![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
s2309Title: Dragon Breathing Fire
Characters (Pairings): Neal Caffrey, Rachel Turner (Rachel/Neal, with major consent issues)
Rating: R
Word Count: 2088
Spoilers: Through Season 5
Content Notes: Kidnapping, violence, food + water deprivation, psychological judo, reference to future offscreen noncon. (spoilers ahoy)
Disclaimer: White Collar is Jeff Eastin's brainchild. Not mine.
Summary: Neal seems to have forgotten that when Rachel plays, she plays to win.
Author's Note: This is all for the very kind![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hurinhouse, who asked to know how the scene set in Get With The Program continues. I obligingly scared the shit out of myself by writing this monster.
Title from Don't Hurt Yourself by Beyoncé featuring Jack White. (LISTEN TO LEMONADE, Y'ALL).
The first snippet thing starts right where Get With The Program stops, so it probably won't make sense if you don't read that part.
As before, Rachel is OOC in that she isn't restrained by her love for Neal. Also as before, no cheerful rainbow unicorns to be found here. There is, however, flagrant abuse of italics. Proceed with caution.
Rachel takes in Neal's terrified expression with amusement. "Don't look so worried. I won't do a single thing to you that you don't ask me to."
"Fine, then," he says. "Let me go."
"Oh, did I forget to mention that I reserve the right to say no?" She gazes into his eyes innocently. "Whoops."
He grits his teeth against a tremor in his jaw. She smiles delicately.
"Well, enjoy your new home," she says. "I'll be in every morning, so you can let me know when you're ready to let me break the bones in your left forearm." She relaxes her grip on him, lets him slide down against the wall. (She was the only thing holding him up. Pathetic.)
"My left- What- Rachel!" Oh, the panic on his face is utterly delicious.
"Don't take too long. I might get bored." She flashes him one last grin, backs away, and flicks off the light.
"Rachel? Rachel!" he calls again, but she ignores him and climbs the stairs with ease.
This is going to be fun.
-:-
Neal lies on the cold stone floor. Or, probably cold. He wouldn't know. They're the same temperature, his skin and the floor. He stretches one foot till it hits the steel bucket filled with drinking water. His skin and the floor and the bucket, and probably the other bucket too. All the same temperature.
If Rachel really has been coming here every morning like she said, it's been thirteen days since he woke up here. Thirteen days of only water for sustenance. Thirteen days of trying to wrestle the manacle off his left wrist. (Picking it was never an option, it's welded on.)
He's not sure, but it's possible that the cloudy feeling in his head is because of all the missing thoughts that leaked out of his ears instead of continuing on through his brain. The exhaustion must be shredding the edges of his mind, leaving little gaps that he could really do without, all things said and done.
The door at the top of the stairs creaks open, lets in some light. He throws his right arm over his face. Fourteen. He wants to groan.
"Good morning, Neal. How are you?"
His usual answer of 'Go to hell' is right at the tip of his tongue. But he's exhausted. And if giving her what she wants has even the slightest chance of getting him some food, he'll do it.
"Fine," he says.
"You're fine? That's a nice change." She flicks on the light for the first time in fourteen days. He feels the nerves in his eyes scream for mercy.
"No," he gets out despite the pain.
"You aren't fine?"
This time, he does groan. Apparently, she isn't going to let him off easy.
"Are you okay, Neal?"
Has she completely lost her sanity? "Go ahead. Break the bones in my left forearm. Let's carry on with your game."
He can hear the edge in her voice when she says, "Ask nicely."
Unbelievable.
He lifts the protective arm from his face to give her the most disgusted look he can manage. "Are you serious?"
She shrugs. "If you're not going to be polite, I suppose we can try again tomorrow." Her hand reaches for the light switch-
"Wait!" He struggles to his knees. He intended to stand, but his body is staging a rebellion. Maybe he should listen to it. (He doesn't.)
He licks his lips nervously. "Rach- Rebecca," he has to swallow against a bout of nausea when he sees the delighted expression on her face, "Please break the bones in my left forearm."
She walks towards him, a lioness on the prowl, breaking off a loose piece of pipe on the way.
He can't watch this. His eyes flutter shut for the briefest moment.
