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

[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.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm doesn't ignore the body. He kneels down right next to it, peering closely at the wound as he extracts the knife. He frowns as something spills out of the creature's head, but it isn't blood.

He touches it, rubs it between his fingertips and looks up at Neal.

"Sawdust."

[conning]

Neal stares at him, uncomprehending for a moment. What he sees--more than the sawdust on the floor and Malcolm's fingers--is the back of his own head, dark curls thick and familiar in texture.

"You never actually see the back of your own head that much," Neal says dazedly.

And then his stomach somersaults and he makes it to the mercifully empty kitchen sink before he barfs.

[abrightboy]

"You're still not seeing that," Malcolm muses absently, inserting his finger into the wound.

[conning]

Even with the reminder that it's not actually his head, Neal can't bear to look for more than a moment. He cranks the water up as hot as it will go and turns on the garbage disposal, cringing away from his own mess as he whispers, "Please don't do that."

[abrightboy]

Malcolm looks over and points at it.

"It's full of straw," he says, fascinated.

[conning]

“I stabbed him,” Neal says faintly. It’s to Malcolm, like a reminder, but something else besides. A request Neal doesn’t know how to make.

[abrightboy]

"You stabbed a scarecrow," Malcolm tells him. "That was trying to kill you."

He picks up his knife and cuts into the creature's arm.

[conning]

The arm still gives like skin-covered cloth, regardless of what’s underneath.

For a second, Neal stands there, stunned into wordlessness. He’s never felt dismissed by Malcolm before. He’s never had a moment with the other man where there wasn’t some awareness of their feelings, both their feelings.

He can’t put words to it the way Malcolm did, but he realizes in some ways, until now, Gloucester has been better than home.

“I need some air,” Neal mumbles, and walks out.

[abrightboy]

That breaks the spell, the adrenaline-fuelled hyperfixation.

Malcolm drops the knife and gets up.

“Wait,” he says, stepping towards him, searching his face now, if he’ll turn. “Are you okay?” And he’s really asking, his own expression creased with concern.

He can tell, if he’s paying attention, but he’s as blind as everyone else when he’s not.

He’s paying attention now.