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sheenianniTitle: Live through the Next Day
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sheenianni
Fandom: White Collar; fusion with the Jesse Sullivan novels by Kory Shrum
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Rachel Turner, Neal/Rachel
Rating: R
Genre: Angst
Spoilers: None
Content Notice: off-screen non-con (partner rape); violence; character deaths on- and off-screen
Word Count: 3,300
Summary: As a Necronite, Neal always thought that being with Rachel was a fair bargain for keeping his friends safe. He was wrong. Pre-series AU, (hopefully) the first installment in this universe. Fills "Something is Destroyed / Demolished" on my Gen Bingo card.
A/N: Although this is a fusion, it can be easily read without knowing the novels and I’ve taken some liberties with them as well (awesome books btw. with a great female (bisexual) protagonist who is very likeable with all her snark and sarcasm. (Also, less dark than this fic). First book is free on Amazon if you want to check it out. *Advertisement over.*)
One of his greatest fears is dying in prison.
Not that it’s a possibility that he thinks about very often. Sitting in an armchair back at his apartment, Neal observes the New York skyline, sipping on a glass of wine as he contemplates his future.
Coming back here is not without its risks, as Neal knows that the FBI is after him. But he loves this city, and besides, there are plenty of worse places for him than the State of New York. After “People vs. Jonathan and Emily Gates”, New York has added a few important words into the state constitution, which means that Neal has the same rights as the rest of the population. Well, on paper at least.
Sometimes, he wishes for the simpler times back when he didn’t use to notice these things.
He lives on the move, sometimes not sure what he’s running from anymore. Still, if he ever had to settle in one place, New York wouldn’t be too bad.
Neal smiles, finishes the last of his wine and begins to plan his next heist.
* * *
He steals a painting in Boston and a statue in Alabama, but Mozzie comments on neither; nothing like his huge rant that time when Neal robbed the museum in Egypt. They go to Vienna to pull a three-man job with Alex, and afterwards they travel through Europe, which is fun for a while until there’s a con which goes sideways. In a fuck-up of epic proportions, Neal gets stabbed in the stomach and Mozzie has to drag his limp body to a mortician. Thankfully the guy knows his stuff, so by the time Mozzie’s done cleaning up the scene of their crime, all Neal’s organs are back in place and their friend sews him up, promising to keep things quiet.
Just another day at work.
Before long, Neal is back on his feet. However, Mozzie is still too shaken by the incident and Neal knows better than to push him too soon. So they take a vacation (in Sweden, which is a nice and refreshingly non-religious country), and then back to France and Belgium where they spend a while until Agent Burke gets on Neal’s track and they have to flee.
It’s a life filled with excitement and adventure; a fun life, a good life.
It comes to an end when they once again come back to New York and Neal receives a call from Rachel Turner.
“Hi Neal. I’ve got some news for you.”
* * *
Mozzie doesn’t like that Neal keeps in contact with Rachel, even though Neal insists that her information is too valuable to pass upon. The one time when Moz tried to push the issue, Neal snapped at him that maybe if they had listened to Rachel’s warnings the first time they met her, Kate didn’t have to die. After that, Mozzie never brought up the topic again.
Former military, a trained assassin – Neal knows that Rachel is dangerous. The smart thing, the reasonable thing would be to stay the hell away, because she’s like broken glass that cuts him every time he touches it. He tells himself that it’s all about the information; that he can’t risk losing another friend or lover because he didn’t have Rachel’s special insight.
He’s always been good at lying like that.
Neal hates what Rachel does. And he knows, he knows that despite what the army did to her, he would be a fool to believe even for a second that Rachel could have somehow been different; that she wasn’t always this cold, manipulative and calculating. A killer.
Except, who is he to throw stones when he has his own body-count? Besides, he knows she would never seriously hurt him, not physically at least. And even if she sometimes takes things a bit too far, his body can take it; experience has taught him that.
A necronite and an A.M.P.
They’re two freaks of nature, which means they share a bond that normal people simply don’t understand. Neal is pulled to Rachel like a moth to a flame, and true to herself, Rachel burns him through each and every time. Each time he runs, only to eventually come back when his scars stop bleeding.
He hides and pretends and tries to look the other way.