Which turns out to be a bad decision - he doesn't see it coming when she drops a kiss on his forehead. So soft, softer than anything he's felt in so long. He leans into it for the briefest moment before jerking away.
That earns him a frown. Not good.
"Arm out, hold on to the drainpipe," she commands.
He shuffles around on his knees, turns to the wall, but he doesn't reach for the drainpipe. What have I done? His left arm feels heavier than it should, even though it's fairly heavy already, weighed down by its own weight and the manacle around his wrist.
He shudders again when Rachel pets his hair. "It'll be over soon, I promise."
And she didn't lie. Less than two seconds after he (finally) reaches out and grips the drainpipe with what little strength he has left, there's a flash of grey metal before his eyes, a sickening crack, a harsh, thin scream, and then blackness. Peaceful blackness.
-:-
He surfaces briefly to see a sling on his arm, a pillow supporting his injured arm, and another under his head.
He has pillows. Plural.
He blinks in awe. One of his blinks lasts too long, and before he can locate the energy to open his eyes, he's asleep again.
-:-
She's holding out a grilled sandwich. A beautiful white bread grilled sandwich, with lovely stripy brown char marks, lettuce and chicken peeking out from between the two slices of bread, and mustard. Mustard.
And there's a whole stack where that came from.
"Thank you," he murmurs as he reaches out a hand for the sandwich she's offering. Understandably, he's surprised when she jerks it out of his reach.
"You're tired," she explains. "Let me feed you."
Suddenly, the sandwich looks about as appealing as lead paint.
He has to get out of this madhouse.
-:-
Now that he's fed, he can actually put some effort into planning an escape.
It doesn't do much, initially. There's a manacle welded onto his wrist, which is attached to a chain that's hooked onto a loop that's bolted to the wall. And he doesn't exactly have a bolt cutter on hand.
He has nothing on hand.
There are a bunch of pipes all over, though.
He's been here three weeks, and in all that time, he's never heard any sound from the drainpipe closest to him. It shouldn't be too difficult to pull it out.
-:-
He should have qualified that. Not too difficult for someone who has more muscle mass than he currently does.
He yands fruitlessly at the pipe till- "Aah!" He lets go in a hurry. Blood leaks slowly from a cut on his palm, which is strange, because the pipe feels like silk to his weary hands.
He inspects his hands. Oh. He seems to have cut his palm on his own nail.
Wait. He has nails.
He scrambles towards the patch of wall that the loop is bolted onto and before he's even in reach, starts digging franctically with his nails. The wall's not too soft, but after some effort, pieces begin to fall out.
And wedge themselves under his nails. He ignores that, lets it bleed, drip onto the sling that's still around his decommissioned left arm. If he works without stopping, maybe he can get to the top of the stairs. Open that door.
See some real sunlight.
He keeps scratching away at the wall till his body yanks him sharply into sleep.
-:-
He wakes up to the rhythmic click of a nailcutter.
Oh, no. He tries to jerk his hand away, but her grip is too firm. He'd curl his fingers into a fist, but jeez, he doesn't have a death wish.
"Do I need to take a hammer to your hands, Neal?" she asks casually as she snips off another nail. "I don't want to, believe me. My heart would just break if I had to take away your ability to create art just because you couldn't behave yourself."
"Rebecca," he tries weakly. "Please-"
"No. You don't get to apologise."
She reaches out and grabs his left arm and he screams, helpless against the torrent of pain.
"Maybe I'll yank off your fingernails," she declares above the sound. "Or I could manacle your right hand as well, with a shorter chain, so it stays above your head and you can't move around too much. But that'll be uncomfortable. What am I to do with you, Neal?"
She lets go of his arm. Finally. He gasps in large lungfuls of air.
"Do you think a collar would work?" she continues. "I could attach it to the loop, keep you on a shorter chain than you've got now. It'd keep your head and upper body restrained, but still let you move comfortably."
"I think you're insane," he grits out.
Her face falls into a frown instantly. She glares at him. "You know, I was going to make this easy for you, Neal. Make the decision and then give you enough time to come to terms with it. Now? You can decide."
