fic: the sun still burns the shadows out // neal caffrey + peter burke // dollhouse/white collar
dollhouse/white collar fusionthingy, which is creepy and idk, some people said they thought it sounded cool. :)
neal is a doll. peter is the guy who needs him.
part one: the sun still burns the shadows out
blanket warning for consent issues (as are inherent in dollhouse).
pg-13; spoilers for the pilots of both dollhouse and white collar.
--
"i'm sorry for getting you into this mess," peter says, gruffly.
neal shrugs. "i've been in worse, peter," he says, and snags the last donut from the cart.
peter thinks, you really haven't.
--
the new york dollhouse is clean and sterile; white and full of sculptures. it's not quite as zen as the l.a. dollhouse, which was neal's first, or quite as clinical and disturbing as the one in d.c.; still, it creeps him the fuck out.
in a couple hours, less if the new procedure works like it's supposed to, nothing is going to creep him out. unless they want it to. the thought of that makes him feel sick, low in his stomach; but kate isn't here, so at least he has something going for him.
june smiles at him, all harmless old woman, quirky and kind; he can't help wanting to run away but this is the one time in his life that he can't. "neal," she says, gently, "it's going to be all right."
"due respect," he bites out, "it's really, really not."
"neal," she says.
bile rises in his throat. "that's not my name, though," he says. "actives are named after letters of the nato alphabet. what are you going to call me?"
june shakes her head. "you don't want to know," she says. "trust me."
"do i look like i have a choice?" neal asks, because he's this close to being in handcuffs and it's only the state of the art security system that means that isn't going to happen. "just tell me. you can wipe it from my brain if you have to, anyway."
her mouth slips into a straight, narrow line. "foxtrot," she says.
"huh," he says. "i always did like dancing."
the chair is surprisingly more comfortable than he'd thought it would be. the needles? no, they're pretty much just as painful as he expected.
he closes his eyes and bites his lip until it bleeds, because goddamn, no one is going to hear him scream.
the last thing he remembers is the blood on his tongue, coppery and too strong.
--
peter kind of expects neal to be different, when he's sitting in that empty loft apartment, hands curved around a wine bottle. he expects there to be cracks, somewhere; some tiny barely-visible sign, maybe a sign only peter can see; something though, something to indicate that neal's not real.
he doesn't see anything.
it's just neal, tired and broken down and sad; but peter spent a year of his life tracking this man down and it's him, every heartbeat, every cautious look up through his eyelashes.
peter almost wants to say, run away. get out of here. but he takes an awkward stuttering breath and puts his hand on neal's shoulder. "they're going to take another four years for this," he tells neal, slowly, because this is the plan. "was it worth it?"
"i don't care," neal says. he looks away from peter, and the line of his cheekbone is so sharp peter almost can't breathe.
--
"this is foxtrot," june says. she is immaculate; hair caught elegantly in a neat twist, make-up perfect, clean and beautiful. her smile does not reach her eyes. "i trust our test run was to your liking?"
peter thinks, how do you live with yourself. "it was perfect," he says. he thinks he might throw up.
"hello," the man who was once neal caffrey says. "i am pleased to meet you. i try to be my best." his voice is flat, charming and impersonal. there is nothing in the backs of his pale blue eyes.
peter says, "you've made your point." he tears his eyes away from neal-- foxtrot, forcing them on june.
"thank you, foxtrot," she says. "that will be all."
foxtrot smiles at them sleepily, like he is in a daze; he's wearing low-slung white pants and a white tank top and he looks nothing like neal caffrey, everything resembling animation gone from that strikingly beautiful face. when he leaves, the fall of his steps is light and unselfconscious; not like neal, who judged, measured every step, counting it in terms of consequences and observation. peter never thought he'd miss that wary wild-animal cautiousness; but it gets him, right now, in his heart.
"thanks," peter says, watching the space that doesn’t hold neal caffrey’s footprints."let's deal."
--
(he should never have asked for this. but they were so close and the dutchman kept getting away: and there was only one person who could ever solve this problem, and. peter knows the kinds of deals you have to make, to operate in any major city. the kinds of deals you have to make in order to make the world work. in order to keep some kind of justice.
he knew he was making a deal with the devil.
he knew what he was getting into. he didn't ever, not once, worry that it would be too easy.
maybe he should have.)
