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.

Comments

[conning]

The faux-Neal chuckles, and Neal’s skin pebbles with goosebumps at the sound of his own voice.

“I don’t need his soul. I’m well able to take this life and do a much better job with it.”

“Get away from him,” Neal says again, jerking forward finally and grabbing the thing’s arm.

Faux-Neal tangles his hand into Malcolm’s hair and grips. Neal freezes, and the imposter gives him a pitying glance that makes his skin crawl.

“You aren’t equipped for the kind of violence this world requires, Danny.”

Neal pales, his hold loosening a little bit. “How do…”

“I’m you, but better, remember?”

[abrightboy]

Malcolm arrived with a knife in his hand and he keeps it in the back of his closet.

But not today, because he knew they were going to have an unwanted guest. Today, he's tucked it into the waist of his jeans, under his sweater.

He's being held by his hair, looking unruffled by that, all things considered. Unruffled as the knife slips deftly out from under his sweater while the creature's attention is on Neal, to find its tip digging lightly - for now - into the space between not!Neal's ribs, hand steady as a statue. It's large and serrated and ugly. It's mean, even for a weapon.

"That's what I like about him," Malcolm informs the creature mildly. "He's good. Not like us. He's the one that's better."

[conning]

"This is where we could engage in a philosophical discussion of subjective and objective value," Faux-Neal says, his grip tightening a little at the prick of the blade through his clothes and into skin. "If I felt like you had the moral flexibility required."

"Malcolm," Neal whispers, his own eyes huge. There's so much to say, so much to respond to, but what he says is, "You're good."

The Faux-Neal lets go of Malcolm's and tries to step back, away from the knife, free of Neal's grip. "Let's talk. All three of us."

[abrightboy]

"Don't move," Malcolm tells the creature, keeping the knife pressed a little more firmly between his ribs. "You can talk from right there. Sitting and drinking tea is for guests. You're an invader."

He gives Neal a sidelong glance so he doesn't lose sight of the thing that isn't Neal.

Good people don't pack knives on the off chance they have to stab an intruder in their kitchen, Neal.

[conning]

Neal looks from Malcolm to the thing and back again. It takes its eyes off Malcolm to look at Neal, though Neal knows better than to think this imitation isn't acutely aware of Malcolm's physical position.

"Are you going to let your boyfriend stab someone, Danny? You know it'll mess him up. More."

"That isn't my name," he grits out.

The Faux-Neal waves one hand in a 'more or less' gesture. "It kind of is."

Neal glances at Malcolm, at the knife, at his own smug face. Even though he knew there would be a confrontation, there would be some kind of negative result from this, it didn't click in his head that it could be violent. He thought they'd arrest this thing, somehow. Turn it over to ADI. That doesn't guarantee it won't get away, but it's alive. It's as alive as Jeff, isn't it?

He tentatively steps forward, touches the back of Malcolm's wrist. "We don't--we can figure this out. We figure everything out."

The Thing That Isn't Neal moves fast. Too fast. There's a butcher's block of knives on the kitchen counter. It snatches one with a particularly keen edge and swings an arm up and around Neal's neck, yanking him back and resting the blade along his jaw under one ear. "You really aren't meant for this place, Danny-boy. Let me help you."

[abrightboy]

"And then what?" Malcolm asks. "You'll cut his throat and then I'll gut you until you wish you were dead. And then what?"

[conning]

"Or," the un-Neal counters. "I let him go and we talk like civilized people."

Neal, for his part, stays very very still.

[abrightboy]

"So let him go, put down the knife and talk," Malcolm tells him.

[conning]

Faux-Neal lifts the blade away from Neal's neck and steps back, pushing him lightly toward Malcolm. Neal retreats, all but hiding behind Malcolm. The other Neal keeps his hands up, still holding the knife.

"I'll put mine down if you put yours down, how about that."

[abrightboy]

"You're the intruder. You'll put yours down and I won't use mine," Malcolm tells him. "Don't test what's in my blood. You won't like what you unleash."

[conning]

Faux-Neal watches, fascinated, while Neal reaches out numbly to take Malcolm's free hand. He feels like he has to. Like maybe he can protect them both from this, somehow, through the contact.

The Faux-Neal sets his knife down, but it's still very reachable.

"You really want to kill me, huh."

"He doesn't want to hurt anyone," Neal says softly. Hating that his own voice is the one that leveled the accusation. "He protects people. He always has."

[abrightboy]

"I want to protect Neal," Malcolm clarifies. "I don't care what happens to you; I really don't. So what's your offer?"

[conning]

"Let me leave." The other Neal shrugs. "Let me walk out of here, you never see or hear from me again."

Neal makes an incredulous noise. "That's--you can't just take my face."

"Who says it's your face?" The Faux-Neal smirks a little. "There's a million universes out there, right? There's probably more than a few with people who look like you."

[abrightboy]

“Pick a different face,” Malcolm advises coolly.

[conning]

He doesn’t even pretend to consider it.

“No. I like this one. This one is mine as much as it was his.”

[abrightboy]

“You stole it. With his memories. What even are you?” Malcolm asks him.

[conning]

“I’m Neal Caffrey,” he says, picking up the knife and flourishing it with a winning smile. “As much as he is. I’m keeping this face, and this voice, and this name.”

He levels the knife at Real-Neal. “What are you going to do about it?”

Real-Neal reaches out to try and snatch Malcolm’s knife in a sudden snap of helpless, wordless anger.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm just looks at Neal, then - in almost one movement - relinquishes his knife to Neal and lashes out to punch the double in the throat and grab the knife out of its hand.

[conning]

Neal freezes. Faux-Neal doubles up, losing the knife to Malcolm as it struggles to breathe.

It doesn't go after him, though. It glances at Malcolm, then goes for the shocked Neal with a wheezy snarl.

[abrightboy]

“Hit him, Neal!” Malcolm tells him.

They don’t even know what it is, but it’s mean and Malcolm isn’t convinced it’s human.

[conning]

Neal hits him.

He hits him with the hand holding Malcolm’s knife and freezes all over again.

Faux-Neal and Neal stand eye to eye, both shocked, the former a mix of angry and delighted.

The fake twists Neal’s wrist sharply, forcing him to let go of the blade. He yanks it out of his stomach without hesitation and tries to sink it into Neal’s chest.

[abrightboy]

It's like it's happening in slow motion. And when Malcolm sees the knife turn towards Neal...

...Go for the frontal lobe; turn you off like a light switch.

...he takes the kitchen knife in his hand and drives it through fake Neal's temple, straight into his brain.

[conning]

Neal expects to get hit by blood when he sees the knife go through the other Neal's temple. He expects to get hit by blood, wonders madly why he doesn't feel the impact of the knife. Either knife. Later, he'll remember the way it looks when the life goes out of his own eyes. Later. Right now, he catches the body almost instinctively, like it's another human being that's tripped into him instead of someone who was trying to kill him a moment ago.

Malcolm's knife--the one the other Neal was holding--clatters to the ground. There's no blood on it. There's no blood at all.

[abrightboy]

Of course there should be blood; Malcolm knows immediately what it means that there's not.

"It isn't human," Malcolm tells him. "Put it down."

[conning]

Neal drops the body. It lands with a corpselike thud. He takes a few steps back.

Heaves. Covers his mouth with both hands and fights off another wave of nausea. He hates throwing up. Hates it, even beyond the risk of leaving evidence behind that it would pose at a crime scene. He hates the feeling, hates the foulness of bile and the wrench of muscle and the smell. He deals with it for Malcolm because it's Malcolm, and Neal himself isn't the one doing it. But he hates it. Focusing on that lets him ignore the body, at least.