She takes the nailcutter, the light, and his bucket of water with her as she walks away. The door shuts behind her, leaving him alone in the darkness with a grim decision to make.
And somehow, the only thought in his head is, My arm's going to heal so badly. It's going to end up crooked.
He starts laughing.
-:-
Apparently, when he has no water, it barely even takes a day before he's screaming Rachel's preferred name at the top of his lungs. He screams himself hoarse and she doesn't even show her face.
He curls into a ball. And he'll never admit it, but the ground beneath his eyes quickly grows wet with tears.
-:-
Rachel finally shows up after what feels like two entire days, heels clicking on the stairs far too slowly.
He scrambles to his feet. "Rebecca, please, please, put a collar on me. With a short chain. It'll work. Please."
Strangely, she doesn't seem happy at his acquiescence. She cocks her head. "Are you sure? It's not going to be comfortable, you know, the collar. It'll be like I have my hands on your neck, every second of every day." She walks up to him in a few quick strides and grips his neck in her two hands, as though to demonstrate. "You'll be able to feel every single breath you take." She looks straight into his eyes as she tightens her grip. "It'll keep you exactly where I want you." Suddenly, she yanks him forward by his neck, makes him stumble and crash onto his knees. "You'll be mine." She crouches before him, looks purposefully into his eyes, and touches her lips to his.
Just because she can.
He wants to spit. He wants to scream. He wants-
Food. Water. Food. Water.
"I'm sure," he says, ignoring every single instinct that's telling him to shut up, run, anything.
And then she smiles.
-:-
There's no rescue coming, he realizes dimly one day. Till now, he's been holding out, submitting to Rachel's will when he has to, but mostly keeping himself safe. But now? They've had a month and a half and he's still here.
He has to let her win this game. No matter what hideous abuse it inflicts on his dignity. Goddammit, he has to survive. And her way is the only way.
-:-
He finds that when he isn't trying to escape, Rachel doesn't hurt him too much. And when he convinces her that he likes her, when he kisses her, flirts with her, makes her panties wet, he can ask for (and get) nearly unimaginable luxuries (a shower, a blanket, a slice of warm apple pie).
Eventually, she loosens the collar. Lengthens the chain. Drops hints that someday he might have a room (a whole room) to himself, if he keeps behaving himself.
He can feel the day when she'll ask for a fuck creeping closer. He can already taste the bitter 'yes' on his tongue. The knowledge that he decided to trade his body and mind for creature comforts doesn't make it hurt any less.
And if he ignores the fact that he really doesn't want to be fed every single meal, and that he's still pissing and shitting and occasionally jerking off (a man has needs) into a bucket, his existence carries on in a manner that he classifies as 'maybe okay'.
Even in his darkest nightmares, he didn't see the day he'd be relieved to find himself with a 'maybe okay' existence. But that's what he has. And considering that the ground in this particular hell hasn't frozen over, the world's probably carrying on as usual.
Who would have thought.
Characters (Pairings): Neal Caffrey, Rachel Turner (Rachel/Neal, with major consent issues)
Rating: R
Word Count: 2088
Spoilers: Through Season 5
Content Notes: Kidnapping, violence, food + water deprivation, psychological judo, reference to future offscreen noncon. (spoilers ahoy)
Disclaimer: White Collar is Jeff Eastin's brainchild. Not mine.
Summary: Neal seems to have forgotten that when Rachel plays, she plays to win.
Author's Note: This is all for the very kind
hurinhouse, who asked to know how the scene set in Get With The Program continues. I obligingly scared the shit out of myself by writing this monster.Title from Don't Hurt Yourself by Beyoncé featuring Jack White. (LISTEN TO LEMONADE, Y'ALL).
The first snippet thing starts right where Get With The Program stops, so it probably won't make sense if you don't read that part.
As before, Rachel is OOC in that she isn't restrained by her love for Neal. Also as before, no cheerful rainbow unicorns to be found here. There is, however, flagrant abuse of italics. Proceed with caution.
Rachel takes in Neal's terrified expression with amusement. "Don't look so worried. I won't do a single thing to you that you don't ask me to."
"Fine, then," he says. "Let me go."