And so Neal stands in front of Rachel’s warehouse, waiting for here to open the door, wishing he were anywhere but here. Still, he knows better than to let her see his doubts.
“Rachel! Good to see you,” he greets her cheerfully, flashing his best smile. “How is my favorite psychic?”
“You know Neal, that would almost sound genuine if it hadn’t been six month since your last visit.” Rachel blocks the entrance with her body. “You didn’t even call.”
Neal clears his throat. “You’re right, and I’m sorry. I’ve been busy–”
“Gallivanting through the world with Mozzie, from what I’ve heard. Europeans’ brains still tasty?”
He sighs exaggeratedly. “I told you that joke got old about four years ago.”
Rachel lifts one of her eyebrows, clearly unimpressed.
Neal gives her a puppy look. “Please?”
At last she lets him in.
Once they’re inside, Rachel kicks the door closed and pushes him against the wall. Familiar with their game, Neal grabs her head and kisses her deeply, reaching with his other hand to cup her breasts. With her free hand, Rachel unzips her leather jacket and Neal helps her shrug it off, tossing it aside. Three weeks ago, she killed a man with a teaspoon – he blinks, and then Rachel wraps her leg around him and Neal chuckles as he pulls her closer, capturing her lips in another deep kiss before he has to gasp for breath. He laughs and his eyes tear up when Rachel pulls his hair in a sensation that’s unnerving and yet not entirely unpleasant despite the pain. He squashes the unwanted thoughts (it’s a fake, they’re better than this) because he needs that information, and hopefully Rachel won’t shoot him this time...
And then Neal staggers when Rachel unexpectedly lets go and pushes him away.
A flash of panic; he rules it in before it can take roots. He frowns. “What’s wrong, Rache?”
She glares at him. “Do you actually think I’m that desperate? I don’t need your pity fuck.” She buttons up her shirt and bends down to pick her jacket while Neal cautiously straightens his own clothes. He watches Rachel’s every movement – she’s pissed, and an angry Rachel never bodes well for anyone.
“It’s not like that,” he says; not really honest yet not quite a lie.
Rachel snorts. “Cut the theatrics, Neal. This isn’t a social call; you’re here to know what I found out.”
“Would you want me to pretend?” asks Neal flatly.
“If this is how you fake it, spare me. Come,” she says and motions him further into her warehouse.
He follows her to the familiar room with a dozen target boards, two of them still untouched, but most ridden with holes. Stepping inside, Neal suppresses a wince when he notices all the shell casings on a floor, too many for him to count.
As always, he wishes that Rachel used a different media for her future-telling. According to Mozzie, almost all A.M.Ps use drawing or painting as their technique, even those whose stick figures leave a lot to be desired artistically. A much smaller number rely on molding, and even fewer on composing melodies. And maybe it is telling, that even among all these former military personnel, Rachel is the one who picked a tool quite so lethal.
Neal remains impassive when Rachel pulls out her gun and stands in front of one of the boards that serve as empty canvases. He doesn’t cringe but wishes he could put on some ear muffs when she empties the gun into the canvas and then reloads and begins again; once, thrice, six times in total. Finally, Rachel puts the gun away, picks up her tweezers and begins extracting the bullets from the wood.
Neal waits and watches as Rachel pulls out bullet after bullet. The holes create the final image that Rachel will use for her prediction. He knows that Rachel is a sharp shooter, which means that something else is guiding her hands when she creates these patterns. The holes in the board mean nothing to him, but to Rachel they clearly make sense and Neal has long ago learned to trust her insight.
The process takes time though, and after ten minutes Neal grows bored enough to break the silence.
“You said you have something for me,” he says with a hint of a question.
“I do,” says Rachel through gritted teeth as she struggles with a particularly stubborn bullet.
“And…?” asks Neal at last. “Are you going to tell me?”
She glares at him. “I wasted three boards and all I got was the same image of you. Do you realize how annoying you are?”
“Ouch. And yet you still love me?” asks Neal jokingly.
The second the words leave his mouth, he knows he made a terrible mistake. He’s still too slow when Rachel grabs her gun and aims it at his head.
Neal puts his hands up and takes several steps back. “I’m sorry. Look, I didn’t mean that. Please, don’t–”
“You’re right, Neal. Maybe I do love you.” With a smile, Rachel lowers the gun until it’s aimed at his chest.
