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Determination - White Collar - Gen (Neal Caffrey) - Words: 1,130
Written for Angst Bingo; Prompt: Hunger
Summary: Neal grows his beard and loses weight. One is intentional, the other isn't.
Content Notes: None. G
On AO3: Determination
The last month and a half Neal spends in prison is simultaneously the best and the worst. He has a goal now, a project, a con. It awakens something in him that has been sitting dormant for the past three and a half years. The intelligence and knowledge had still been there, but when he looked at the drawings and the handful of paintings he managed to do while in his cell, they all look flat. Like being confined in a tiny room had dulled his sense of perspective. When Kate leaves the visiting area that day, Neal knows she's going to disappear again, that she won't be coming back even for him. Part of him rages that she's waited for so long, why couldn't she wait those last few months, while there's a bitter voice in the back of his mind that reminds him that visiting Neal in a maximum security prison had never been part of their plans. They had contingency upon contingency plan, all lined up for any eventuality, but they'd never planned for capture and conviction.
The escape plan has been set out in his head for two years, he'd spent the first year examining every possible way out, more out of habit than ever intending to use the plan. He actually had four separate plans with various materials required and varying time lengths; when the time came to choose he picked the one with the shortest time frame and actually managed to shave two weeks off his original two month estimate. Well, he didn't shave, which was part of the plan. It was scratchy, and a full beard was never something that Neal had aspired for. He decided that when he was free he was going to shave religiously. Besides, a beard spoiled the signature 'Neal Caffrey' look. Not that the orange jumpsuit did much for him either.
Neal started gathering the necessary materials that week, mentally updating the list of guards he knew on the rotation and planning for the exact day and time; all the while hoping that Kate would show up that Saturday. He already knew she wouldn't, even as he sat on the edge of his bed for the entire day and waited for the guard to come tell him he had a visitor. They didn't come, though one of the night guards he was familiar with stopped by at lights out and expressed sympathy. Neal was still sitting unmoving and barely managed to nod in acknowledgment. He spent the night there, his eyes fixated on the neat rows that carefully marked off each day he'd spent locked away.
It wasn't until a week later, when he's gathered more than half the things that he'll need to escape and has walked his plan over and over in his mind to account for any foreseeable variable, that Neal looks in the mirror. His beard is coming along, slower than he would like, but he has a whisper of hair along his upper lip and patches down the edges of his jaw line. The hair makes it harder to see that he has lost a little weight, enough to show in his cheeks and when he pushes up his sleeves he can see his lithe muscles pressing against his skin a fraction more than usual.
Losing weight to change his appearance had never been part of the plan; he had always been slender and any significant loss of weight would only serve to make him appear ill and draw the attention of the guards and medical staff. Half of his plan was flying below the radar and being as invisible as it was possible to be in an orange jumpsuit. When he sat down that night, his tray pushed unceremoniously through the slot in the cell door, Neal had stared blankly at the food. Prison food had never been particularly appetizing, but he'd managed well enough for the previous three years. Without it being a truly conscious decision, Neal disposed of the food down the toilet and dropped his empty tray back through the slot. He had seven minutes to work on adapting the cassette player before the guards walked by again, they were always two minutes slower during meal rounds.
Another two weeks passed and Neal could feel the gnawing in his stomach now, the tight burn of hunger across his abdomen that demanded he consume something before he blacked out. He concentrated on liquids, things he could swallow without having to chew because when he tried to take a bite of bread or meat it always caught in his throat. When he swallowed the cold water he could feel it run all the way down his esophagus into the near emptiness of his stomach and found the feeling disconcerting. On Saturdays he didn't eat anything at all, he didn't do much except for sit and think about where Kate was. There was no way to move up the time table any more than it already had been, and there was nothing left to plan.
Neal rested on his bed at night, his focus flickering whenever a guard strolled by, and dozed in and out of unrestful sleep. In the early hours of the morning he rested his the palms of his hands on the sharp edges of his hip bones. They had always been slightly visible, somewhere Kate would curve her hand around when they were in bed, but never before had he felt the definition of the bone when the underside of his forearms knocked against his sides. He had to start eating again, had to have enough strength to make it through the front door of the prison. Even though he wasn't planning on fighting his way out he still needed the energy to walk without the edges of his vision darkening. The feeling in his stomach was something he no longer could identify as hunger, it had become something he could focus his mind on and lose himself in during the hours of waiting. It was only by determination to escape and find Kate that he was still eating at all.
When Neal escaped, the half-forgotten thrill of success pumping through his body as he walked down the streets of New York, the smell of a nearby food vender caught his attention. For the first time since he'd last seen Kate, though he would guess the last time he'd wanted something to eat was the last time he'd stood freely under blue skies and towering buildings, Neal felt hunger tear through him. He had enough spare change in the car he had 'borrowed' and he used a precious five minutes to stand in the sunlight and eat a grilled chicken sandwich from the first food cart he saw.