"Oh, did I forget to mention that I reserve the right to say no?" She gazes into his eyes innocently. "Whoops."
He grits his teeth against a tremor in his jaw. She smiles delicately.
"Well, enjoy your new home," she says. "I'll be in every morning, so you can let me know when you're ready to let me break the bones in your left forearm." She relaxes her grip on him, lets him slide down against the wall. (She was the only thing holding him up. Pathetic.)
"My left- What- Rachel!" Oh, the panic on his face is utterly delicious.
"Don't take too long. I might get bored." She flashes him one last grin, backs away, and flicks off the light.
"Rachel? Rachel!" he calls again, but she ignores him and climbs the stairs with ease.
This is going to be fun.
-:-
Neal lies on the cold stone floor. Or, probably cold. He wouldn't know. They're the same temperature, his skin and the floor. He stretches one foot till it hits the steel bucket filled with drinking water. His skin and the floor and the bucket, and probably the other bucket too. All the same temperature.
If Rachel really has been coming here every morning like she said, it's been thirteen days since he woke up here. Thirteen days of only water for sustenance. Thirteen days of trying to wrestle the manacle off his left wrist. (Picking it was never an option, it's welded on.)
He's not sure, but it's possible that the cloudy feeling in his head is because of all the missing thoughts that leaked out of his ears instead of continuing on through his brain. The exhaustion must be shredding the edges of his mind, leaving little gaps that he could really do without, all things said and done.
The door at the top of the stairs creaks open, lets in some light. He throws his right arm over his face. Fourteen. He wants to groan.
"Good morning, Neal. How are you?"
His usual answer of 'Go to hell' is right at the tip of his tongue. But he's exhausted. And if giving her what she wants has even the slightest chance of getting him some food, he'll do it.
"Fine," he says.
"You're fine? That's a nice change." She flicks on the light for the first time in fourteen days. He feels the nerves in his eyes scream for mercy.
"No," he gets out despite the pain.
"You aren't fine?"
This time, he does groan. Apparently, she isn't going to let him off easy.
"Are you okay, Neal?"
Has she completely lost her sanity? "Go ahead. Break the bones in my left forearm. Let's carry on with your game."
He can hear the edge in her voice when she says, "Ask nicely."
Unbelievable.
He lifts the protective arm from his face to give her the most disgusted look he can manage. "Are you serious?"
She shrugs. "If you're not going to be polite, I suppose we can try again tomorrow." Her hand reaches for the light switch-
"Wait!" He struggles to his knees. He intended to stand, but his body is staging a rebellion. Maybe he should listen to it. (He doesn't.)
He licks his lips nervously. "Rach- Rebecca," he has to swallow against a bout of nausea when he sees the delighted expression on her face, "Please break the bones in my left forearm."
She walks towards him, a lioness on the prowl, breaking off a loose piece of pipe on the way.
He can't watch this. His eyes flutter shut for the briefest moment.
Which turns out to be a bad decision - he doesn't see it coming when she drops a kiss on his forehead. So soft, softer than anything he's felt in so long. He leans into it for the briefest moment before jerking away.
That earns him a frown. Not good.
"Arm out, hold on to the drainpipe," she commands.
He shuffles around on his knees, turns to the wall, but he doesn't reach for the drainpipe. What have I done? His left arm feels heavier than it should, even though it's fairly heavy already, weighed down by its own weight and the manacle around his wrist.
He shudders again when Rachel pets his hair. "It'll be over soon, I promise."
And she didn't lie. Less than two seconds after he (finally) reaches out and grips the drainpipe with what little strength he has left, there's a flash of grey metal before his eyes, a sickening crack, a harsh, thin scream, and then blackness. Peaceful blackness.
-:-
He surfaces briefly to see a sling on his arm, a pillow supporting his injured arm, and another under his head.
He has pillows. Plural.
He blinks in awe. One of his blinks lasts too long, and before he can locate the energy to open his eyes, he's asleep again.
-:-
She's holding out a grilled sandwich. A beautiful white bread grilled sandwich, with lovely stripy brown char marks, lettuce and chicken peeking out from between the two slices of bread, and mustard. Mustard.
And there's a whole stack where that came from.