Then she shoots him in the heart.
* * *
When he wakes up, he has no idea how much time has passed; hours or days – likely just hours. His shirt is gone and he can smell bleach in the air; that plus sweat and something worse. The hair on his chest is stuck together with dried blood, and he is pretty sure that the bullet either went all way through or Rachel removed it, otherwise he would be in terrible pain. Even so, the healing wound still itches badly and it will be a while before the scab completely disappears.
Once he has checked on the cause of his latest death, Neal turns his attention to everything else.
As usual, he hurts all over, but he knows the pain will subside once he takes a warm bath and rests for a day or three. The back of his head is throbbing, probably from his fall as his body hit the floor. Someone – Rachel – moved him from the cold floor onto a mattress in the corner of the room, and it would be comfortable if it weren’t for his wrists, zip-tied separately to a pipe in the wall. And then…
A shiver runs through his body as he categorizes the latest sensation, and it’s not entirely from the cold.
In a somewhat embarrassing peculiarity, Neal almost always had an erection after “waking up” from death. Lifting his head as much as he can, he glances down to confirm what he already knows.
His trousers are unzipped, and there is rubber wrapped around his flat cock – the condom has clearly been used. He turns his head away from the mess and takes quick short breaths through his mouth, feeling a little ill.
Rachel fucked him.
He would have let her. He knows that Rachel has her quirks: she has shot him, even killed him several times over the years of their association. She actually made a sport of it; mocking him for bleeding all over her place, complaining that he ruined her nails when she had to scrub her floor with bleach, berating him for making a mess. But she had given him shelter, brought him water and painkillers whenever he woke up – she had cared for him. Until now.
She smashed, stabbed and tore them apart; took advantage of his vulnerable state, because she could and because she’d burn the world down before she admitted to a weakness. He had been a fool to believe that Rachel could love him any other way.
He trusted her with his death, and being a necronite, that actually meant a lot. In half the countries around the world they would legally cut off his head for being unnatural, and even the relatively neutral State of New York only modified its laws after little Chris Gates had been killed by her parents eight times. Neal knows all too well how lucky he is that he first died in Portland and not somewhere like Russia, South Arabia or even Spain.
He thought Rachel wouldn’t hurt him beyond her usual, predictable violence. He forgot to be afraid of her. Only now he realizes how badly had he underestimated her.
Mozzie warned him. Even Alex warned him, and she was rarely sentimental like that. Half-naked, aching and with his wrists restrained to a pipe in Rachel’s warehouse, Neal clenches his fists and swallows several times until he’s a bit more in control of himself.
He has to get out of here.
He glances around and listens to make sure that he’s alone and Rachel isn’t coming to see him. Then he wiggles his body until he pulls himself up, his back against the wall while the zip-ties around his wrists remain tight but not painfully so. Turing his head as far as he can, Neal checks the pipe for little bumps and irregularities – no such thing where he can reach right now, but there is a screw sticking out a bit some eight feet away from him. With effort and time, he could cut the zip-ties over the screw and free himself – if he can move there without tightening the zip-ties so much that they would cut the circulation in his wrists.
He cuts almost halfway through the zip-ties when he hears of a door opening and the clipping sound of Rachel’s heels. He glances up.
“Hi Neal,” says Rachel with a smile. “Trying to escape already, I see. You might want some painkillers first?” She sets down a food tray trey with some pastries and starts pouring him a glass of apple juice.
“Why did you do it?” asks Neal flatly.
Rachel chuckles. “Oh Neal. I killed you so you’d take me seriously. Anyway, what do you think about breakfast: apple pie or chocolate cake?”
“I know you shot me, that’s not what I meant. Rachel, what the hell is going on?”
“I needed you to stay here. By the way, please stop trying to get out of those zip-ties. I’d hate to have to shoot you so soon again.”
“Oh, because it’s messy?” retorts Neal sarcastically.
Rachel turns serious. “Because you were right. I do care about you. I’m simply looking out for you.”
“Are you serious? You killed me, you tied me to a pipe and then you… used me while I was out. If you care for me, then just let me go.”
