He hadn't really slept. It started with insomnia. Tossing and turning in the dark. Thinking he heard voices. Each creak of wind against the house made him brace himself for the painful shriek of it. Some time after Malcolm had woken up, though, Neal had finally passed out. His dreams weren't any better than consciousness. Rey's stood in every corner his subconscious constructed, watching him with eyes frozen open in the cold. Then it wasn't just Rey. It was Daisy. Malcolm. Raylan, Doc. When Peter and Elizabeth joined the ranks of frozen dead, Neal had jerked awake and given up on unconsciousness.
Getting up and prepping the kitchen to cook had been a relief. He didn't know the people who'd been invited over, but that didn't change the cooking part of it. Seafood gumbo; caesar salad; grilled chicken breast topped with vinaigrette dressed peppers, red onions, tomatoes and mushrooms; chocolate bread pudding with raspberry reduction. Rosemary chicken for Malcolm. He lost himself in it, directing Malcolm, pulling together the ingredients he'd scrounged from the General Store and the Gull.
He was fine until he went to prep the celery for the gumbo. He paused with the knife above the cutting board. A bit of light reflected off the blade, and for a moment he would have sworn he saw Rey's face in the metal. He dropped it with a clatter, his hand trembling. Neal clenched his fingers, trying to hide the tremor, and took a deep breath.
He was fine. Everything was fine.
II. Dinner!!
Neal was impressed with the place settings Malcolm had managed to pull together. He could almost imagine this whole thing was normal, if he ignored the fact that the longest he'd known anyone sitting there was a week. With some of them, it felt like so much longer.
Of course, some of them he wasn't 100% sure about wanting to know. The whole sex dungeon thing triggered a protective twitch in Neal that he had to fight hard to keep from acting on. Making a thing of it wouldn't help anyone, particularly not Malcolm. It was harder to focus on conversation after that, and whenever his mind wandered, it wandered to places he really didn't want it to go.
He flinched when someone turned and spoke to him directly. "Sorry, what?"
II. Post-dinner mingling!!
Neal has had more moonshine than is strictly advisable, but he was pretty sure he wasn't the only one. He lounged in one of the living room chairs, content to listen to conversation more than participate. His mouth might have tasted like a trash compactor, but he was really relaxed for the first time tonight.
no subject
He hadn't really slept. It started with insomnia. Tossing and turning in the dark. Thinking he heard voices. Each creak of wind against the house made him brace himself for the painful shriek of it. Some time after Malcolm had woken up, though, Neal had finally passed out. His dreams weren't any better than consciousness. Rey's stood in every corner his subconscious constructed, watching him with eyes frozen open in the cold. Then it wasn't just Rey. It was Daisy. Malcolm. Raylan, Doc. When Peter and Elizabeth joined the ranks of frozen dead, Neal had jerked awake and given up on unconsciousness.
Getting up and prepping the kitchen to cook had been a relief. He didn't know the people who'd been invited over, but that didn't change the cooking part of it. Seafood gumbo; caesar salad; grilled chicken breast topped with vinaigrette dressed peppers, red onions, tomatoes and mushrooms; chocolate bread pudding with raspberry reduction. Rosemary chicken for Malcolm. He lost himself in it, directing Malcolm, pulling together the ingredients he'd scrounged from the General Store and the Gull.
He was fine until he went to prep the celery for the gumbo. He paused with the knife above the cutting board. A bit of light reflected off the blade, and for a moment he would have sworn he saw Rey's face in the metal. He dropped it with a clatter, his hand trembling. Neal clenched his fingers, trying to hide the tremor, and took a deep breath.
He was fine. Everything was fine.
Neal was impressed with the place settings Malcolm had managed to pull together. He could almost imagine this whole thing was normal, if he ignored the fact that the longest he'd known anyone sitting there was a week. With some of them, it felt like so much longer.
Of course, some of them he wasn't 100% sure about wanting to know. The whole sex dungeon thing triggered a protective twitch in Neal that he had to fight hard to keep from acting on. Making a thing of it wouldn't help anyone, particularly not Malcolm. It was harder to focus on conversation after that, and whenever his mind wandered, it wandered to places he really didn't want it to go.
He flinched when someone turned and spoke to him directly. "Sorry, what?"
Neal has had more moonshine than is strictly advisable, but he was pretty sure he wasn't the only one. He lounged in one of the living room chairs, content to listen to conversation more than participate. His mouth might have tasted like a trash compactor, but he was really relaxed for the first time tonight.
Too relaxed.
Because he was humming under his breath, then quietly singing New York State of Mind.