--
neal is a doll. peter is the guy who needs him.
part one: the sun still burns the shadows out
blanket warning for consent issues (as are inherent in dollhouse).
pg-13; spoilers for the pilots of both dollhouse and white collar.
--
"i'm sorry for getting you into this mess," peter says, gruffly.
neal shrugs. "i've been in worse, peter," he says, and snags the last donut from the cart.
peter thinks, you really haven't.
--
the new york dollhouse is clean and sterile; white and full of sculptures. it's not quite as zen as the l.a. dollhouse, which was neal's first, or quite as clinical and disturbing as the one in d.c.; still, it creeps him the fuck out.
in a couple hours, less if the new procedure works like it's supposed to, nothing is going to creep him out. unless they want it to. the thought of that makes him feel sick, low in his stomach; but kate isn't here, so at least he has something going for him.
june smiles at him, all harmless old woman, quirky and kind; he can't help wanting to run away but this is the one time in his life that he can't. "neal," she says, gently, "it's going to be all right."
"due respect," he bites out, "it's really, really not."
"neal," she says.
bile rises in his throat. "that's not my name, though," he says. "actives are named after letters of the nato alphabet. what are you going to call me?"
june shakes her head. "you don't want to know," she says. "trust me."
"do i look like i have a choice?" neal asks, because he's this close to being in handcuffs and it's only the state of the art security system that means that isn't going to happen. "just tell me. you can wipe it from my brain if you have to, anyway."
her mouth slips into a straight, narrow line. "foxtrot," she says.
"huh," he says. "i always did like dancing."
the chair is surprisingly more comfortable than he'd thought it would be. the needles? no, they're pretty much just as painful as he expected.
he closes his eyes and bites his lip until it bleeds, because goddamn, no one is going to hear him scream.
the last thing he remembers is the blood on his tongue, coppery and too strong.
--
peter kind of expects neal to be different, when he's sitting in that empty loft apartment, hands curved around a wine bottle. he expects there to be cracks, somewhere; some tiny barely-visible sign, maybe a sign only peter can see; something though, something to indicate that neal's not real.
he doesn't see anything.
it's just neal, tired and broken down and sad; but peter spent a year of his life tracking this man down and it's him, every heartbeat, every cautious look up through his eyelashes.
peter almost wants to say, run away. get out of here. but he takes an awkward stuttering breath and puts his hand on neal's shoulder. "they're going to take another four years for this," he tells neal, slowly, because this is the plan. "was it worth it?"
"i don't care," neal says. he looks away from peter, and the line of his cheekbone is so sharp peter almost can't breathe.
--
"this is foxtrot," june says. she is immaculate; hair caught elegantly in a neat twist, make-up perfect, clean and beautiful. her smile does not reach her eyes. "i trust our test run was to your liking?"
peter thinks, how do you live with yourself. "it was perfect," he says. he thinks he might throw up.
"hello," the man who was once neal caffrey says. "i am pleased to meet you. i try to be my best." his voice is flat, charming and impersonal. there is nothing in the backs of his pale blue eyes.
peter says, "you've made your point." he tears his eyes away from neal-- foxtrot, forcing them on june.
"thank you, foxtrot," she says. "that will be all."
foxtrot smiles at them sleepily, like he is in a daze; he's wearing low-slung white pants and a white tank top and he looks nothing like neal caffrey, everything resembling animation gone from that strikingly beautiful face. when he leaves, the fall of his steps is light and unselfconscious; not like neal, who judged, measured every step, counting it in terms of consequences and observation. peter never thought he'd miss that wary wild-animal cautiousness; but it gets him, right now, in his heart.
"thanks," peter says, watching the space that doesn’t hold neal caffrey’s footprints."let's deal."
--
(he should never have asked for this. but they were so close and the dutchman kept getting away: and there was only one person who could ever solve this problem, and. peter knows the kinds of deals you have to make, to operate in any major city. the kinds of deals you have to make in order to make the world work. in order to keep some kind of justice.
he knew he was making a deal with the devil.
he knew what he was getting into. he didn't ever, not once, worry that it would be too easy.
maybe he should have.)
--