Neal tries to mask the shiver that runs through his body. He’s getting cold from the concrete floor and his head throbs as he feels a migraine forming, but that’s the least of his problems.
Rachel is standing above him, the level difference only accentuating his own vulnerability. With the zip-ties around his wrists, Neal is pretty much helpless; his words have never quite worked on Rachel. And he has nobody but himself to blame for being in this situation.
They stare at each other in tense silence.
“I wasn’t lying about my prediction,” says Rachel suddenly.
“Really?” says Neal skeptically.
“I got the same picture over and over again: you dead in a morgue, handcuffed to the examination table with two guards in the room. Less than four months from now, you would be arrested and exposed as a necronite. I’m not letting that happen to you.”
Neal snorts. “Excuse me?”
“We both know what prison could be for someone like you. So, I’ll be taking the necessary steps to protect you.”
“Protect me how? With more predictions?”
“And my military experience. Whatever it takes,” says Rachel seriously.
Did that mean killing someone? Wonderful.
Neal clears his throat. “Look Rache, thanks for warning me. Really, I appreciate it. I promise I’ll be more careful from now on–”
She laughs at him. “Don’t be a fool, Neal. I know you. You’re a con artist and a liar. If I let you go, you won’t stay put; you’ll get yourself caught like I’ve seen. You’re too arrogant and reckless to do the smart thing.”
“What do you mean, if you let me go?”
Rachel smiles. “It’s simple, really. I’ll keep you here for the next four months until I’m sure the prediction won’t come true. And if some agency finds you here, I’ll get rid of them and move us to a safer place.”
“You’re crazy. I don’t want that kind of protection–”
“I’m not asking you, Neal. You’ll simply have to trust me with this.”
“Trust you?!” Neal exclaims. “You just said you plan to keep me here tied to a pipe for four months while you kill people.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll move you to a proper room once I clean it of any possible escape tools,” says Rachel practically. “I’m really sorry that I’ll have to shoot you again before I do that. By the way, you’d do better to stay put during those four months, because I’ll kill you every time you try to run if you force me to.” She chuckles. “Although that might make time run faster for you…”
“Don’t do this, Rache. I’ll go underground, I won’t do anything rash–”
“Don’t make me hurt you, Neal,” she says with a sigh. Then she smiles at him. “So, breakfast and some Tylenol? We can even watch a movie if you absolutely have to…”
He tries to come up with anything that might change her mind. “If you don’t let me go, we’re done. Do you hear me? We’re through.”
Rachel sighs. “Stop this. I could threaten Mozzie, you know. We both know you’d cooperate then.”
Neal’s blood freezes in his veins. It’s as if the last shrouds of illusion he had about Rachel fade away and for the first time, he sees her in all her sociopathic glory.
Though his feelings weren’t even a fraction of what he had once felt for Kate, a part of him had been fond of Rachel despite knowing who she was. He can’t believe that he has been so blind.
But two can play the game, and he’s not the world’s best con man for nothing.
He closes his eyes and shakes his head, and then when he finally looks at Rachel again, his smile is tired and a bit rueful. “You’re right. It’s just… it’s been a shock, I guess. I never thought it was possible. I can’t believe they would have caught me!”
Rachel shakes her head. “Like I said, Neal, I’m going to keep you safe. Whatever it takes, even if I have to hurt you in the process.”
He smiles at her. “I know. I love you, Rache.”
She frowns. “Don’t try to play me, Neal–”
“I’m not lying. You’re smart, gorgeous, you’re helping me, you don’t freak out when I die… Kate hated it, and even Moz…” He looks deep in her eyes. “You’re the only one who gets me as I am.”
“We understand each other,” says Rachel knowingly, and Neal agrees with a nod.
He takes the painkillers, and then they share breakfast with Rachel feeding him the cake and holding the glass close to his mouth. Their kisses taste like apples even as Neal’s hands remain bound to the pipe.
* * *
Neal escapes Rachel’s warehouse three weeks later and doesn’t look back.
