish the sentence; he retches again, just bile and dry heaving at this point. More raspy, more exhausted he adds “I don’t know what this game is supposed to be but I don’t like it. Just… just stop it. Stop.”

[conning]

For a second, Neal gets angry. Furious, hurt, a dozen buttons pressed by Malcolm not believing him for the first time.

Then the evidence he saw in the apartment catches up with his anger and it curdles into fear. He reaches out without thinking and catches Malcolm’s wrist tightly. Not painfully, but tight enough that Malcolm can’t just yank away.

“I wasn’t here. I was at Bonnie’s. Anyone who saw me there can tell you. It wasn’t me, Malcolm. There was something else in our apartment.”