Written for Angst Bingo; Prompt: Hunger
Summary: Neal grows his beard and loses weight. One is intentional, the other isn't.
Content Notes: None. G
On AO3: Determination
The last month and a half Neal spends in prison is simultaneously the best and the worst. He has a goal now, a project, a con. It awakens something in him that has been sitting dormant for the past three and a half years. The intelligence and knowledge had still been there, but when he looked at the drawings and the handful of paintings he managed to do while in his cell, they all look flat. Like being confined in a tiny room had dulled his sense of perspective. When Kate leaves the visiting area that day, Neal knows she's going to disappear again, that she won't be coming back even for him. Part of him rages that she's waited for so long, why couldn't she wait those last few months, while there's a bitter voice in the back of his mind that reminds him that visiting Neal in a maximum security prison had never been part of their plans. They had contingency upon contingency plan, all lined up for any eventuality, but they'd never planned for capture and conviction.
The escape plan has been set out in his head for two years, he'd spent the first year examining every possible way out, more out of habit than ever intending to use the plan. He actually had four separate plans with various materials required and varying time lengths; when the time came to choose he picked the one with the shortest time frame and actually managed to shave two weeks off his original two month estimate. Well, he didn't shave, which was part of the plan. It was scratchy, and a full beard was never something that Neal had aspired for. He decided that when he was free he was going to shave religiously. Besides, a beard spoiled the signature 'Neal Caffrey' look. Not that the orange jumpsuit did much for him either.
Neal started gathering the necessary materials that week, mentally updating the list of guards he knew on the rotation and planning for the exact day and time; all the while hoping that Kate would show up that Saturday. He already knew she wouldn't, even as he sat on the edge of his bed for the entire day and waited for the guard to come tell him he had a visitor. They didn't come, though one of the night guards he was familiar with stopped by at lights out and expressed sympathy. Neal was still sitting unmoving and barely managed to nod in acknowledgment. He spent the night there, his eyes fixated on the neat rows that carefully marked off each day he'd spent locked away.
It wasn't until a week later, when he's gathered more than half the things that he'll need to escape and has walked his plan over and over in his mind to account for any foreseeable variable, that Neal looks in the mirror. His beard is coming along, slower than he would like, but he has a whisper of hair along his upper lip and patches down the edges of his jaw line. The hair makes it harder to see that he has lost a little weight, enough to show in his cheeks and when he pushes up his sleeves he can see his lithe muscles pressing against his skin a fraction more than usual.
Losing weight to change his appearance had never been part of the plan; he had always been slender and any significant loss of weight would only serve to make him appear ill and draw the attention of the guards and medical staff. Half of his plan was flying below the radar and being as invisible as it was possible to be in an orange jumpsuit. When he sat down that night, his tray pushed unceremoniously through the slot in the cell door, Neal had stared blankly at the food. Prison food had never been particularly appetizing, but he'd managed well enough for the previous three years. Without it being a truly conscious decision, Neal disposed of the food down the toilet and dropped his empty tray back through the slot. He had seven minutes to work on adapting the cassette player before the guards walked by again, they were always two minutes slower during meal rounds.
Another two weeks passed and Neal could feel the gnawing in his stomach now, the tight burn of hunger across his abdomen that demanded he consume something before he blacked out. He concentrated on liquids, things he could swallow without having to chew because when he tried to take a bite of bread or meat it always caught in his throat. When he swallowed the cold water he could feel it run all the way down his esophagus into the near emptiness of his stomach and found the feeling disconcerting. On Saturdays he didn't eat anything at all, he didn't do much except for sit and think about where Kate was. There was no way to move up the time table any more than it already had been, and there was nothing left to plan.
Neal rested on his bed at night, his focus flickering whenever a guard strolled by, and dozed in and out of unrestful sleep. In the early hours of the morning he rested his the palms of his hands on the sharp edges of his hip bones. They had always been slightly visible, somewhere Kate would curve her hand around when they were in bed, but never before had he felt the definition of the bone when the underside of his forearms knocked against his sides. He had to start eating again, had to have enough strength to make it through the front door of the prison. Even though he wasn't planning on fighting his way out he still needed the energy to walk without the edges of his vision darkening. The feeling in his stomach was something he no longer could identify as hunger, it had become something he could focus his mind on and lose himself in during the hours of waiting. It was only by determination to escape and find Kate that he was still eating at all.
When Neal escaped, the half-forgotten thrill of success pumping through his body as he walked down the streets of New York, the smell of a nearby food vender caught his attention. For the first time since he'd last seen Kate, though he would guess the last time he'd wanted something to eat was the last time he'd stood freely under blue skies and towering buildings, Neal felt hunger tear through him. He had enough spare change in the car he had 'borrowed' and he used a precious five minutes to stand in the sunlight and eat a grilled chicken sandwich from the first food cart he saw.
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