Author:
sheenianni Fandom: White Collar; fusion with the Jesse Sullivan novels by Kory Shrum
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Rachel Turner, Neal/Rachel
Rating: R
Genre: Angst
Spoilers: None
Content Notice: off-screen non-con (partner rape); violence; character deaths on- and off-screen
Word Count: 3,300
Summary: As a Necronite, Neal always thought that being with Rachel was a fair bargain for keeping his friends safe. He was wrong. Pre-series AU, (hopefully) the first installment in this universe. Fills "Something is Destroyed / Demolished" on my Gen Bingo card.
A/N: Although this is a fusion, it can be easily read without knowing the novels and I’ve taken some liberties with them as well (awesome books btw. with a great female (bisexual) protagonist who is very likeable with all her snark and sarcasm. (Also, less dark than this fic). First book is free on Amazon if you want to check it out. *Advertisement over.*)
___________________________________
One of his greatest fears is dying in prison.
Not that it’s a possibility that he thinks about very often. Sitting in an armchair back at his apartment, Neal observes the New York skyline, sipping on a glass of wine as he contemplates his future.
Coming back here is not without its risks, as Neal knows that the FBI is after him. But he loves this city, and besides, there are plenty of worse places for him than the State of New York. After “People vs. Jonathan and Emily Gates”, New York has added a few important words into the state constitution, which means that Neal has the same rights as the rest of the population. Well, on paper at least.
Sometimes, he wishes for the simpler times back when he didn’t use to notice these things.
He lives on the move, sometimes not sure what he’s running from anymore. Still, if he ever had to settle in one place, New York wouldn’t be too bad.
Neal smiles, finishes the last of his wine and begins to plan his next heist.
He steals a painting in Boston and a statue in Alabama, but Mozzie comments on neither; nothing like his huge rant that time when Neal robbed the museum in Egypt. They go to Vienna to pull a three-man job with Alex, and afterwards they travel through Europe, which is fun for a while until there’s a con which goes sideways. In a fuck-up of epic proportions, Neal gets stabbed in the stomach and Mozzie has to drag his limp body to a mortician. Thankfully the guy knows his stuff, so by the time Mozzie’s done cleaning up the scene of their crime, all Neal’s organs are back in place and their friend sews him up, promising to keep things quiet.
Just another day at work.
Before long, Neal is back on his feet. However, Mozzie is still too shaken by the incident and Neal knows better than to push him too soon. So they take a vacation (in Sweden, which is a nice and refreshingly non-religious country), and then back to France and Belgium where they spend a while until Agent Burke gets on Neal’s track and they have to flee.
It’s a life filled with excitement and adventure; a fun life, a good life.
It comes to an end when they once again come back to New York and Neal receives a call from Rachel Turner.
“Hi Neal. I’ve got some news for you.”
Mozzie doesn’t like that Neal keeps in contact with Rachel, even though Neal insists that her information is too valuable to pass upon. The one time when Moz tried to push the issue, Neal snapped at him that maybe if they had listened to Rachel’s warnings the first time they met her, Kate didn’t have to die. After that, Mozzie never brought up the topic again.
Former military, a trained assassin – Neal knows that Rachel is dangerous. The smart thing, the reasonable thing would be to stay the hell away, because she’s like broken glass that cuts him every time he touches it. He tells himself that it’s all about the information; that he can’t risk losing another friend or lover because he didn’t have Rachel’s special insight.
He’s always been good at lying like that.
Neal hates what Rachel does. And he knows, he knows that despite what the army did to her, he would be a fool to believe even for a second that Rachel could have somehow been different; that she wasn’t always this cold, manipulative and calculating. A killer.
Except, who is he to throw stones when he has his own body-count? Besides, he knows she would never seriously hurt him, not physically at least. And even if she sometimes takes things a bit too far, his body can take it; experience has taught him that.
A necronite and an A.M.P.
They’re two freaks of nature, which means they share a bond that normal people simply don’t understand. Neal is pulled to Rachel like a moth to a flame, and true to herself, Rachel burns him through each and every time. Each time he runs, only to eventually come back when his scars stop bleeding.
He hides and pretends and tries to look the other way.
And so Neal stands in front of Rachel’s warehouse, waiting for here to open the door, wishing he were anywhere but here. Still, he knows better than to let her see his doubts.
“Rachel! Good to see you,” he greets her cheerfully, flashing his best smile. “How is my favorite psychic?”