"Thank you," he murmurs as he reaches out a hand for the sandwich she's offering. Understandably, he's surprised when she jerks it out of his reach.
"You're tired," she explains. "Let me feed you."
Suddenly, the sandwich looks about as appealing as lead paint.
He has to get out of this madhouse.
-:-
Now that he's fed, he can actually put some effort into planning an escape.
It doesn't do much, initially. There's a manacle welded onto his wrist, which is attached to a chain that's hooked onto a loop that's bolted to the wall. And he doesn't exactly have a bolt cutter on hand.
He has nothing on hand.
There are a bunch of pipes all over, though.
He's been here three weeks, and in all that time, he's never heard any sound from the drainpipe closest to him. It shouldn't be too difficult to pull it out.
-:-
He should have qualified that. Not too difficult for someone who has more muscle mass than he currently does.
He yands fruitlessly at the pipe till- "Aah!" He lets go in a hurry. Blood leaks slowly from a cut on his palm, which is strange, because the pipe feels like silk to his weary hands.
He inspects his hands. Oh. He seems to have cut his palm on his own nail.
Wait. He has nails.
He scrambles towards the patch of wall that the loop is bolted onto and before he's even in reach, starts digging franctically with his nails. The wall's not too soft, but after some effort, pieces begin to fall out.
And wedge themselves under his nails. He ignores that, lets it bleed, drip onto the sling that's still around his decommissioned left arm. If he works without stopping, maybe he can get to the top of the stairs. Open that door.
See some real sunlight.
He keeps scratching away at the wall till his body yanks him sharply into sleep.
-:-
He wakes up to the rhythmic click of a nailcutter.
Oh, no. He tries to jerk his hand away, but her grip is too firm. He'd curl his fingers into a fist, but jeez, he doesn't have a death wish.
"Do I need to take a hammer to your hands, Neal?" she asks casually as she snips off another nail. "I don't want to, believe me. My heart would just break if I had to take away your ability to create art just because you couldn't behave yourself."
"Rebecca," he tries weakly. "Please-"
"No. You don't get to apologise."
She reaches out and grabs his left arm and he screams, helpless against the torrent of pain.
"Maybe I'll yank off your fingernails," she declares above the sound. "Or I could manacle your right hand as well, with a shorter chain, so it stays above your head and you can't move around too much. But that'll be uncomfortable. What am I to do with you, Neal?"
She lets go of his arm. Finally. He gasps in large lungfuls of air.
"Do you think a collar would work?" she continues. "I could attach it to the loop, keep you on a shorter chain than you've got now. It'd keep your head and upper body restrained, but still let you move comfortably."
"I think you're insane," he grits out.
Her face falls into a frown instantly. She glares at him. "You know, I was going to make this easy for you, Neal. Make the decision and then give you enough time to come to terms with it. Now? You can decide."
She takes the nailcutter, the light, and his bucket of water with her as she walks away. The door shuts behind her, leaving him alone in the darkness with a grim decision to make.
And somehow, the only thought in his head is, My arm's going to heal so badly. It's going to end up crooked.
He starts laughing.
-:-
Apparently, when he has no water, it barely even takes a day before he's screaming Rachel's preferred name at the top of his lungs. He screams himself hoarse and she doesn't even show her face.
He curls into a ball. And he'll never admit it, but the ground beneath his eyes quickly grows wet with tears.
-:-
Rachel finally shows up after what feels like two entire days, heels clicking on the stairs far too slowly.
He scrambles to his feet. "Rebecca, please, please, put a collar on me. With a short chain. It'll work. Please."
Strangely, she doesn't seem happy at his acquiescence. She cocks her head. "Are you sure? It's not going to be comfortable, you know, the collar. It'll be like I have my hands on your neck, every second of every day." She walks up to him in a few quick strides and grips his neck in her two hands, as though to demonstrate. "You'll be able to feel every single breath you take." She looks straight into his eyes as she tightens her grip. "It'll keep you exactly where I want you." Suddenly, she yanks him forward by his neck, makes him stumble and crash onto his knees. "You'll be mine." She crouches before him, looks purposefully into his eyes, and touches her lips to his.
Just because she can.