“You know Neal, that would almost sound genuine if it hadn’t been six month since your last visit.” Rachel blocks the entrance with her body. “You didn’t even call.”
Neal clears his throat. “You’re right, and I’m sorry. I’ve been busy–”
“Gallivanting through the world with Mozzie, from what I’ve heard. Europeans’ brains still tasty?”
He sighs exaggeratedly. “I told you that joke got old about four years ago.”
Rachel lifts one of her eyebrows, clearly unimpressed.
Neal gives her a puppy look. “Please?”
At last she lets him in.
Once they’re inside, Rachel kicks the door closed and pushes him against the wall. Familiar with their game, Neal grabs her head and kisses her deeply, reaching with his other hand to cup her breasts. With her free hand, Rachel unzips her leather jacket and Neal helps her shrug it off, tossing it aside. Three weeks ago, she killed a man with a teaspoon – he blinks, and then Rachel wraps her leg around him and Neal chuckles as he pulls her closer, capturing her lips in another deep kiss before he has to gasp for breath. He laughs and his eyes tear up when Rachel pulls his hair in a sensation that’s unnerving and yet not entirely unpleasant despite the pain. He squashes the unwanted thoughts (it’s a fake, they’re better than this) because he needs that information, and hopefully Rachel won’t shoot him this time...
And then Neal staggers when Rachel unexpectedly lets go and pushes him away.
A flash of panic; he rules it in before it can take roots. He frowns. “What’s wrong, Rache?”
She glares at him. “Do you actually think I’m that desperate? I don’t need your pity fuck.” She buttons up her shirt and bends down to pick her jacket while Neal cautiously straightens his own clothes. He watches Rachel’s every movement – she’s pissed, and an angry Rachel never bodes well for anyone.
“It’s not like that,” he says; not really honest yet not quite a lie.
Rachel snorts. “Cut the theatrics, Neal. This isn’t a social call; you’re here to know what I found out.”
“Would you want me to pretend?” asks Neal flatly.
“If this is how you fake it, spare me. Come,” she says and motions him further into her warehouse.
He follows her to the familiar room with a dozen target boards, two of them still untouched, but most ridden with holes. Stepping inside, Neal suppresses a wince when he notices all the shell casings on a floor, too many for him to count.
As always, he wishes that Rachel used a different media for her future-telling. According to Mozzie, almost all A.M.Ps use drawing or painting as their technique, even those whose stick figures leave a lot to be desired artistically. A much smaller number rely on molding, and even fewer on composing melodies. And maybe it is telling, that even among all these former military personnel, Rachel is the one who picked a tool quite so lethal.
Neal remains impassive when Rachel pulls out her gun and stands in front of one of the boards that serve as empty canvases. He doesn’t cringe but wishes he could put on some ear muffs when she empties the gun into the canvas and then reloads and begins again; once, thrice, six times in total. Finally, Rachel puts the gun away, picks up her tweezers and begins extracting the bullets from the wood.
Neal waits and watches as Rachel pulls out bullet after bullet. The holes create the final image that Rachel will use for her prediction. He knows that Rachel is a sharp shooter, which means that something else is guiding her hands when she creates these patterns. The holes in the board mean nothing to him, but to Rachel they clearly make sense and Neal has long ago learned to trust her insight.
The process takes time though, and after ten minutes Neal grows bored enough to break the silence.
“You said you have something for me,” he says with a hint of a question.
“I do,” says Rachel through gritted teeth as she struggles with a particularly stubborn bullet.
“And…?” asks Neal at last. “Are you going to tell me?”
She glares at him. “I wasted three boards and all I got was the same image of you. Do you realize how annoying you are?”
“Ouch. And yet you still love me?” asks Neal jokingly.
The second the words leave his mouth, he knows he made a terrible mistake. He’s still too slow when Rachel grabs her gun and aims it at his head.
Neal puts his hands up and takes several steps back. “I’m sorry. Look, I didn’t mean that. Please, don’t–”
“You’re right, Neal. Maybe I do love you.” With a smile, Rachel lowers the gun until it’s aimed at his chest.
Then she shoots him in the heart.
When he wakes up, he has no idea how much time has passed; hours or days – likely just hours. His shirt is gone and he can smell bleach in the air; that plus sweat and something worse. The hair on his chest is stuck together with dried blood, and he is pretty sure that the bullet either went all way through or Rachel removed it, otherwise he would be in terrible pain. Even so, the healing wound still itches badly and it will be a while before the scab completely disappears.
Once he has checked on the cause of his latest death, Neal turns his attention to everything else.
As usual, he hurts all over, but he knows the pain will subside once he takes a warm bath and rests for a day or three. The back of his head is throbbing, probably from his fall as his body hit the floor. Someone – Rachel – moved him from the cold floor onto a mattress in the corner of the room, and it would be comfortable if it weren’t for his wrists, zip-tied separately to a pipe in the wall. And then…
A shiver runs through his body as he categorizes the latest sensation, and it’s not entirely from the cold.
In a somewhat embarrassing peculiarity, Neal almost always had an erection after “waking up” from death. Lifting his head as much as he can, he glances down to confirm what he already knows.
His trousers are unzipped, and there is rubber wrapped around his flat cock – the condom has clearly been used. He turns his head away from the mess and takes quick short breaths through his mouth, feeling a little ill.
Rachel fucked him.
He would have let her. He knows that Rachel has her quirks: she has shot him, even killed him several times over the years of their association. She actually made a sport of it; mocking him for bleeding all over her place, complaining that he ruined her nails when she had to scrub her floor with bleach, berating him for making a mess. But she had given him shelter, brought him water and painkillers whenever he woke up – she had cared for him. Until now.
She smashed, stabbed and tore them apart; took advantage of his vulnerable state, because she could and because she’d burn the world down before she admitted to a weakness. He had been a fool to believe that Rachel could love him any other way.
He trusted her with his death, and being a necronite, that actually meant a lot. In half the countries around the world they would legally cut off his head for being unnatural, and even the relatively neutral State of New York only modified its laws after little Chris Gates had been killed by her parents eight times. Neal knows all too well how lucky he is that he first died in Portland and not somewhere like Russia, South Arabia or even Spain.
He thought Rachel wouldn’t hurt him beyond her usual, predictable violence. He forgot to be afraid of her. Only now he realizes how badly had he underestimated her.
Mozzie warned him. Even Alex warned him, and she was rarely sentimental like that. Half-naked, aching and with his wrists restrained to a pipe in Rachel’s warehouse, Neal clenches his fists and swallows several times until he’s a bit more in control of himself.
He has to get out of here.
He glances around and listens to make sure that he’s alone and Rachel isn’t coming to see him. Then he wiggles his body until he pulls himself up, his back against the wall while the zip-ties around his wrists remain tight but not painfully so. Turing his head as far as he can, Neal checks the pipe for little bumps and irregularities – no such thing where he can reach right now, but there is a screw sticking out a bit some eight feet away from him. With effort and time, he could cut the zip-ties over the screw and free himself – if he can move there without tightening the zip-ties so much that they would cut the circulation in his wrists.
He cuts almost halfway through the zip-ties when he hears of a door opening and the clipping sound of Rachel’s heels. He glances up.
“Hi Neal,” says Rachel with a smile. “Trying to escape already, I see. You might want some painkillers first?” She sets down a food tray trey with some pastries and starts pouring him a glass of apple juice.
“Why did you do it?” asks Neal flatly.
Rachel chuckles. “Oh Neal. I killed you so you’d take me seriously. Anyway, what do you think about breakfast: apple pie or chocolate cake?”
“I know you shot me, that’s not what I meant. Rachel, what the hell is going on?”
“I needed you to stay here. By the way, please stop trying to get out of those zip-ties. I’d hate to have to shoot you so soon again.”
“Oh, because it’s messy?” retorts Neal sarcastically.
Rachel turns serious. “Because you were right. I do care about you. I’m simply looking out for you.”
“Are you serious? You killed me, you tied me to a pipe and then you… used me while I was out. If you care for me, then just let me go.”
Neal tries to mask the shiver that runs through his body. He’s getting cold from the concrete floor and his head throbs as he feels a migraine forming, but that’s the least of his problems.
Rachel is standing above him, the level difference only accentuating his own vulnerability. With the zip-ties around his wrists, Neal is pretty much helpless; his words have never quite worked on Rachel. And he has nobody but himself to blame for being in this situation.