He wants to spit. He wants to scream. He wants-
Food. Water. Food. Water.
"I'm sure," he says, ignoring every single instinct that's telling him to shut up, run, anything.
And then she smiles.
-:-
There's no rescue coming, he realizes dimly one day. Till now, he's been holding out, submitting to Rachel's will when he has to, but mostly keeping himself safe. But now? They've had a month and a half and he's still here.
He has to let her win this game. No matter what hideous abuse it inflicts on his dignity. Goddammit, he has to survive. And her way is the only way.
-:-
He finds that when he isn't trying to escape, Rachel doesn't hurt him too much. And when he convinces her that he likes her, when he kisses her, flirts with her, makes her panties wet, he can ask for (and get) nearly unimaginable luxuries (a shower, a blanket, a slice of warm apple pie).
Eventually, she loosens the collar. Lengthens the chain. Drops hints that someday he might have a room (a whole room) to himself, if he keeps behaving himself.
He can feel the day when she'll ask for a fuck creeping closer. He can already taste the bitter 'yes' on his tongue. The knowledge that he decided to trade his body and mind for creature comforts doesn't make it hurt any less.
And if he ignores the fact that he really doesn't want to be fed every single meal, and that he's still pissing and shitting and occasionally jerking off (a man has needs) into a bucket, his existence carries on in a manner that he classifies as 'maybe okay'.
Even in his darkest nightmares, he didn't see the day he'd be relieved to find himself with a 'maybe okay' existence. But that's what he has. And considering that the ground in this particular hell hasn't frozen over, the world's probably carrying on as usual.
Who would have thought.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2016-04-30 04:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-04-30 04:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-04-30 06:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-05-01 10:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-04-30 07:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-05-01 10:54 am (UTC)Thank you so much!!! *scrunches nose at you*
no subject
Date: 2016-05-01 07:26 am (UTC)Now I want a happy ending when Sara and Alex storm Rachel's place, rescue Neal and walk away with Rachel going down.
(Or hey, maybe it's Sara/Diana. Because Sara totally loves her new girlfriend but can't let go of the image of Neal tortured somewhere. So they rescue him. Yep.)
BTW, may I ask what the HTML code is for the "spoilery grey field"? I could never find it anywhere...
no subject
Date: 2016-05-01 10:50 am (UTC)Hmm, maybe the threequel to this? I have a sequel in mind already, and it grows even more evil in that Neal sort of starts to lose himself, but it's from Rachel's POV, which I really want to write. Because I enjoy scaring the shit out of myself. Yes. That.
Also, why not all three of them? *g*
And tbh, I don't ship Diana as hard with Sara as I would with Alex. (My usual hero/villain ship thing xD.) I feel like Sara deserves to fall in love with a really soft, mushy person.
Hold up. Who says Diana isn't soft? Challenge accepted!
Absolutely! I either got the code from the whitecollarhc comm or one of the other White Collar challenge comms (they're usually in the rules). Either way, here it is:
[span style="color:#666;background-color:#666" title="This is a warning that is also a spoiler. Highlight to read."] SPOILERY WARNINGS HERE [/span]
Replace the box brackets with the pointy HTML ones.
(Yes, it was physically painful to write colour without the u)
no subject
Date: 2016-05-02 09:48 am (UTC)Well, beyond my OTP (Neal/Sara) I really like Sara with Alex, though Diana/Alex and Diana/Sara are my favorites too. (Oddly, El does very little to me shippy-wise.) And of course Diana/Rachel, which is about as explosive as it can get.
Thanks so much for the HTML code :)
no subject
Date: 2016-05-02 04:31 pm (UTC)I think that might be because El's so sorted that she'd probably stop any potential relationship destroying issues before they even started. She'd just like sit her partner down, outline the problem, and start planning to fix it. She doesn't do well with drama, unlike the rest of these secretive ladies. She's just too practical for that shit.
No problem!
no subject
Date: 2016-05-01 12:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-05-01 04:15 pm (UTC)You will get a rescue! Eventually. I have a bunch of stuff planned, but I suck monkey balls at longfic, so I'm doing it in instalments :D See the comment I left in reply to sheenianni above for a few details! ^.^