They stare at each other in tense silence.
“I wasn’t lying about my prediction,” says Rachel suddenly.
“Really?” says Neal skeptically.
“I got the same picture over and over again: you dead in a morgue, handcuffed to the examination table with two guards in the room. Less than four months from now, you would be arrested and exposed as a necronite. I’m not letting that happen to you.”
Neal snorts. “Excuse me?”
“We both know what prison could be for someone like you. So, I’ll be taking the necessary steps to protect you.”
“Protect me how? With more predictions?”
“And my military experience. Whatever it takes,” says Rachel seriously.
Did that mean killing someone? Wonderful.
Neal clears his throat. “Look Rache, thanks for warning me. Really, I appreciate it. I promise I’ll be more careful from now on–”
She laughs at him. “Don’t be a fool, Neal. I know you. You’re a con artist and a liar. If I let you go, you won’t stay put; you’ll get yourself caught like I’ve seen. You’re too arrogant and reckless to do the smart thing.”
“What do you mean, if you let me go?”
Rachel smiles. “It’s simple, really. I’ll keep you here for the next four months until I’m sure the prediction won’t come true. And if some agency finds you here, I’ll get rid of them and move us to a safer place.”
“You’re crazy. I don’t want that kind of protection–”
“I’m not asking you, Neal. You’ll simply have to trust me with this.”
“Trust you?!” Neal exclaims. “You just said you plan to keep me here tied to a pipe for four months while you kill people.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll move you to a proper room once I clean it of any possible escape tools,” says Rachel practically. “I’m really sorry that I’ll have to shoot you again before I do that. By the way, you’d do better to stay put during those four months, because I’ll kill you every time you try to run if you force me to.” She chuckles. “Although that might make time run faster for you…”
“Don’t do this, Rache. I’ll go underground, I won’t do anything rash–”
“Don’t make me hurt you, Neal,” she says with a sigh. Then she smiles at him. “So, breakfast and some Tylenol? We can even watch a movie if you absolutely have to…”
He tries to come up with anything that might change her mind. “If you don’t let me go, we’re done. Do you hear me? We’re through.”
Rachel sighs. “Stop this. I could threaten Mozzie, you know. We both know you’d cooperate then.”
Neal’s blood freezes in his veins. It’s as if the last shrouds of illusion he had about Rachel fade away and for the first time, he sees her in all her sociopathic glory.
Though his feelings weren’t even a fraction of what he had once felt for Kate, a part of him had been fond of Rachel despite knowing who she was. He can’t believe that he has been so blind.
But two can play the game, and he’s not the world’s best con man for nothing.
He closes his eyes and shakes his head, and then when he finally looks at Rachel again, his smile is tired and a bit rueful. “You’re right. It’s just… it’s been a shock, I guess. I never thought it was possible. I can’t believe they would have caught me!”
Rachel shakes her head. “Like I said, Neal, I’m going to keep you safe. Whatever it takes, even if I have to hurt you in the process.”
He smiles at her. “I know. I love you, Rache.”
She frowns. “Don’t try to play me, Neal–”
“I’m not lying. You’re smart, gorgeous, you’re helping me, you don’t freak out when I die… Kate hated it, and even Moz…” He looks deep in her eyes. “You’re the only one who gets me as I am.”
“We understand each other,” says Rachel knowingly, and Neal agrees with a nod.
He takes the painkillers, and then they share breakfast with Rachel feeding him the cake and holding the glass close to his mouth. Their kisses taste like apples even as Neal’s hands remain bound to the pipe.
Neal escapes Rachel’s warehouse three weeks later and doesn’t look back.
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Date: 2016-05-05 03:57 pm (UTC)Oh, Rachel is soooooooooo evil, it's impossible not to love her, especially when she is going all psycho on poor Neal :P
And OMG, I soo love the idea of necronite!Neal, dying and waking up, this has sooo much potential :D I do hope you continue this journey \o/
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Date: 2016-05-05 08:44 pm (UTC)I have many plans for this universe (I hope they came to fruition, LOL).
I think Rachel has become my favorite villain hands down. Only Keller can even think about competing with her, and it still isn't even close.
I have so many ideas for necronite!Neal...
Thank you for your lovely review :D